These are the all too skimpy pages through which its author rhapsodizes on the noble profession, makes a keen distinction between novel readers and “women, nibblers and amateurs,” brings up reminiscences of “early crimes and joys” and discourses learnedly, discerningly and entertainingly upon “good honest scoundrelism and villains.” Every page is the best and when the last has passed under your eye, you again begin square at the beginning and read it all over.
s of heroes, unless the achievements are solely in behalf of women. And even in that event they complacently consider them to be a matter of course, and attach no particular importance to the perils or the hardships undergone. "Why shouldn't he?" they argue, with triumphant trust in ideals; "surely he loved her!"
There are many women who nibble at novels as they nibble at luncheon--there are also some hearty eaters; but 98 per cent of them detest Thackeray and refuse resolutely to open a second book of Robert Louis Stevenson. They scent an enemy of the sex in Thackeray, who never seems to be in earnest, and whose indignant sarcasm and melancholy truthfulness they shrink from. "It's only a story, anyhow," they argue again; "he might, at least write a pleasant one, instead of bringing in all sorts of disagreeable people--some of them positively disreputable." As for Stevenson, whom men read with the thrill of boyhood rising new in their veins, I believe in my soul women would tear leaves out of his novel
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