present season. I cannot say that the speculation
has answered particularly well hitherto, but that
is neither here nor there. My old customer,
Mr. Broadhead, the literary gentleman, has
taken up his abode with me at any rate, and it
is in consequence of that circumstance that I
am able to concoct this letter at all. *

Before I go any further, by-the-by, I have a
circumstance to mention of some importance,
and which just at this present moment can
hardly fail to be generally interesting. Since
last I appeared before the gracious public which
reads this periodical, I have taken a step towards
which I was in a manner driven by necessity. I
have changed my name. Not that I have got
married again. No, one husband— and such an
one as my poor departed sergeant-major — is
enough for me. I have simply changed my name
— which I hope, sir, you remember, was Beeflat
— to Jones. I have done this because I found
that my former name stood against me in my
business. Somehow, people didn't like the
name of Beeflat in connexion with lodgings;
so as I have observed that a certain Mr.
Jones has turned himself into Herbert, and
a Mr. B—g into Norfolk Howard, I determined
to take up one of those names that
was cast loose, as one may say, on the world,
and adopt the poor cast-off thing myself. Lor,
it's all prejudice. If those nasty little insects
were called Norfolk-Howards, I dare say anybody
would take quite a loathing for that name,
and be ready to change it into B—g at a moment's
notice. Prejudice or not, however, it's
too strong to resist. So here I am henceforth,
Martha Jones, at your service.

(Signed) MARTHA BEEFLAT.

And that little matter disposed of, I must now
get back to my lodger, about whom, as I said at
the beginning of this letter, I want to say a few
words. And, first of all, he is a Frenchman.
Now, I don't know whether all Frenchmen are
like this particular one, but if they are, then all
I have got to say is that to talk about International
feeling, and Cordial Intents, and the like of
that, is to talk mere and sheer nonsense. To
hear that man as I do — for he's always coming
into my private room to air his English — to hear
him abuse everything in this country; to hear
him laugh at us, revile us, call us mercenary,
stupid, sulky, barbarous, and every other bad
thing he can give a name to, is really shocking.
Nothing pleases that man. Send him up a nice
little bit of mutton with the gravy in it, and he
wants to know if I think he's a tiger. Try him
with a comfortable cup of tea of an evening :
" What sort of reasoners are these English ?"
he will say. " They bathe their outsides " (well,
there's some people who don't do that much)
" with cold water to make them strong, and then
they bathe their insides with hot water to make
them weak !" And so it is with everything. He
doesn't like our omnibuses, because they are
small, he says, and stuffy — difficult to get in and
out of, and overcrowded. He doesn't like our
cabs, because, he says, there's no distinct way of
coming to an arrangement about the fare, as you
can't know the distance you have travelled without
measuring it ; and he actually wants them
arranged on the Paris plan, where, he tells me,
you pay the same fare for whatever distance,
short or long, you may happen to be going. He
doesn't like our buildings, our monuments, our
streets, our exhibitions — no, not the Great
International itself, where, he says, the English have
taken the best places themselves, and left their
foreign guests to shift for themselves as well as
they can.

* Note. My worthy landlady is a most respectable
person, and I have the greatest pleasure in being of use
to her in correcting any little errors of spelling and
grammar, which might interfere with the effect of
her very shrewd and interesting remarks. I hope,
by the way, that I have performed my task in this
respect as completely as I ought; but I am, unfortunately,
a very absent man, and I am fearful
lest I may have occasionally left in a word or expression
of my landlady's which ought to have been corrected,
and which I have written down mechanically
as she dictated. If this should prove to be the case,
I trust the reader will excuse it, as I have seldom
time, owing to a great pressure of work, to look
through my manuscript after having once written
it. — JOHN BROADHEAD.

Now, all this I can bear. As to the diet, why
it's want of proper education and not being
made as a child to eat his meat with the gravy in
it, and take his cup of tea as a Christian ought
to. As to the omnibuses again, they really
are not very comfortable, and to see them raising
their prices and cramming in additional passengers
just because there's a demand for them
is an aggravating thing, I must own to anybody.
I must confess, too, that I never travel
in a cab without expecting a row at the end of
the journey, and thinking about the fare all the
time, instead of enjoying the ride. But I don't
see any way out of it, for nobody would go for
to tell me that you should pay the same to go
from Paddington to Bethnal-green as from
Soane-street to Hyde Park-corner— which I am
told is the French plan. It's ridiculous.

All this, then, I can bear, and I can even let
him pitch into the Great Exhibition, for it's
been the cause of my coming up to London and
leaving my nice sea-side establishment, and the
speculation, as I said before, hasn't answered
over and above. All this, I say, I can put up
with; but what I cannot bear, and will not
put up with, is to hear that grumbling Frenchman
speak asparagusly (sic) and in a sneering
tone of that most beautiful and lovely
thing the Great Handel Festival at the Crystal
Palace.

For— and only think what a chance for poor
me — I've been to that blessed Festival myself;
Mr. Broadhead having a couple of tickets sent
to him from some of his newspapers, over and
above what he wanted, gave the same to me,
and many thanks I'm sure. So me and Charley
— he's all I've got left, and the born image of
the poor departed sergeant-major, his father —
little Charley and me put on our best clothes,
and off we set, travelling by the new railway —