The writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does not advise his country people never to go abroad, never to study foreign languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there is nothing beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only wishes that they would not make themselves fools with respect to foreign people, foreign languages or reading; that if they chance to have been in Spain, and have picked up a little Spanish, they would not affect the airs of Spaniards; that if males they would not make Tomfools of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, dressing themselves in zamarras, and saying, carajo! {2} and if females that they would not make zanies of themselves by sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over their heads, and by saying carai, and perhaps carajo too; or if they have been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or picked up a little German in England, they would not make themselves foolish about everything German, as the Anglo-German in the book does—­a real character, the founder of the Anglo-German school in England, and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany and the Germans.  Of all infatuations connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about everything that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in England, is assuredly the most ridiculous.  One can find something like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish about particular languages, literatures, and people.  The Spanish certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains the grand book of the world.  French is a manly language.  The French are the great martial people in the world; and French literature is admirable in many respects.  Italian is a sweet language, and of beautiful simplicity—­its literature perhaps the first in the world.  The Italians!—­wonderful men have sprung up in Italy.  Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians, singers, and linguists—­the greatest linguist the world ever saw, the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian; but it is celebrated for men—­men emphatically speaking:  Columbus was an Italian, Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte;—­but the German language, German literature, and the Germans!  The writer has already stated his opinion with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or prejudice; he has heard German spoken, and many other languages.  German literature!  He does not speak from ignorance, he has read that and many a literature, and he repeats—­ However, he acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the German language, that poem is the “Oberon;” a poem, by the bye, ignored by the Germans—­a speaking fact—­and of course, by the Anglo-Germanists.