"And is England wanting in recollections and great events? Are there not the Conqueror? or, if you will, King Alfred? and Queen Elizabeth, and Shakspeare--think of Shakspeare, young lady--and Sir Walter Scott, and the Gun-Powder Plot; and Cromwell, Oliver Cromwell, my dear Miss Eve; and Westminster Abbey, and London Bridge, and George IV., the descendant of a line of real kings,--what, in the name of Heaven, can Italy possess, to equal the interest one feels in such things as these?' "They are very interesting no doubt;" said Eve, endeavouring not to smile--"but Italy has its relics of former ages too; you forget the Cæsars." "Very good sort of persons for barbarous times, I dare say, but what can they be to the English monarchs? I would rather look upon a _bonâ fide_ English king, than see all the Cæsars that ever lived. I never can think any man a real king but the king of England!" "Not King Solomon!" cried John Effingham. "Oh! he was a Bible king, and one never thinks of them. Italy! well, this I did not expect from your father's daughter! Your great-great- great-grandfather must have been an Englishman born, Mr, Effingham?" "I have reason to think he was, sir." "And Milton, and Dryden, and Newton, and Locke! These are prodigious names, and worth all the Cæsars put together. And Pope, too; what have they got in Italy to compare to Pope?" "They have at least _the_ Pope," said Eve, laughing. "And, then, there are the Boar's Head in East-Cheap; and the Tower; and Queen Anne, and all the wits of her reign; and--and--and Titus Oates; and Bosworth field; and Smithfield, where the martyrs were burned, and a thousand more spots and persons of intense interest in Old England!" "Quite true," said John Effingham, with an air of sympathy--"but, Howel, you have forgotten Peeping Tom of Coventry, and the climate!" "And Holyrood-House; and York-Minster; and St Paul's;" continued the worthy Mr. Howel, too much bent on a catalogue of excellencies, that to him were sacred, to heed the interruption, "and, above all, Windsor Castle. What is there in the world to equal Windsor Castle as a royal residence?" Want of breath now gave Eve an opportunity to reply, and she seized it with an eagerness that she was the first to laugh at herself, afterwards. "Caserta is no mean house, Mr. Howel; and, in my poor judgment, there is more real magnificence in its great stair-case, than in all Windsor Castle united, if you except the chapel." "But, St. Paul's!" "Why, St. Peter's may be set down, quite fairly, I think, for its _pendant_ at least." "True, the Catholics _do_ say so;" returned Mr. Howel, with the deliberation one uses when he greatly distrusts his own concession; "but I have always considered it one of their frauds. I don't think there _can_ be any thing finer than St. Paul's. Then there are the noble ruins of England! _They_, you must admit, are unrivalled." "The Temple of Neptune, at Pæstum, is commonly thought an interesting ruin, Mr. Howel."