The next person is--but hark! the bell for shore is ringing, and,
shaking Snook's hand cordially, we rush on to the pier, waving him a
farewell as the noble black ship cuts keenly through the sunny azure
waters, bearing away that cargo of Snobs outward bound.
CHAPTER XXII--CONTINENTAL SNOBBERY CONTINUED
We are accustomed to laugh at the French for their braggadocio
propensities, and intolerable vanity about La France, la gloire,
l'Empereur, and the like; and yet I think in my heart that the British
Snob, for conceit and self-sufficiency and braggartism in his way, is
without a parallel. There is always something uneasy in a Frenchman's
conceit. He brags with so much fury, shrieking, and gesticulation; yells
out so loudly that the Francais is at the head of civilization, the
centre of thought, &c.; that one can't but see the poor fellow has a
lurking doubt in his own mind that he is not the wonder he professes to
be.
About the British Snob, on the contrary, there is commonly no noise, no
bluster, but the calmness of profound conviction. We are better than all
the world; we don't question the opinion at all; it's an axiom. And when
a Frenchman bellows out, 'LA FRANCE, MONSIEUR, LA FRANCE EST A LA TETE
DU MONDE CIVILISE!' we laugh good-naturedly at the frantic poor devil.
WE are the first chop of the world: we know the fact so well in our
secret hearts that a claim set up elsewhere is simply ludicrous.
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