“Oh, he has dressed himself, you know.—Well, then he takes up a book—”
“For example, this,” cried I, giving him Clarendon's History.
He took it up in character, and flinging it away, cried
“No—this will never do,—a history by a party writer is vidious.”
I then gave him Robertson's “America.”
“This,” cried he, “is of all reading the most melancholy;—an account of possessions we have lost by our own folly.”
I then gave him Baretti's “Spanish Travels.”
“Who,” cried he, flinging it aside, “can read travels by a fellow who never speaks a word of truth.”
Then I gave him a volume of “Clarissa.”
“Pho,” cried he, “a novel writ by a bookseller!—there is but one novel now one can bear to read,—and that's written by a young lady.”