“Women writes all th’ good romantic novels, an’ read thim all.  If anny proud la-ad in th’ gum business thinks he riprisints th’ ideal iv his wife’s soul, he ought to take a look at th’ books she reads.  He’ll larn there th’ reason he’s where he is, is because he was th’ on’y chanst, not because he was th’ first choice.  ’Twud humble th’ haughtiest prince iv thrade to look into th’ heart iv th’ woman he cares most f’r an’ thinks laste about, an’ find that, instead iv th’ photygraft iv a shrewd but kindly man with a thriflin’ absence iv hair on his head an’ a burglar-proof safe on his watch-charm, there’s a pitcher iv a young la-ad in green tights playin’ a mandolin to a high front stoop.  On th’ stoop, with a rose in her hand, is his lawful-wedded wife, th’ lady Annamariar Huggins iv Peotone.  Ye can’t keep her away fr’m a romantic novel.  No matther what Edward Atkinson tells ye, she prefers ‘Th’ Age iv Chivalry’ to th’ mos’ atthractive housewurruk.  A woman’s readin’ is niver done.  Hardly a day passes but some lady frind iv mine stops me on me way to catch a car, an’ asks me if I don’t regard Morse Hewlett as th’ gr-reatest an’ mos’ homicidal writer iv our time, an’ what I’ve got to say about Hinnelly’s attack on Stevenson.  ‘Madam,’ says I, ‘I wud n’t know Morse if I was to see him goin’ down th’ sthreet ax in hand, an’ as f’r Hinnelly, his name escapes me, though his language is familiar to anny wan who iver helped load a scow.  Stevenson,’ I says, ‘does n’t appeal to me, an’ if he shud, I’ll revarse th’ decision on th’ ground iv th’ bad prevyous charackter iv th’ plaintiff, while,’ I says, ‘admittin’ th’ thruth iv what he said.  But,’ says I, ‘th’ on’y books in me libr’y is th’ Bible an’ Shakspere,’ says I.  ’They ‘re gr-reat f’r ye,’ says she.  ‘So bully f’r th’ style.  D’ ye read thim all th’ time?’ she says.  ‘I niver read thim,’ says I.  ’I use thim f’r purposes iv definse.  I have niver read thim, but I’ll niver read annything else till I have read thim,’ I says.  ‘They shtand between me an’ all modhren lithrachoor,’ says I.  ’I’ve built thim up into a kind iv breakwather,’ I says, ‘an’ I set behind it ca’m an’ contint while Hall Caine rages without,’ says I.

“Yes, sir, th’ readin’ an’ writin’ iv books is as much woman’s wurruk as th’ mannyfacther iv tidies.  A woman is a nachral writer.  She don’t mind givin’ hersilf away if ‘t will bring a tear to th’ eye or a smile to th’ lips.  But a man does.  He has more to give away.  I’m not sayin’ that anny man can’t write betther thin a woman if he wants to.  But so can he cuk betther, an’ sew betther, an’ paint minichoors betther, an’ do annything betther but nurse th’ baby—­if he wants to; but he don’t often want to.  He despises such thrivyal pursuits.  Mos’ iv th’ gr-reat writers I iver see th’ pitchers iv was little, thin, peevish men that was always gettin’ licked.  Wanst in a while a sthrong man got into th’ game, a bull-necked, round-headed man that might have made a fine thrackmaster