"
"YOUR FRIENDS!" said the Clockmaker, with such a tone of ineffable
contempt, that I felt a strong inclination to knock him down for
his insolence, "your friends! Ensigns and leftenants, I guess, from
the British marchin' regiments in the Colonies, that run over five
thousand miles of country in five weeks, on leave of absence, and
then return, lookin' as wise as the monkey that had seen the world.
When they get back they are so chock full of knowledge of the
Yankees, that it runs over of itself, like a Hogshead of molasses
rolled about in hot weather--a white froth and scum bubbles out of
the bung; wishy-washy trash they call tours, sketches, travels,
letters, and what not; vapid stuff, jist sweet enough to catch flies,
cockroaches, and half-fledged gals. It puts me in mind of my French.
I larnt French at night school one winter, of our minister, Joshua
Hopewell (he was the most larned man of the age, for he taught
himself e'enamost every language in Europe); well, next spring, when
I went to Boston, I met a Frenchman, and I began to jabber away
French to him: 'Polly woes a french say,' says I. 'I don't understand
Yankee yet,' says he. 'You don't understand!' says I, 'why it's
French. I guess you didn't expect to hear such good French, did you,
away down east here? But we speak it real well, and it's generally
allowed we speak English, too, better than the British.
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