MY good father-in-law being so strenuous in proving the
eligibility of reading satire, had spurn out, what he called his _new
idea_, to such a metaphysical nicety, that he unhappily diminished the
number of his hearers; for Mrs. _Bourn_, to whom he directed his
discourse, had taken down a book and was reading to herself, and Miss
was diverting herself with the cuts in _Gay’s_ Fables.
A CONSIDERABLE silence ensued, which _Worthy_ first broke, by asking
Mrs. _Bourn_ what book she had in her hand. Everyone’s attention was
alarmed at this important enquiry. Mrs. _Bourn_, with little difficulty,
found the title page, and began to read. “_A Sentimental Journey through
France and Italy, by Mr. Yorick._”
“I DO not like the _title_,” said Miss _Bourn_.
“WHY, my dear!” apostrophized the mother, “you are mistaken—it is a very
famous book.”
“WHY, my dear!” retorted the daughter, “It is sentimental—I abominate
everything that is sentimental—it is so unfashionable too.”
“I NEVER knew before,” said Mr. _Holmes_, “that wit was subject to
caprice of fashion.”
“WHY ’Squire _Billy_,” returned Miss, “who is just arrived from the
centre of politeness and fashion, says the bettermost genii never read
any sentimental books—so you see sentiment is out of date.”