"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."