"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocket-book: _Castle of Wolfenbach_, _Clermont_, _Mysterious Warnings_, _Necromancer of the Black Forest_, _Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine_, and _Horrid Mysteries_. These will last us some time." "Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid? Are you sure they are all horrid?" "Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews--a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world--has read every one of them!" Mr. George Saintsbury[37] expresses himself as sceptical of this list as a catalogue of actual romances, stating that he has never read one of them and should like some other authority than Miss Andrews for their existence. He is mistaken in his doubt, however, since during the progress of this investigation four out of the eight have been identified as to authorship, and doubtless the others are lurking in some antique library. _Clermont_ is by Maria Regina Roche; _Mysterious Warnings_ by Mrs. Parsons, in London, 1796; _Midnight Bell_ by Francis Latham; and _Horrid Mysteries_ by Marquis Grosse, London, 1796. [37] In his introduction to his pocket volume of _Tales of Mystery_. Jane Austen's stupid bore, John Thorpe, and Mr. Tilney, the impeccable, pedantic hero, add their comment to Gothic fiction, one saying with a yawn that there hasn't been a decent novel since _Tom Jones_, except _The Monk_, and the other that he read _Udolpho_ in two days with his hair standing on end all the time. But the real cleverness of the work consists in the burlesque of Gothic experiences that Catherine, because of the excited condition of her mind induced by excess of romantic fiction, goes through with on her visit to Northanger Abbey. She explores secret wings in a search for horrors, only to find sunny rooms, with no imprisoned wife, not a single maniac, and never skeleton of tortured nun. Mr. Tilney's ironic jests satirize all the elements of Gothic romance. Opening a black chest at midnight, she finds a yellowed manuscript, but just as she is about to read it her candle flickers out. In the morning sunshine she finds that it is an old laundry list. The only result of her suspicious explorings is that she is caught in such prowlings by the young man whose esteem she wishes to win. He sarcastically assures her that his father is not a wife-murderer, that his mother is not immured in a dungeon, but died of a bilious attack. These delicately tipped shafts of ridicule riddle the armor of medievalism and give it at the same time a permanency of interest because of Jane Austen's treatment of it. The Gothic novel will be remembered, if for nothing else, for her parody of it.