“Not I, faith!  No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe’s; her novels are amusing enough:  they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them.

“‘Udolpho’ was written by Mrs. Radcliffe,” said Catherine, with some hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.

“No, sure; was it?  Ay, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that other stupid book, written by that woman they made such a fuss about; she who married the French emigrant.”

“I suppose you mean ’Camilla’?”

“Yes, that’s the book:  such unnatural stuff!  An old man playing at see-saw:  I took up the first volume once, and looked it over, but I soon found it would not do; indeed, I guessed what sort of stuff it must be before I saw it; as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was sure I should never be able to get through it.”

“I have never read it.”

“You have no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can imagine:  there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul, there is not.”

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of ‘Camilla’ gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs. Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage.  “Ah, mother, how do you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand; “where did you get that quiz of a hat? it makes you look like an old witch.  Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you; so you must look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.”  And this address seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she received him with the most delighted and exulting affection.  On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.

FAMILY DOCTORS

From ‘Emma’

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and tearful affection with his daughter.

“My poor, dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting for a few moments her busy labors for some one of her five children, “how long it is, how terribly long since you were here!  And how tired you must be after your journey!  You must go to bed early, my dear,—­and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.  You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.  My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.”

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself, and two basins only were ordered.  After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by everybody, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection:—­