invented it. I can't say a civil thing to anybody now, but he looks
arch, as if he had found a mare's nest, and says, 'Ah, Slick! none of
your soft sawder now.' But, my dear nippent, by that means you destroy
my individuality. I cease to be the genuine itinerant Yankee
Clockmaker, and merge into a very bad imitation. You know I am a
natural character, and always was, and act and talk naturally, and as
far as I can judge, the little alteration my sojourn in London with
the American embassy has made in my pronunciation and provincialism,
is by no means an improvement to my Journal. The moment you take away
my native dialect, I become the representative of another class, and
cease to be your old friend 'Sam Slick, the Clockmaker.' Bear with me
this once, Squire, and don't tear your shirt, I beseech you, for in
all probability it will be the last time it will be in your power to
subject me to the ordeal of criticism, and I should like, I confess,
to remain true to myself and to Nature to the last.

"On the other hand, Squire, you will find passages in this Journal
that have neither Yankee words nor Yankee brag in them. Now pray don't
go as you did in the last, and alter them by insarten here and there
what you call 'Americanisms,' so as to make it more in character and
uniform; that is going to t'other extreme, for I can write as pure
English, if I can't speak it, as anybody can.1 My education warn't a
college one, like my brothers, Eldad's and Josiah's, the doctor and
lawyer; but it was not neglected for all that. Dear old Minister was a
scholar, every inch of him, and took great pains with me in my themes,
letters, and composition. 'Sam,' he used to say, 'there are four
things needed to write well: first, master the language grammatically;
second, master your subject; third, write naturally; fourth, let your
heart as well as your hand guide the pen.' It ain't out of keeping
therefore for me to express myself decently in composition if I