The same day, I met a young Englishman in the hotel, who had been travelling in Spain. During our conversation we were summoned to dinner. At the table d’hote, Simpson happened to be seated exactly opposite us. As we continued our conversation, Simpson heard it, and his attention was particularly arrested--it being something of a novelty to meet a stranger in these parts, who spoke our native tongue. The English gentleman mentioned that he ascended the Pyrenees the week previous. “I should like to have been with you,” I remarked, “but I am almost too fat and lazy to climb high mountains. I suppose you found it pretty hard work.” “Yes, we had to rough it some; we encountered considerable snow,” he replied. “Snow!” exclaimed Simpson, in astonishment. The Englishman looked with surprise at this interruption; for he did not know Simpson, nor had he ever heard him speak before. However, he quietly replied, “Yes, sir, snow.” “Not by a d--d sight, you didn’t,” replied Simpson, emphatically. “That wont go down. Snow in August wont do. I have seen snow myself in Connecticut, the last of September, but it wont do in August, by a thundering sight.” The Englishman sprang to his feet, but I hit him a nudge, and said, “It is all right. Excuse me; let me introduce my friend, Mr. Simpson, from America. He has travelled some, and it is pretty hard to take him in with big stories.” He comprehended the matter instantly and sat down. “Yes, sir,” remarked Simpson, “I have heard travellers before, but August is a leetle too early for snow.” “But suppose I should say it was not this year’s snow?” said the Englishman, who was ready now to carry on the joke. “Worse and worse,” exclaimed Simpson, with a triumphant laugh; “if it would not melt in August, when in thunder would it melt! You might as well say it would lay all the year round.” “I give it up,” said the Englishman, “you are too sharp for me.” Simpson was delighted, and took special pains for several days to inform the interpreters in the neighboring hotels and billiard saloons, that he had “took down” an impudent John Bull, who had tried to stuff him with the idea that he had seen snow in August. I met the Simpsons afterwards in Brussels, and the head of the family, who had heard nothing but French spoken, outside of his own circle, for a long time, called me in great glee to the door, to see and hear some Dutchmen, who were conversing together in the street. “There!” exclaimed Simpson, “those fellows are Dutchmen; I know by their talk.” “Very well,” said I, “how far do you suppose those Dutchmen are from their native place?” “Why,” replied Simpson, “I suppose they came from Western Pennsylvania; that’s where I have always seen ’em.”