“Ah!” exclaimed he, “always reading. Pray, how do you like Bulwer?”
“Not at all,” replied she.
“Why then do you read him?”
“Everybody does so, and I don’t want to be singular.”
“But I should think you had independence enough not to read a book if you did not like it?”
“Why, I am sure it is not for want of independence I took it up; but Bulwer is popular in England, and I would not give an English person the advantage of talking about a work I have not read myself.”
“And is that the only reason? Do you take no pleasure in his novels?” demanded my friend with astonishment.
“None whatever, I assure you. I don’t like his maudlin sentiments. And, as for his prison heroes, I am too much of a matter-of-fact person to think the gallows romantic or poetical. I dare say Bulwer’s novels suit the sentimentality of the Germans; but to me they are a perfect dose. I dislike his description of passions,—his love-sick girls, dying with sentiment, and ready to run off with the first bearded biped that happens to strike their fancy. I think his novels are doing a vast deal of mischief in this country, exposed as we are to the continual intrusion of foreigners.”
“I am not quite sure,” replied my friend, “whether I am to take your remark as a compliment or a reflection. We Southerners are sometimes honoured with the title of ‘foreigners’ in the Northern States.”
“I do not speak of our own people,” rejoined the lady; “but I know several instances in which European adventurers have married into our first families. Our girls seem to have an unaccountable passion for foreigners, especially if they happen to be noblemen. Have not several Polish refugees in this city married the daughters of some of our first merchants?”