"I dare say it is all very true," she added, "but one, like myself, who remembers only older countries, is, I think, a little more apt to be struck with the deficiencies, than with what may, in truth, be improvements, though they still fall short of excellence." Mr. Wenham looked vexed, or indignant would be a better word, but he succeeded in preserving his coolness--a thing that is not always easy to one of provincial habits and provincial education, when he finds his own _beau idéal_ lightly estimated by others. "Miss Effingham must discover a thousand imperfections." said Mr. Howel, "coming, as she does, directly from England. That music, now,"--alluding to the sounds of a flute that were heard through the open windows, coming from the adjacent village--"must be rude enough to her ear, after the music of London." "The _street_ music of London is certainly among the best, if not the very best, in Europe," returned Eve, with a glance of the eye at the baronet, that caused him to smile, "and I think this fairly belongs to the class, being so freely given to the neighbourhood." "Have you read the articles signed Minerva, in the Hebdomad, Miss Effingham," inquired Mr. Wenham, who was determined to try the young lady on a point of sentiment, having succeeded so ill in his first attempt to interest her--"they are generally thought to be a great acquisition to American literature." "Well, Wenham, you are a fortunate man," interposed Mr. Howel, "if you can find any literature in America, to add to, or to substract from. Beyond almanacs, reports of cases badly got up, and newspaper verses, I know nothing that deserves such a name." "We may not print on as fine paper, Mr. Howel, or do up the books in as handsome binding as other people," said Mr. Wenham, bridling and looking grave, "but so far as sentiments are concerned, or sound sense, American literature need turn its back on no literature of the day." "By the way, Mr. Effingham, you were in Russia; did you happen to see the Emperor?" "I had that pleasure, Mr. Howel." "And is he really the monster we have been taught to believe him?". "Monster!" exclaimed the upright Mr. Effingham, fairly recoiling a step in surprise. "In what sense a monster, my worthy friend? surely not in a physical?" "I do not know that. I have somehow got the notion he is any thing but handsome. A mean, butchering, bloody-minded looking little chap, I'll engage." "You are libelling one of the finest-looking men of the age." "I think I would submit it to a jury. I cannot believe, after what I have read of him in the English publications, that he is so very handsome." "But, my good neighbour, these English publications must be wrong; prejudiced perhaps, or even malignant." "Oh! I am not the man to be imposed on in that way. Besides, what motive could an English writer have for belying an Emperor of Russia?" "Sure enough, what motive!" exclaimed John Effingham.--"You have your answer, Ned!"