experience, memory were all his; he sees at a glance, he compares in
a flash, he understands without conscious effort, he forgets nothing
that he has read." The past and present are photographed
imperishably on his brain, he knows the manners of all ages and all
countries, the names of all the arms that men have used, all the
garments they have worn, all the dishes they have tasted, all the
terms of all professions, from swordsmanship to coach-building.
Other authors have to wait, and hunt for facts; nothing stops Dumas:
he knows and remembers everything. Hence his rapidity, his
facility, his positive delight in labour: hence it came that he
might be heard, like Dickens, laughing while he worked.


This is rather a eulogy than a criticism of Dumas. His faults are
on the surface, visible to all men. He was not only rapid, he was
hasty, he was inconsistent; his need of money as well as his love of
work made him put his hand to dozens of perishable things. A
beginner, entering the forest of Dumas' books, may fail to see the
trees for the wood. He may be counselled to select first the cycle
of d'Artagnan--the "Musketeers," "Twenty Years After," and the
"Vicomte de Bragelonne." Mr. Stevenson's delightful essay on the
last may have sent many readers to it; I confess to preferring the
youth of the "Musketeers" to their old age. Then there is the cycle
of the Valois, whereof the "Dame de Monsereau" is the best--perhaps
the best thing Dumas ever wrote. The "Tulipe Noire" is a novel
girls may read, as Thackeray said, with confidence. The "Chevalier
d'Harmenthal" is nearly (not quite) as good as "Quentin Durward."
"Monte Cristo" has the best beginning--and loses itself in the
sands. The novels on the Revolution are not among the most
alluring: the famed device "L. P. D." (lilia pedibus destrue) has