Lord, I could tell you stories about the English, that
would make even them cryin' devils the Mississippi
crocodiles laugh, if they was to hear 'em."

"Pardon me, Mr. Slick," I said, "this is not the temper
with which you should visit England."

"What is the temper," he replied with much warmth, "that
they visit us in? Cuss 'em! Look at Dickens; was there
ever a man made so much of, except La Fayette? And who
was Dickens? Not a Frenchman that is a friend to us, not
a native that has a claim on us; not a colonist, who,
though English by name is still an American by birth,
six of one and half a dozen of t'other, and therefore a
kind of half-breed brother. No! he was a cussed Britisher;
and what is wus, a British author; and yet, because he
was a man of genius, because genius has the 'tarnal globe
for its theme, and the world for its home, and mankind
for its readers, and bean't a citizen of this state or
that state, but a native of the univarse, why we welcomed
him, and feasted him, and leveed him, and escorted him,
and cheered him, and honoured him, did he honour us? What
did he say of us when he returned? Read his book.

"No, don't read his book, for it tante worth readin'.
Has he said one word of all that reception in his book?
that book that will be read, translated, and read agin
all over Europe--has he said one word of that reception?
Answer me that, will you? Darned the word, his memory
was bad; he lost it over the tafrail when he was sea-sick.