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FLORENTINE NIGHTS.
47

crush them, and spit them out, and call that talking. But by good luck they are naturally tolerably taciturn, and though they always stare at us open-mouthed they at least spare us long conversations. But woe to him who meets a son of Albion who has made the grand tour, and learned to speak French. He will avail himself of the opportunity to practise the language, and overwhelm us with questions as to all subjects conceivable, and hardly is one answered before he begins with another either as to our age or home or how long we intend to remain where we are, and he believes that this incessant questioning is the best method to entertain us.[1] One of my friends in Paris is perhaps right when he declares that the English learn to converse in French at the Bureau des passeports. Their conversation is most edifying at table when they carve their colossal roast beef, and with the most serious air ask us what part we prefer, rare or well done, from the middle or the brown outside, fat or lean? But roast beef and mutton are all they have

  1. There are many extraordinary conceptions in this work—that of comparing Paganini to Jehovah is not bad in its way—but for a tremendous perversion of truth this accusation of the English as impertinent questioners is unsurpassed. I have travelled much in my life and know the English fairly well, and consider that of all people on the face of the earth they mind their own business most, and are least given to such queries.—Translator.