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The Kickleburys on the Rhine. William Makepeace Thackeray. This web edition published by eBooks@Adelaide. Last updated Wednesday, December 17, . Any reader who may have a fancy to purchase a copy of this present edition of the “History of the Kickleburys Abroad,” had best be warned in time, that the Times.
With an early career as a satirist and parodist, Thackeray shared a fondness for roguish characters that is evident in his early works such as Vanity Fair, The Luck of Barry Lyndon, and Catherine, and was ranked second only to Charles Dickens during the height of his career. In his later work, Thackeray transitioned from the satirical tone for which he was known to a more traditional Victorian narrative, the most notable of which is The History of Henry Esmond. Thackeray died in This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original.
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See all free Kindle reading apps. Start reading The Kickleburys on the Rhine on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? Kessinger Publishing Co 17 Jun. Be the first to review this item Amazon Bestsellers Rank: Synopsis I burst out in a scornful laugh. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Unlimited One-Day Delivery and more.
There's a problem loading this menu at the moment. Learn more about Amazon Prime. Between ourselves, honest reader, it is no very strong potation which the present purveyor offers to you. It will not trouble your head much in the drinking. It was intended for that sort of negus which is offered at Christmas parties and of which ladies and children may partake with refreshment and cheerfulness.
Last year I tried a brew which was old, bitter, and strong; and scarce any one would drink it. This year we send round a milder tap, and it is liked by customers: Smith, serve round the liquor to the gentle-folks.
Pray, dear madam, another glass; it is Christmas time, it will do you no harm. It is not intended to keep long, this sort of drink. Come, froth up, Mr. Publisher, and pass quickly round! And as for the professional gentlemen, we must get a stronger sort for THEM some day. There is no use shirking this statement! Henry, or publicly caned in Pall Mall. They have chuckled over it to a man. They whisper about it at the club, and look over the paper at you.
My next-door neighbor came to see me this morning, and I saw by his face that he had the whole story pat. And if every author who was so abused by a critic had a similar note from a publisher, good Lord! Let us have truth before all. I would rather have a good word than a bad one from any person: If I can show that the judge who is delivering sentence against me, and laying down the law and making a pretence of learning, has no learning and no law, and is neither more nor less than a pompous noodle, who ought not to be heard in any respectable court, I will do so; and then, dear friends, perhaps you will have something to laugh at in this book.
Indeed, we should as little think of taking these compositions as examples of the merits of their authors as we should think of measuring the valuable services of Mr. The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt The Rose and the Ring Annotated. There is the whole article. See all free Kindle reading apps.
We have said that their ostensible intention was such, because there is another motive for these productions, locked up as the popular author deems in his own breast, but which betrays itself, in the quality of the work, as his principal incentive. Yet so it is; and the popular author finds it convenient to fill up the declared deficit, and place himself in a position the more effectually to encounter those liabilities which sternly assert themselves contemporaneously and in contrast with the careless and free-handed tendencies of the season by the emission of Christmas books — a kind of literary assignats, representing to the emitter expunged debts, to the receiver an investment of enigmatical value.
Indeed, we should as little think of taking these compositions as examples of the merits of their authors as we should think of measuring the valuable services of Mr. Walker, the postman, or Mr. Bell, the dust-collector, by the copy of verses they leave at our doors as a provocative of the expected annual gratuity — effusions with which they may fairly be classed for their intrinsic worth no less than their ultimate purport.
But though exercising, as is the wont of popular authors in their moments of leisure, a plentiful reserve of those higher qualities to which they are indebted for their fame, his professional instincts are not altogether in abeyance. From the moment his eye lights upon a luckless family group embarked on the same steamer with himself, the sight of his accustomed quarry — vulgarity, imbecility, and affectation — reanimates his relaxed sinews, and, playfully fastening his satiric fangs upon the familiar prey, he dallies with it in mimic ferocity like a satiated mouser.
Two individuals alone form an exception to the above category, and are offered to the respectful admiration of the reader — the one, a shadowy serjeant-at-law, Mr. To our own, perhaps unphilosophical, taste the aspirations towards sentimental perfection of another popular author are infinitely preferable to these sardonic divings after the pearl of truth, whose lustre is eclipsed in the display of the diseased oyster.
Much, in the present instance, perhaps all, the disagreeable effect of his subject is no doubt attributable to the absence of Mr. A few flashes, however, occur, such as the description of M. These, with the illustrations, which are spirited enough, redeem the book from an absolute ban. He cannot draw his men and women with their skins off, and, therefore, the effigies of his characters are pleasanter to contemplate than the flayed anatomies of the letter-press.
There is the whole article. And the reader will see in the paragraph preceding that memorable one which winds up with the diseased oyster that he must be a worthless creature for daring to like the book, as he could only do so from a desire to hug himself in a sense of superiority by admeasurement with the most worthless of his fellow-creatures!
The reader is worthless for liking a book of which all the characters are worthless, except two, which are offered to his respectful admiration; and of these two the author does not respect one, but struggles not to laugh in his face; whilst he apparently speaks of another in a tone of religious reverence, because the lady is a countess, and because he the author is a sneak. So reader, author, characters, are rogues all. Be there any honest men left, Hal? About Printing-house Square, mayhap you may light on an honest man, a squeamish man, a proper moral man, a man that shall talk you Latin by the half-column if you will but hear him.