windows in England open from top to bottom.
At Paris, to ring or knock too loud is vulgar and ill-bred; at London,
if you don't execute a tattoo with the knocker or a symphony with the
bell, you are considered a poor wretch, and are left an hour at the
door. Our hack cabs take their stand on one side of the street; in
England they occupy the middle. Our coachmen get up in front of their
vehicles; in England they go behind. In Paris Englishmen are charming;
at home they are--Englishmen. One thing astonishes me greatly--that the
English don't walk on their hands, since we walk on our feet.

I do not know from experience the Scottish hospitality which M. Scribe
has lauded in one of his _vaudevilles_. But I know what to think of that
of the county of Middlesex capital--London. Here I can assure you it is
never given, but always sold. London is the town of closed doors. You
feel yourself more a foreigner here than in any other country. On
strolling along the spacious squares and magnificent streets in which
civilization displays all its marvels, you seek in vain for some fissure
by which to introduce yourself into English society, which is thickly
steeped in individualism. With letters of recommendation, if of high
authority, you may, it is true, gain access to a family of the middle
class; and, once received, you will be well treated. But what conditions
you must fulfill to gain that! You must lead a life like that of the
cloister, and sacrifice all your dearest habits. The Englishman, though
he invented the word eccentric, does not tolerate eccentricity in a
foreigner. And, on the whole, the _bourgeoise_ hospitality is not worth
the sacrifices it costs.

We must not, however, be angry with the English for being so little
communicative with foreigners, since they scarcely communicate among
themselves. The extent of distances and the fatigue of serious affairs
are the principal causes of this. It is almost only in the evening you
can visit them, and in the evening they are overwhelmed with fatigue.
Besides this, all the usages of the English show that they are not
naturally sociable. The cellular system of taverns, in which every
person is confined in a sort of box without a lid; the silent clubs, in
which some write while others read the papers, and only interrupt
themselves to make a sign of "good evening" with the hand--all that sort
of thing constitutes an existence which the French have the irreverence
to call selfish