[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.] This is _The Gordian Knot_, and this _Peregrine Pickle_. Here are _The Tears of Sensibility_, and _Humphrey Clinker_. This is _The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself_, and here the second volume of _The Sentimental Journey_. LYDIA. Heigh-ho!--What are those books by the glass? LUCY. The great one is only _The Whole Duty of Man_, where I press a few blonds, ma'am. * * * * * ... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs.... LYDIA. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. Fling _Peregrine Pickle_ under the toilet--throw _Roderick Random_ into the closet--put _The Innocent Adultery_ into _The Whole Duty of Man_--thrust _Lord Aimworth_ under the sofa--cram _Ovid_ behind the bolster--there--put _The Man of Feeling_ into your pocket--so, so, now lay _Mrs. Chapone_ in sight, and leave _Fordyce's Sermons_ open on the table. LUCY. Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far as _Proper Pride_. LYDIA. Never mind--open at _Sobriety_. Fling me _Lord Chesterfield's Letters_.--Now for 'em. [Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia has been ordered to her room--] MRS. MALAPROP. There's a little intricate hussy for you! SIR ANTHONY. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am--all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet! MRS. MALAPROP. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy. SIR ANTHONY. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand--they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress! MRS. MALAPROP. Those are vile places, indeed! SIR ANTHONY. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.--R. B. SHERIDAN. _The Rivals._ THE OLD BACHELOR'S BOOKS