we were Americans—­Americans!  When we found that a good many foreigners had hardly ever heard of America, and that a good many more knew it only as a barbarous province away off somewhere, that had lately been at war with somebody, we pitied the ignorance of the Old World, but abated no jot of our importance.  Many and many a simple community in the Eastern hemisphere will remember for years the incursion of the strange horde in the year of our Lord 1867, that called themselves Americans, and seemed to imagine in some unaccountable way that they had a right to be proud of it.  We generally created a famine, partly because the coffee on the Quaker City was unendurable, and sometimes the more substantial fare was not strictly first class; and partly because one naturally tires of sitting long at the same board and eating from the same dishes.

The people of those foreign countries are very, very ignorant.  They looked curiously at the costumes we had brought from the wilds of America.  They observed that we talked loudly at table sometimes.  They noticed that we looked out for expenses, and got what we conveniently could out of a franc, and wondered where in the mischief we came from.  In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French!  We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.  One of our passengers said to a shopkeeper, in reference to a proposed return to buy a pair of gloves, “Allong restay trankeel—­may be ve coom Moonday;” and would you believe it, that shopkeeper, a born Frenchman, had to ask what it was that had been said.  Sometimes it seems to me, somehow, that there must be a difference between Parisian French and Quaker City French.

The people stared at us every where, and we stared at them.  We generally made them feel rather small, too, before we got done with them, because we bore down on them with America’s greatness until we crushed them.  And yet we took kindly to the manners and customs, and especially to the fashions of the various people we visited.  When we left the Azores, we wore awful capotes and used fine tooth combs—­successfully.  When we came back from Tangier, in Africa, we were topped with fezzes of the bloodiest hue, hung with tassels like an Indian’s scalp-lock.  In France and Spain we attracted some attention in these costumes.  In Italy they naturally took us for distempered Garibaldians, and set a gunboat to look for any thing significant in our changes of uniform.  We made Rome howl.  We could have made any place howl when we had all our clothes on.  We got no fresh raiment in Greece—­they had but little there of any kind.  But at Constantinople, how we turned out!  Turbans, scimetars, fezzes, horse-pistols, tunics, sashes, baggy trowsers, yellow slippers—­Oh, we were gorgeous!  The illustrious dogs of Constantinople barked their under jaws off, and even then failed to do us justice.  They are all dead by