'But, O my country!' said I to myself, it's no wonder that you are so beloved! If I were a Frenchman, how I would hate you!' That brutal, ignorant, peevish bully of an Englishman is showing himself in every city of Europe.

One of the dullest creatures under heaven, he goes travelling Europe under foot, shouldering his way into galleries and cathedrals, and bustling into palaces with his buck-ram uniform.
At church or theatre, gala or picture-gallery, HIS face never varies.
A thousand delightful sights pass before his bloodshot eyes, and don't affect him.

Countless brilliant scenes of life and manners are shown him, but never move him.

He goes to church, and calls the practices there degrading and superstitious: as if HIS altar was the only one that was acceptable.

He goes to picture-galleries, and is more ignorant about Art than a French shoeblack.