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which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them. "I am
no novel-reader -- I seldom look into novels -- Do not imagine that
I often read novels -- It is really very well for a novel." Such
is the common cant. "And what are you reading, Miss -- ?" "Oh!
It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down
her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It
is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some
work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in
which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest
delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and
humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language. Now,
had the same young lady been engaged with a volume of the Spectator,
instead of such a work, how proudly would she have produced the book,
and told its name; though the chances must be against her being
occupied by any part of that voluminous publication, of which either
the matter or manner would not disgust a young person of taste:
the substance of its papers so often consisting in the statement
of improbable circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics
of conversation which no longer concern anyone living; and their
language, too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable
idea of the age that could endure it.
CHAPTER 6
The following conversation, which took place between the two friends
in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or
nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and
of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary
taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.
They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My
dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been
waiting for you at least this age!"
"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought
I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not
been here long?"
"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this
half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of
the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say
to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this
morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and
that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the
prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street
just now -- very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead
of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what
have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone
on with Udolpho?"
"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to
the black veil."
"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what
is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"
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