"I think you must like 'Udolpho,' if you were to read it: it is so very
interesting."

"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