Sideboard. We were all afraid he would have died.
Roger. Here's my sarvice to you, a wish a had never set a foot in their Country. I never had so much as a hearty meal while I was among un, excepten a Month or two in the beginning, when the Squire liv'd with some of his Country Folks in the Rue de Butchery—I think they call it.
Sideboard. No place like our Country, I believe Roger, let 'em say what they will.
Roger. You have hit it Master Sideboard, you have indeed. Dear Heart, they have such Laws there—why a poor Servant dare not give his Opinion there of the Government.
Sideboard. No!
Roger. No—if he does, he's taken up with a Letter Scratched, and sent to the Bastile, and if you ask a reason for it, all they say to you is—de parlour oi. Why now here we can each talk of folks at Helm and of Taxes, and know as much of the matter as any of un.
Sideboard. That's the Privilege of an Englishman, Roger.
Roger. And then a Sarvant there has no Vails—a Butler's place is nothing there, a poor Gentleman may come and dine there, and you're oblig'd to be as civil to him, as if he had money in his Pocket, and was oblig'd to give you more than his dinner is worth, as they do in England. I had rather live with an honest Citizen, who brings his friend home from change to his own dinner, mayhap a Leg of Mutton and a Pudding, and if you fix yourself well at the Door, you are sure to touch un for a Hog.
Sideboard. A poor servant had better be a country curate than that.
Roger. I am sure I hated them all the time I was there and their lingo and all. Such outlandish Names they have for things—what do you think they call a Horse? Cheval. And Beef, now what do you think they call Beef?