I cannot say that I have read _Parthenissa_ through: and I can say that I do not intend to do so.

It is enough to have read Sainte Madeleine of the Ink-Desert herself, without reading bad imitations of her.

But I have read enough to know that _Parthenissa_ would never give me anything like the modified satisfaction that is given by _Parismus_: and after all, if a man will not take the trouble to finish writing his book (which Orrery never did) why should his readers take the trouble even to finish reading what he has written?
The scene is Parthia, with alternation to Syria, and diversions and episodes elsewhere: and though there is a certain amount of fighting, the staple is quite decorous but exceedingly dull love-making, conducted partly in the endless dialogue (or rather automatic monologue) already referred to, and partly in letters more "handsome" even than Mr.Frank Churchill's, and probably a good deal more sincere in their conventional way, but pretty certainly less amusing.

The original attraction indeed of this class of novel consisted, and, in so far as it still exists, may be said to consist, in noble sentiment, elegantly expressed.

It deserved, and in a manner deserves, the commendatory part of Aramis's rebuke to Porthos for expressing impatience with the compliments between Athos and D'Artagnan at their first and hostile rencounter.[3] Otherwise there is not much to be said for it.