acknowledged that, in such a character as Henri III., Dumas made
history live, as magically as Scott revived the past in his Louis
XI., or Balfour of Burley. It is admitted that Dumas' good tales
are told with a vigour and life which rejoice the heart; that his
narrative is never dull, never stands still, but moves with a
freedom of adventure which perhaps has no parallel. He may fall
short of the humour, the kindly wisdom, the genial greatness of Sir
Walter at his best, and he has not that supernatural touch, that
tragic grandeur, which Scott inherits from Homer and from
Shakespeare. In another Homeric quality, [Greek text], as Homer
himself calls it, in the "delight of battle" and the spirit of the
fray, Scott and Dumas are alike masters. Their fights and the
fights in the Icelandic sagas are the best that have ever been drawn
by mortal man. When swords are aloft, in siege or on the
greensward, or in the midnight chamber where an ambush is laid,
Scott and Dumas are indeed themselves. The steel rings, the
bucklers clash, the parry and lunge pass and answer too swift for
the sight. If Dumas has not, as he certainly has not, the noble
philosophy and kindly knowledge of the heart which are Scott's, he
is far more swift, more witty, more diverting. He is not prolix,
his style is not involved, his dialogue is as rapid and keen as an
assault at arms. His favourite virtues and graces, we repeat it,
are loyalty, friendship, gaiety, generosity, courage, beauty, and
strength. He is himself the friend of the big, stupid, excellent
Porthos; of Athos, the noble and melancholy swordsman of sorrow; of
D'Artagnan, the indomitable, the trusty, the inexhaustible in
resource; but his heart is never on the side of the shifty Aramis,
with all his beauty, dexterity, bravery, and brilliance. The brave
Bussy, and the chivalrous, the doomed La Mole, are more dear to him;
and if he embellishes their characters, giving them charms and