I mind once a British man-o’-war took one of our Boston vessels, and ordered all hands on board, and sent a party to skuttle her; well, they skuttled the fowls and the old particular genuine rum, but they obliviated their arrand and left her.  Well, next day another frigate (for they were as thick as toads arter a rain) comes near her, and fires a shot for her to bring to.  No answer was made, there bein no livin soul on board, and another shot fired, still no answer.  Why what on airth is the meanin of this, said the Captain, why dont they haul down that damn goose and gridiron (thats what he called our eagle and stars on the flag.) Why, says the first leftenant, I guess they are all dead men, that shot frightened them to death.  They are afeared to show their noses says another, lest they should be shaved off by our shots.  They are all down below a “CALCULATIN” their loss I guess, says a third.  I’ll take my davy says the Captain, its some Yankee trick, a torpedo in her bottom or some such trap—­we’ll let her be, and sure enough, next day, back she came to shore of herself.  I’ll give you a quarter of an hour, says the Captain of the Guerriere to his men, to take that are Yankee frigate the Constitution.  I guess he found his mistake where he didn’t expect it, without any great sarch for it either.  Yes; (to eventuate my story) it did me good, I felt dreadful nice, I promise you.  It was as lovely as bitters of a cold mornin.  Our folks beat ’em arter that so often, they got a little grain too much conceit also.  They got their heels too high for their boots, and began to walk like uncle Peleg too, so that when the Chesapeake got whipped I warnt sorry.  We could spare that one, and it made our navals look round, like a feller who gets a hoist, to see who’s a larfin at him.  It made ’em brush the dust off, and walk on rather sheepish.  It cut their combs that’s a fact.  The war did us a plaguy sight of good in more ways than one, and it did the British some good too.  It taught ’em not to carry their chins too high, for fear they should’nt see the gutters—­a mistake that’s spoiled many a bran new coat and trowsers afore now.

Well, these Blue Noses have caught this disease, as folks do the Scotch fiddle, by shakin hands along with the British.  Conceit has become here, as Doctor Rush says, (you have heerd tell of him, he’s the first man of the age, and its generally allowed our doctors take the shine off of all the world) acclimated, it is citizenised among ’em, and the only cure is a real good quiltin.  I met a first chop Colchester Gag this summer a goin to the races to Halifax, and he knowed as much about racin, I do suppose, as a Chictaw Ingian does of a rail road.  Well, he was a praisin of his horse, and runnin on like Statiee.  He was begot, he said, by Roncesvalles, which was better than any horse that ever was seen, because he was once in a duke’s stable in England.  It was only a man that had blood like a lord, said he, that knew