Those are ENGLISHMEN, those are, and your master whenever you please,' as the nursery song says.

The British Snob is long, long past scepticism, and can afford to laugh quite good-humouredly at those conceited Yankees, or besotted little Frenchmen, who set up as models of mankind.

THEY forsooth! I have been led into these remarks by listening to an old fellow at the Hotel du Nord, at Boulogne, and who is evidently of the Slasher sort.

He came down and seated himself at the breakfast-table, with a surly scowl on his salmon-coloured bloodshot face, strangling in a tight, cross-barred cravat; his linen and his appointments so perfectly stiff and spotless that everybody at once recognized him as a dear countryman.
Only our port-wine and other admirable institutions could have produced a figure so insolent, so stupid, so gentleman-like.

After a while our attention was called to him by his roaring out, in a voice of plethoric fury, 'O!' Everybody turned round at the 'O,' conceiving the Colonel to be, as his countenance denoted him, in intense pain; but the waiters knew better, and instead of being alarmed, brought the Colonel the kettle.