“Why not; they look upon the poor devils as beasts. If you tell a Yankee a nigger is a man he thinks you are poking fun at him.”
“It is a cursed shame!”
“Of course it is! but I'll tell you what I can't swallow in this book. Hem! did you ever fall in with any Yankees?”
“One or two, sir.”
“Were they green at all?”
“That they weren't. They were rather foxy, I should say.”
“Rather. Why one of them would weather upon any three Englishmen that ever were born. Now here is a book that as good as tells me it is a Yankee custom to disable their beasts of burden. Gammon! they can't afford to do it. I believe,” continued this candid personage (who had never been in any of the States), “they are the cruelest set on the face of the earth, but then they are the 'cutest (that is their own word), and they are a precious sight too 'cute to disable the beast that carries the grist to the mill.”
“Doesn't seem likely—now you put it to me.”
“Have a glass of grog, Fry.”
“Thank you, sir.”