and then you complain that such a load of compost is too heavy for you.  Dyspepsy, eh! infernal guzzling, you mean.  I’ll tell you what, Mr. Secretary of Legation, take half the time to eat, that you do to drawl out your words, chew your food half as much as you do your filthy tobacco, and you’ll be well in a month.  I don’t understand such language, said Alden. (for he was fairly ryled, and got his dander up, and when he shows clear grit, he looks wicked ugly, I tell you.) I don’t understand such language.  Sir:  I came here to consult you professionally, and not to be —–.  Don’t understand! said the Doctor, why its plain English:  but here, read my book—­and he shoved a book into his hands and left him in an instant, standing alone in the middle of the room.  If the honble.  Alden Gobble had gone right away and demanded his passports, and returned home with the Legation, in one of our first class frigates, (I guess the English would as soon see pyson as one o’ them are Serpents) to Washington, the President and the people would have sustained him in it, I guess, until an apology was offered for the insult to the nation.  I guess if it had been me, said Mr. Slick, I’d a headed him afore he slipt out o’ the door, and pinned him up agin the wall, and made him bolt his words again, as quick as he throw’d ’em up, for I never see’d an Englishman that didn’t cut his words as short as he does his horse’s tail, close up to the stump.  It certainly was very coarse and vulgar language, and I think, said I, that your Secretary had just cause to be offended at such an ungentlemanlike attack, although he showed his good sense in treating it with the contempt it deserved, It was plaguy lucky for the doctor, I tell you, that he cut stick as he did, and made himself scarce, for Alden was an ugly customer; he’d a gin him a proper scalding —­he’d a taken the bristles off his hide, as clean as the skin of a spring shote of a pig killed at Christmas.  The Clockmaker was evidently excited by his own story, and to indemnify himself for these remarks on his countrymen, he indulged for some time in ridiculing the Nova Scotians.

Do you see that are flock of colts, said he, (as we passed one of those beautiful prairies that render the vallies of Nova Scotia so verdant and so fertile,) well, I guess they keep too much of that are stock.  I heerd an Indian one day ax a tavern keeper for some rum; why, Joe Spawdeeck, said he, I reckon you have got too much already.  Too much of any thing, said Joe is not good, but too much rum is jist enough.  I guess these Blue Noses think so bout their horses, they are fairly eat up by them, out of house and home, and they are no good neither.  They beant good saddle horses, and they beant good draft beasts—­they are jist neither one thing nor tother.  They are like the drink of our Connecticut folks.  At mowing time they use molasses and water, nasty stuff only fit to catch flies—­it spiles good water and makes bad beer.  No wonder the folks are poor.