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
galls. 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 een amost 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 dont understand! says I, why its 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 its
generally allowed we speak English, too, better than the
British. Oh, says he, you one very droll Yankee, dat
very good joke, Sare; you talk Indian and call it French.
But, says I, Mister Mount shear; it is French, I vow;
real merchantable, without wainy edge or shakes--all
clear stuff; it will pass survey in any market--its ready
stuck and seasoned. Oh, very like, says he, bowin as
polite as a black waiter at New OrLEENS, very like, only
I never heerd it afore; oh, very good French dat--CLEAR
STUFF, no doubt, but I no understand--its all my fault,