CHAPTERXIII.APENNYPLAINANDTWOPENCECOLOURED
THESEwordswillbefamiliartoallstudentsofSkelt’sJuvenileDrama.Thatnationalmonument，afterhavingchangeditsnametoPark’s，toWebb’s，toRedington’s，andlastofalltoPollock’s，hasnowbecome，forthemostpart，amemory.Someofitspillars，likeStonehenge，arestillafoot，therestcleanvanished.ItmaybetheMuseumnumbersafullset;andMr.Ionidesperhaps，orelsehergraciousMajesty，mayboasttheirgreatcollections;buttotheplainprivatepersontheyarebecome，likeRaphaels，unattainable.
Ihave，atdifferenttimes，possessedALADDIN，THEREDROVER，THE
BLINDBOY，THEOLDOAKCHEST，THEWOODDAEMON，JACKSHEPPARD，THE
MILLERANDHISMEN，DERFREISCHUTZ，THESMUGGLER，THEFORESTOF
BONDY，ROBINHOOD，THEWATERMAN，RICHARDI.，MYPOLLANDMYPARTNER
JOE，THEINCHCAPEBELL（imperfect），andTHREE—FINGEREDJACK，THE
TERROROFJAMAICA;andIhaveassistedothersintheilluminationofMAIDOFTHEINNandTHEBATTLEOFWATERLOO.Inthisroll—callofstirringnamesyoureadtheevidencesofahappychildhood;andthoughnothalfofthemarestilltobeprocuredofanylivingstationer，inthemindoftheironcehappyownerallsurvive，kaleidoscopesofchangingpictures，echoesofthepast.
Therestands，Ifancy，tothisday（butnowhowfallen！）acertainstationer’sshopatacornerofthewidethoroughfarethatjoinsthecityofmychildhoodwiththesea.When，uponanySaturday，wemadeapartytobeholdtheships，wepassedthatcorner;andsinceinthosedaysIlovedashipasamanlovesBurgundyordaybreak，thisofitselfhadbeenenoughtohallowit.Buttherewasmorethanthat.IntheLeithWalkwindow，alltheyearround，therestooddisplayedatheatreinworkingorder，witha\"forestset，\"a\"combat，\"andafew\"robberscarousing\"intheslides;andbelowandabout，dearertenfoldtome！theplaysthemselves，thosebudgetsofromance，laytumbledoneuponanother.LongandoftenhaveIlingeredtherewithemptypockets.Onefigure，weshallsay，wasvisibleinthefirstplateofcharacters，bearded，pistolinhand，ordrawingtohiseartheclothyardarrow;Iwouldspellthename：wasitMacaire，orLongTomCoffin，orGrindoff，2ddress？O，howIwouldlongtoseetherest！how—ifthenamebychancewerehidden—Iwouldwonderinwhatplayhefigured，andwhatimmortallegendjustifiedhisattitudeandstrangeapparel！
Andthentogowithin，toannounceyourselfasanintendingpurchaser，and，closelywatched，besufferedtoundothosebundlesandbreathlesslydevourthosepagesofgesticulatingvillains，epilepticcombats，boskyforests，palacesandwar—ships，frowningfortressesandprisonvaults—itwasagiddyjoy.Thatshop，whichwasdarkandsmeltofBibles，wasaloadstonerockforallthatborethenameofboy.Theycouldnotpassitby，nor，havingentered，leaveit.Itwasaplacebesieged;theshopmen，liketheJewsrebuildingSalem，hadadoubletask.Theykeptusatthestick’send，frownedusdown，snatchedeachplayoutofourhandereweweretrustedwithanother，and，increditableasitmaysound，usedtodemandofusuponourentrance，likebanditti，ifwecamewithmoneyorwithemptyhand.OldMr.Smithhimself，wornoutwithmyeternalvacillation，oncesweptthetreasuresfrombeforeme，withthecry：\"Idonotbelieve，child，thatyouareanintendingpurchaseratall！\"Thesewerethedragonsofthegarden;
butforsuchjoysofparadisewecouldhavefacedtheTerrorofJamaicahimself.Everysheetwefingeredwasanotherlightningglanceintoobscure，deliciousstory;itwaslikewallowingintherawstuffofstory—books.Iknownothingtocomparewithitsavenowandthenindreams，whenIamprivilegedtoreadincertainunwritstoriesofadventure，fromwhichIawaketofindtheworldallvanity.TheCRUXofBuridan’sdonkeywasasnothingtotheuncertaintyoftheboyashehandledandlingeredanddoatedonthesebundlesofdelight;therewasaphysicalpleasureinthesightandtouchofthemwhichhewouldjealouslyprolong;andwhenatlengththedeedwasdone，theplayselected，andtheimpatientshopmanhadbrushedtherestintothegrayportfolio，andtheboywasforthagain，alittlelatefordinner，thelampsspringingintolightinthebluewinter’seven，andTHEMILLER，orTHEROVER，orsomekindreddramaclutchedagainsthisside—onwhatgayfeetheran，andhowhelaughedaloudinexultation！Icanhearthatlaughterstill.Outofalltheyearsofmylife，Icanrecallbutonehome—comingtocomparewiththese，andthatwasonthenightwhenIbroughtbackwithmetheARABIANENTERTAINMENTSinthefat，old，double—columnedvolumewiththeprints.IwasjustwellintothestoryoftheHunchback，Iremember，whenmyclergyman—
grandfather（amanwecountedprettystiff）cameinbehindme.I
grewblindwithterror.Butinsteadoforderingthebookaway，hesaidheenviedme.Ah，wellhemight！
Thepurchaseandthefirsthalf—hourathome，thatwasthesummit.
Thenceforththeinterestdeclinedbylittleandlittle.Thefable，assetforthintheplay—book，provedtobenotworthyofthescenesandcharacters：whatfablewouldnot？Suchpassagesas：
\"Scene6.TheHermitage.Nightsetscene.Placebackofscene1，No.2，atbackofstageandhermitage，Fig.2，outofsetpiece，R.
H.inaslantingdirection\"—suchpassages，Isay，thoughverypractical，arehardlytobecalledgoodreading.Indeed，asliterature，thesedramasdidnotmuchappealtome.Iforgettheveryoutlineoftheplots.OfTHEBLINDBOY，beyondthefactthathewasamostinjuredprinceandonce，Ithink，abducted，Iknownothing.AndTHEOLDOAKCHEST，whatwasitallabout？thatproscript（1stdress），thatprodigiousnumberofbanditti，thatoldwomanwiththebroom，andthemagnificentkitcheninthethirdact（wasitinthethird？）—theyareallfalleninadeliquium，swimfaintlyinmybrain，andmixandvanish.
Icannotdenythatjoyattendedtheillumination;norcanIquiteforgetthatchildwho，wilfullyforegoingpleasure，stoopsto\"twopencecoloured.\"Withcrimsonlake（harktothesoundofit—
crimsonlake！—thehornsofelf—landarenotricherontheear）—
withcrimsonlakeandPrussianblueacertainpurpleistobecompoundedwhich，forcloaksespecially，Titiancouldnotequal.
Thelattercolourwithgamboge，ahatednamealthoughanexquisitepigment，suppliedagreenofsuchasavourygreennessthatto—daymyheartregretsit.NorcanIrecallwithoutatenderweaknesstheveryaspectofthewaterwhereIdippedmybrush.Yes，therewaspleasureinthepainting.Butwhenallwaspainted，itisneedlesstodenyit，allwasspoiled.Youmight，indeed，setupasceneortwotolookat;buttocutthefiguresoutwassimplysacrilege;norcouldanychildtwicecourtthetedium，theworry，andthelong—drawndisenchantmentofanactualperformance.Twodaysafterthepurchasethehoneyhadbeensucked.Parentsusedtocomplain;theythoughtIweariedofmyplay.Itwasnotso：nomorethanapersoncanbesaidtohaveweariedofhisdinnerwhenheleavesthebonesanddishes;Ihadgotthemarrowofitandsaidgrace.
Thenwasthetimetoturntothebackoftheplay—bookandtostudythatenticingdoublefileofnames，wherepoetry，forthetruechildofSkelt，reignedhappyandgloriouslikeherMajestytheQueen.MuchasIhavetravelledintheserealmsofgold，Ihaveyetseen，uponthatmaporabstract，namesofElDoradosthatstillhaunttheearofmemory，andarestillbutnames.THEFLOATING
BEACON—whywasthatdeniedme？orTHEWRECKASHORE？SIXTEEN—
STRINGJACKwhomIdidnotevenguesstobeahighwayman，troubledmeawakeandhauntedmyslumbers;andthereisonesequenceofthreefromthatenchantedcalenderthatIstillattimesrecall，likealovedverseofpoetry：LODOISKA，SILVERPALACE，ECHOOF
WESTMINSTERBRIDGE.Names，barenames，aresurelymoretochildrenthanwepoor，grown—up，obliteratedfoolsremember.
ThenameofSkeltitselfhasalwaysseemedapartandparcelofthecharmofhisproductions.Itmaybedifferentwiththerose，buttheattractionofthispaperdramasensiblydeclinedwhenWebbhadcreptintotherubric：apoorcuckoo，flauntinginSkelt’snest.
AndnowwehavereachedPollock，soundingdeepergulfs.Indeed，thisnameofSkeltappearssostageyandpiratic，thatIwilladoptitboldlytodesignthesequalities.Skeltery，then，isaqualityofmuchart.Itiseventobefound，withreverencebeitsaid，amongtheworksofnature.Thestageyisitsgenericname;butitisanold，insular，home—bredstaginess;notFrench，domesticallyBritish;notofto—day，butsmackingofO.Smith，Fitzball，andthegreatageofmelodrama：apeculiarfragrancehauntingit;utteringitsunimportantmessageinatoneofvoicethathasthecharmoffreshantiquity.IwillnotinsistupontheartofSkelt’spurveyors.Thesewonderfulcharactersthatoncesothrilledoursoulwiththeirboldattitude，arrayofdeadlyenginesandincomparablecostume，to—daylooksomewhatpallidly;theextremehardfavouroftheheroinestrikesme，Ihadalmostsaidwithpain;
thevillain’sscowlnolongerthrillsmelikeatrumpet;andthescenesthemselves，thoseonceunparalleledlandscapes，seemtheeffortsofaprenticehand.Somuchoffaultwefind;butontheothersidetheimpartialcriticrejoicestoremarkthepresenceofagreatunityofgusto;ofthosedirectclap—trapappeals，whichamanisdeadandburiablewhenhefailstoanswer;ofthefootlightglamour，theready—made，bare—faced，transpontinepicturesque，athingnotonewithcoldreality，buthowmuchdearertothemind！
ThesceneryofSkeltdom—or，shallwesay，thekingdomofTranspontus？—hadaprevailingcharacter.WhetheritsetforthPolandasinTHEBLINDBOY，orBohemiawithTHEMILLERANDHISMEN，orItalywithTHEOLDOAKCHEST，stillitwasTranspontus.A
botanistcouldtellitbytheplants.Thehollyhockwasallpervasive，runningwildindeserts;thedockwascommon，andthebendingreed;andovershadowingthesewerepoplar，palm，potatotree，andQUERCUSSKELTICA—bravegrowths.ThecaveswereallembowelledintheSurreysideformation;thesoilwasallbetroddenbythelightpumpofT.P.Cooke.Skelt，tobesure，hadyetanother，anorientalstring：heheldthegorgeouseastinfee;andinthenewquarterofHyeres，say，inthegardenoftheHoteldesIlesd’Or，youmaybeholdtheseblessedvisionsrealised.ButontheseIwillnotdwell;theywereanoutwork;itwasintheaccidentalscenerythatSkeltwasallhimself.IthadastrongflavourofEngland;itwasasortofindigestionofEnglandanddrop—scenes，andIamboundtosaywascharming.Howtheroadswander，howthecastlesitsuponthehill，howthesuneradiatesfrombehindthecloud，andhowthecongregatedcloudsthemselvesup—roll，asstiffasbolsters！Hereisthecottageinterior，theusualfirstflat，withthecloakuponthenail，therosariesofonions，thegunandpowder—hornandcorner—cupboard;hereistheinn（thisdramamustbenautical，IforeseeCaptainLuffandBoldBobBowsprit）withtheredcurtain，pipes，spittoons，andeight—dayclock;andthereagainisthatimpressivedungeonwiththechains，whichwassodulltocolour.England，thehedgerowelms，thethinbrickhouses，windmills，glimpsesofthenavigableThames—
England，whenatlastIcametovisitit，wasonlySkeltmadeevident：tocrosstheborderwas，fortheScotsman，tocomehometoSkelt;therewastheinn—signandtherethehorse—trough，allforeshadowedinthefaithfulSkelt.If，attheripeageoffourteenyears，Iboughtacertaincudgel，gotafriendtoloadit，andthenceforwardwalkedthetamewaysoftheearthmyownideal，radiatingpureromance—stillIwasbutapuppetinthehandofSkelt;theoriginalofthatregrettedbludgeon，andsurelytheantitypeofallthebludgeonkind，greatlyimprovedfromCruikshank，hadadornedthehandofJonathanWild，pl.I.\"Thisismasteringme，\"asWhitmancries，uponsomelesserprovocation.
WhatamI？whatarelife，art，letters，theworld，butwhatmySkelthasmadethem？Hestampedhimselfuponmyimmaturity.TheworldwasplainbeforeIknewhim，apoorpennyworld;butsoonitwasallcolouredwithromance.IfIgotothetheatretoseeagoodoldmelodrama，’tisbutSkeltalittlefaded.IfIvisitaboldsceneinnature，Skeltwouldhavebeenbolder;therehadbeencertainlyacastleonthatmountain，andthehollowtree—thatsetpiece—Iseemtomissitintheforeground.Indeed，outofthiscut—and—dry，dull，swaggering，obtrusive，andinfantileart，Iseemtohavelearnedtheveryspiritofmylife’senjoyment;mettheretheshadowsofthecharactersIwastoreadaboutandloveinalatefuture;gottheromanceofDERFREISCHUTZlongereIwastohearofWeberorthemightyFormes;acquiredagalleryofscenesandcharacterswithwhich，inthesilenttheatreofthebrain，I
mightenactallnovelsandromances;andtookfromtheserudecutsanenduringandtransformingpleasure.Reader—andyourself？
Awordofmoral：itappearsthatB.Pollock，lateJ.Redington，No.
73HoxtonStreet，notonlypublishestwenty—threeoftheseoldstagefavourites，butownsthenecessaryplatesanddisplaysamodestreadinesstoissueotherthirty—three.Ifyouloveart，folly，orthebrighteyesofchildren，speedtoPollock’s，ortoClarke’sofGarrickStreet.InPollock’slistofpublicandaI
perceiveapairofmyancientaspirations：WRECKASHOREandSIXTEEN—STRINGJACK;andIcherishthebeliefthatwhentheseshallseeoncemorethelightofday，B.Pollockwillrememberthisapologist.But，indeed，Ihaveadreamattimesthatisnotalladream.Iseemtomyselftowanderinaghostlystreet—E.W.，I
think，thepostaldistrict—closebelowthefool’s—capofSt.
Paul’s，andyetwithineasyhearingoftheechooftheAbbeybridge.Thereinadimshop，lowintheroofandsmellingstrongofglueandfootlights，IfindmyselfinquakingtreatywithgreatSkelthimself，theaboriginalalldustyfromthetomb.Ibuy，withwhatachokingheart—Ibuythemall，allbutthepantomimes;I
paymymentalmoney，andgoforth;andlo！thepacketsaredust.
CHAPTERXIV.AGOSSIPONANOVELOFDUMAS’S
THEbooksthatwere—readtheoftenestarenotalwaysthosethatweadmirethemost;wechooseandwere—visitthemformanyandvariousreasons，aswechooseandrevisithumanfriends.OneortwoofScott’snovels，Shakespeare，Moliere，Montaigne，THEEGOIST，andtheVICOMTEDEBRAGELONNE，formtheinnercircleofmyintimates.Behindthesecomesagoodtroopofdearacquaintances;
THEPILGRIM’SPROGRESSinthefrontrank，THEBIBLEINSPAINnotfarbehind.TherearebesidesacertainnumberthatlookatmewithreproachasIpassthembyonmyshelves：booksthatIoncethumbedandstudied：houseswhichwereoncelikehometome，butwhereInowrarelyvisit.Iamonthesesadterms（andblushtoconfessit）withWordsworth，Horace，BurnsandHazlitt.Lastofall，thereistheclassofbookthathasitshourofbrilliancy—
glows，sings，charms，andthenfadesagainintoinsignificanceuntilthefitreturn.Chiefofthosewhothussmileandfrownonmebyturns，ImustnameVirgilandHerrick，who，weretheybut\"Theirsometimeselvesthesamethroughouttheyear，\"
musthavestoodinthefirstcompanywiththesixnamesofmycontinualliteraryintimates.Tothesesix，incongruousastheyseem，Ihavelongbeenfaithful，andhopetobefaithfultothedayofdeath.IhaveneverreadthewholeofMontaigne，butIdonotliketobelongwithoutreadingsomeofhim，andmydelightinwhatIdoreadneverlessens.OfShakespeareIhavereadallbutRICHARDIII，HENRYVI.，TITUSANDRONICAS，andALL’SWELLTHATENDS
WELL;andthese，havingalreadymadeallsuitableendeavour，InowknowthatIshallneverread—tomakeupforwhichunfaithfulnessIcouldreadmuchoftherestforever.OfMoliere—surelythenextgreatestnameofChristendom—Icouldtellaverysimilarstory;butinalittlecornerofalittleessaytheseprincesaretoomuchoutofplace，andIprefertopaymyfealtyandpasson.
HowoftenIhavereadGUYMANNERING，ROBROY，ORREDGAUNTLET，I
havenomeansofguessing，havingbegunyoung.ButitiseitherfourorfivetimesthatIhavereadTHEEGOIST，andeitherfiveorsixthatIhavereadtheVICOMTEDEBRAGELONNE.
Some，whowouldaccepttheothers，maywonderthatIshouldhavespentsomuchofthisbrieflifeofoursoveraworksolittlefamousasthelast.And，indeed，Iamsurprisedmyself;notatmyowndevotion，butthecoldnessoftheworld.MyacquaintancewiththeVICOMTEbegan，somewhatindirectly，intheyearofgrace1863，whenIhadtheadvantageofstudyingcertainillustrateddessertplatesinahotelatNice.Thenameofd’ArtagnaninthelegendsI
alreadysalutedlikeanoldfriend，forIhadmetittheyearbeforeinaworkofMissYonge’s.MyfirstperusalwasinoneofthosepiratededitionsthatswarmedatthattimeoutofBrussels，andrantosuchatroopofneatanddwarfishvolumes.Iunderstoodbutlittleofthemeritsofthebook;mystrongestmemoryisoftheexecutionofd’EymericandLyodot—astrangetestimonytothedulnessofaboy，whocouldenjoytherough—and—tumbleinthePlacedeGreve，andforgetd’Artagnan’svisitstothetwofinanciers.Mynextreadingwasinwinter—time，whenIlivedaloneuponthePentlands.Iwouldreturnintheearlynightfromoneofmypatrolswiththeshepherd;afriendlyfacewouldmeetmeinthedoor，afriendlyretrieverscurryupstairstofetchmyslippers;
andIwouldsitdownwiththeVICOMTEforalong，silent，solitarylamp—lighteveningbythefire.AndyetIknownotwhyIcallitsilent，whenitwasenlivenedwithsuchaclatterofhorse—shoes，andsucharattleofmusketry，andsuchastiroftalk;orwhyI
callthoseeveningssolitaryinwhichIgainedsomanyfriends.I
wouldrisefrommybookandpulltheblindaside，andseethesnowandtheglitteringhollieschequeraScotchgarden，andthewintermoonlightbrightenthewhitehills.ThenceIwouldturnagaintothatcrowdedandsunnyfieldoflifeinwhichitwassoeasytoforgetmyself，mycares，andmysurroundings：aplacebusyasacity，brightasatheatre，throngedwithmemorablefaces，andsoundingwithdelightfulspeech.Icarriedthethreadofthatepicintomyslumbers，Iwokewithitunbroken，Irejoicedtoplungeintothebookagainatbreakfast，itwaswithapangthatImustlayitdownandturntomyownlabours;fornopartoftheworldhaseverseemedtomesocharmingasthesepages，andnotevenmyfriendsarequitesoreal，perhapsquitesodear，asd’Artagnan.
SincethenIhavebeengoingtoandfroatverybriefintervalsinmyfavouritebook;andIhavenowjustrisenfrommylast（letmecallitmyfifth）perusal，havinglikeditbetterandadmireditmoreseriouslythanever.PerhapsIhaveasenseofownership，beingsowellknowninthesesixvolumes.PerhapsIthinkthatd’Artagnandelightstohavemereadofhim，andLouisQuatorzeisgratified，andFouquetthrowsmealook，andAramis，althoughheknowsIdonotlovehim，yetplaystomewithhisbestgraces，astoanoldpatronoftheshow.Perhaps，ifIamnotcareful，somethingmaybefallmelikewhatbefellGeorgeIV.aboutthebattleofWaterloo，andImaycometofancytheVICOMTEoneofthefirst，andHeavenknowsthebest，ofmyownworks.Atleast，I
avowmyselfapartisan;andwhenIcomparethepopularityoftheVICOMTEwiththatofMONTROCRISTO，oritsownelderbrother，theTROISMOUSQUETAIRES，IconfessIambothpainedandpuzzled.
TothosewhohavealreadymadeacquaintancewiththetitularherointhepagesofVINGTANSAPRES，perhapsthenamemayactasadeterrent.Amanmight，wellstandbackifhesupposedheweretofollow，forsixvolumes，sowell—conducted，sofine—spoken，andwithalsodrearyacavalierasBragelonne.Butthefearisidle.
Imaybesaidtohavepassedthebestyearsofmylifeinthesesixvolumes，andmyacquaintancewithRaoulhasnevergonebeyondabow;andwhenhe，whohassolongpretendedtobealive，isatlastsufferedtopretendtobedead，Iamsometimesremindedofasayinginanearliervolume：\"ENFIN，DITMISSSTEWART，\"—anditwasofBragelonneshespoke—\"ENFINILAFAILQUELQUECHOSE：C’EST，MA
FOI！BIENHEUREUX.\"Iamremindedofit，asIsay;andthenextmoment，whenAthosdiesofhisdeath，andmydeard’Artagnanburstsintohisstormofsobbing，Icanbutdeploremyflippancy.
OrperhapsitisLaVallierethatthereaderofVINGTANSAPRESisinclinedtoflee.Well，heisrighttheretoo，thoughnotsoright.Louiseisnosuccess.Hercreatorhassparednopains;sheiswell—meant，notill—designed，sometimeshasawordthatringsouttrue;sometimes，ifonlyforabreath，shemayevenengageoursympathies.ButIhaveneverenviedtheKinghistriumph.AndsofarfrompityingBragelonneforhisdefeat，Icouldwishhimnoworse（notforlackofmalice，butimagination）thantobeweddedtothatlady.Madameenchantsme;Icanforgivethatroyalminxhermostseriousoffences;IcanthrillandsoftenwiththeKingonthatmemorableoccasionwhenhegoestoupbraidandremainstoflirt;andwhenitcomestothe\"ALLONS，AIMEZ—MOIDONC，\"itismyheartthatmeltsinthebosomofdeGuiche.NotsowithLouise.
Readerscannotfailtohaveremarkedthatwhatanauthortellsusofthebeautyorthecharmofhiscreaturesgoesfornought;thatweknowinstantlybetter;thattheheroinecannotopenhermouthbutwhat，allinamoment，thefinephrasesofpreparationfallfromroundherliketherobesfromCinderella，andshestandsbeforeus，self—betrayed，asapoor，ugly，sicklywench，orperhapsastrappingmarket—woman.Authors，atleast，knowitwell;aheroinewilltoooftenstartthetrickof\"gettingugly;\"andnodiseaseismoredifficulttocure.Isaidauthors;butindeedI
hadasideeyetooneauthorinparticular，withwhoseworksIamverywellacquainted，thoughIcannotreadthem，andwhohasspentmanyvigilsinthiscause，sittingbesidehisailingpuppetsand（likeamagician）wearyinghisarttorestorethemtoyouthandbeauty.Thereareotherswhoridetoohighforthesemisfortunes.
WhodoubtsthelovelinessofRosalind？Ardenitselfwasnotmorelovely.WhoeverquestionedtheperennialcharmofRoseJocelyn，LucyDesborough，orClaraMiddleton？fairwomenwithfairnames，thedaughtersofGeorgeMeredith.ElizabethBennethasbuttospeak，andIamatherknees.Ah！thesearethecreatorsofdesirablewomen.TheywouldneverhavefalleninthemudwithDumasandpoorLaValliere.Itismyonlyconsolationthatnotoneofallofthem，exceptthefirst，couldhavepluckedatthemoustacheofd’Artagnan.
Orperhaps，again，aproportionofreadersstumbleatthethreshold.Insovastamansionthereweresuretobebackstairsandkitchenofficeswherenoonewoulddelighttolinger;butitwasatleastunhappythatthevestibuleshouldbesobadlylighted;
anduntil，intheseventeenthchapter，d’Artagnansetsofftoseekhisfriends，Imustconfess，thebookgoesheavilyenough.But，fromthenceforward，whatafeastisspread！Monkkidnapped;
d’Artagnanenriched;Mazarin’sdeath;theeverdelectableadventureofBelleIsle，whereinAramisoutwitsd’Artagnan，withitsepilogue（vol.v.chap.xxviii.），whered’Artagnanregainsthemoralsuperiority;theloveadventuresatFontainebleau，withSt.
Aignan’sstoryofthedryadandthebusinessofdeGuiche，deWardes，andManicamp;AramismadegeneraloftheJesuits;Aramisatthebastille;thenighttalkintheforestofSenart;BelleIsleagain，withthedeathofPorthos;andlast，butnotleast，thetamingofd’Artagnantheuntamable，underthelashoftheyoungKing.Whatothernovelhassuchepicvarietyandnobilityofincident？often，ifyouwill，impossible;oftenoftheorderofanArabianstory;andyetallbasedinhumannature.Forifyoucometothat，whatnovelhasmorehumannature？notstudiedwiththemicroscope，butseenlargely，inplaindaylight，withthenaturaleye？Whatnovelhasmoregoodsense，andgaiety，andwit，andunflagging，admirableliteraryskill？Goodsouls，Isuppose，mustsometimesreaditintheblackguardtravestyofatranslation.Butthereisnostylesountranslatable;lightasawhippedtrifle，strongassilk;wordylikeavillagetale;patlikeageneral’sdespatch;witheveryfault，yetnevertedious;withnomerit，yetinimitablyright.And，oncemore，tomakeanendofcommendations，whatnovelisinspiredwithamoreunstainedoramorewholesomemorality？
Yes;inspiteofMissYonge，whointroducedmetothenameofd’Artagnanonlytodissuademefromanearerknowledgeoftheman，Ihavetoaddmorality.Thereisnoquitegoodbookwithoutagoodmorality;buttheworldiswide，andsoaremorals.OutoftwopeoplewhohavedippedintoSirRichardBurton’sTHOUSANDANDONE
NIGHTS，oneshallhavebeenoffendedbytheanimaldetails;anothertowhomthesewereharmless，perhapsevenpleasing，shallyethavebeenshockedinhisturnbytherascalityandcrueltyofallthecharacters.Oftworeaders，again，oneshallhavebeenpainedbythemoralityofareligiousmemoir，onebythatoftheVICOMTEDE
BRAGELONNE.Andthepointisthatneitherneedbewrong.Weshallalwaysshockeachotherbothinlifeandart;wecannotgetthesunintoourpictures，northeabstractright（iftherebesuchathing）intoourbooks;enoughif，intheone，thereglimmersomehintofthegreatlightthatblindsusfromheaven;enoughif，intheother，thereshine，evenuponfouldetails，aspiritofmagnanimity.IwouldscarcesendtotheVICOMTEareaderwhowasinquestofwhatwemaycallpuritanmorality.Theventripotentmulatto，thegreatcater，worker，earnerandwaster，themanofmuchandwittylaughter，themanofthegreatheartandalas！ofthedoubtfulhonesty，isafigurenotyetclearlysetbeforetheworld;hestillawaitsasoberandyetgenialportrait;butwithwhateverartthatmaybetouched，andwhateverindulgence，itwillnotbetheportraitofaprecision.Dumaswascertainlynotthinkingofhimself，butofPlanchet，whenheputintothemouthofd’Artagnan’soldservantthisexcellentprofession：\"MONSIEUR，J’ETAISUNEDECESBONNESPATESD’HOMMESQUEDIEUAFAITPOUR
S’ANIMERPENDANTUNCERTAINTEMPSETPOURTROUVERBONNESTOUTES
CHOSESQUIACCOMPAGNENTLEURSEJOURSURLATERRE.\"Hewasthinking，asIsay，ofPlanchet，towhomthewordsareaptlyfitted;buttheywerefittedalsotoPlanchet’screator;andperhapsthisstruckhimashewrote，forobservewhatfollows：
\"D’ARTAGNANS’ASSITALORSPRESDELAFENETRE，ET，CETTEPHILOSOPHIE
DEPLANCHETLUIAYANTPARUSOLIDE，ILYREVA.\"Inamanwhofindsallthingsgood，youwillscarceexpectmuchzealfornegativevirtues：theactivealonewillhaveacharmforhim;abstinence，howeverwise，howeverkind，willalwaysseemtosuchajudgeentirelymeanandpartlyimpious.SowithDumas.Chastityisnotnearhisheart;noryet，tohisownsorecost，thatvirtueoffrugalitywhichisthearmouroftheartist.Now，intheVICOMTE，hehadmuchtodowiththecontestofFouquetandColbert.
HistoricjusticeshouldbealluponthesideofColbert，ofofficialhonesty，andfiscalcompetence.
AndDumasknewitwell：threetimesatleastheshowshisknowledge;onceitisbutflasheduponusandreceivedwiththelaughterofFouquethimself，inthejestingcontroversyinthegardensofSaintMande;onceitistouchedonbyAramisintheforestofSenart;intheend，itissetbeforeusclearlyinonedignifiedspeechofthetriumphantColbert.ButinFouquet，thewaster，theloverofgoodcheerandwitandart，theswifttransactorofmuchbusiness，\"L’HOMMEDEBRUIT，L’HOMMEDEPLAISIR，L’HOMMEQUIN’ESTQUEPARCEQUELESAUTRESSONT，\"Dumassawsomethingofhimselfanddrewthefigurethemoretenderly.ItistomeeventouchingtoseehowheinsistsonFouquet’shonour;notseeing，youmightthink，thatunflawedhonourisimpossibletospendthrifts;butrather，perhaps，inthelightofhisownlife，seeingittoowell，andclingingthemoretowhatwasleft.Honourcansurviveawound;itcanliveandthrivewithoutamember.Themanreboundsfromhisdisgrace;hebeginsfreshfoundationsontheruinsoftheold;andwhenhisswordisbroken，hewilldovaliantlywithhisdagger.SoitiswithFouquetinthebook;soitwaswithDumasonthebattlefieldoflife.
Toclingtowhatisleftofanydamagedqualityisvirtueintheman;butperhapstosingitspraisesisscarcelytobecalledmoralityinthewriter.Anditiselsewhere，itisinthecharacterofd’Artagnan，thatwemustlookforthatspiritofmorality，whichisoneofthechiefmeritsofthebook，makesoneofthemainjoysofitsperusal，andsetsithighabovemorepopularrivals.Athos，withthecomingofyears，hasdeclinedtoomuchintothepreacher，andthepreacherofasaplesscreed;butd’Artagnanhasmellowedintoamansowitty，rough，kindandupright，thathetakestheheartbystorm.Thereisnothingofthecopy—bookabouthisvirtues，nothingofthedrawing—roominhisfine，naturalcivility;hewillsailnearthewind;heisnodistrictvisitor—noWesleyorRobespierre;hisconscienceisvoidofallrefinementwhetherforgoodorevil;butthewholemanringstruelikeagoodsovereign.ReaderswhohaveapproachedtheVICOMTE，notacrosscountry，butbythelegitimate，five—volumedavenueoftheMOUSQUETAIRESandVINGTANSAPRES，willnothaveforgottend’Artagnan’sungentlemanlyandperfectlyimprobabletrickuponMilady.Whatapleasureitis，then，whatareward，andhowagreeablealesson，toseetheoldcaptainhumblehimselftothesonofthemanwhomhehadpersonated！Here，andthroughout，ifI
amtochoosevirtuesformyselformyfriends，letmechoosethevirtuesofd’Artagnan.IdonotsaythereisnocharacteraswelldrawninShakespeare;IdosaythereisnonethatIlovesowholly.
Therearemanyspiritualeyesthatseemtospyuponouractions—
eyesofthedeadandtheabsent，whomweimaginetobeholdusinourmostprivatehours，andwhomwefearandscrupletooffend：ourwitnessesandjudges.Andamongthese，evenifyoushouldthinkmechildish，Imustcountmyd’Artagnan—notd’ArtagnanofthememoirswhomThackeraypretendedtoprefer—apreference，Itakethefreedomofsaying，inwhichhestandsalone;notthed’Artagnanoffleshandblood，buthimoftheinkandpaper;notNature’s，butDumas’s.Andthisistheparticularcrownandtriumphoftheartist—nottobetruemerely，buttobelovable;notsimplytoconvince，buttoenchant.
ThereisyetanotherpointintheVICOMTEwhichIfindincomparable.Icanrecallnootherworkoftheimaginationinwhichtheendoflifeisrepresentedwithsoniceatact.IwasaskedtheotherdayifDumasmademelaughorcry.WellinthismylatefifthreadingoftheVICOMTE，IdidlaughonceatthesmallCoquelindeVolierebusiness，andwasperhapsathoughtsurprisedathavingdoneso：tomakeupforit，Ismiledcontinually.Butfortears，Idonotknow.Ifyouputapistoltomythroat，Imustownthetaletripsuponaveryairyfoot—withinameasurabledistanceofunreality;andforthosewholikethebiggunstobedischargedandthegreatpassionstoappearauthentically，itmayevenseeminadequatefromfirsttolast.Notsotome;Icannotcountthatapoordinner，orapoorbook，whereImeetwiththoseI
love;and，aboveall，inthislastvolume，Ifindasingularcharmofspirit.Itbreathesapleasantandatonicsadness，alwaysbrave，neverhysterical.Uponthecrowded，noisylifeofthislongtale，eveninggraduallyfalls;andthelightsareextinguished，andtheheroespassawayonebyone.Onebyonetheygo，andnotaregretembitterstheirdeparture;theyoungsucceedthemintheirplaces，LouisQuatorzeisswellinglargerandshiningbroader，anothergenerationandanotherFrancedawnonthehorizon;butforusandtheseoldmenwhomwehavelovedsolong，theinevitableenddrawsnearandiswelcome.Toreadthiswellistoanticipateexperience.Ah，ifonlywhenthesehoursofthelongshadowsfallforusinrealityandnotinfigure，wemayhopetofacethemwithamindasquiet！
Butmypaperisrunningout;thesiegegunsarefiringontheDutchfrontier;andImustsayadieuforthefifthtimetomyoldcomradefallenonthefieldofglory.ADIEU—ratherAUREVOIR！Yetasixthtime，dearestd’Artagnan，weshallkidnapMonkandtakehorsetogetherforBelleIsle.
CHAPTERXV.AGOSSIPONROMANCE
INanythingfittobecalledbythenameofreading，theprocessitselfshouldbeabsorbingandvoluptuous;weshouldgloatoverabook，beraptcleanoutofourselves，andrisefromtheperusal，ourmindfilledwiththebusiest，kaleidoscopicdanceofimages，incapableofsleeporofcontinuousthought.Thewords，ifthebookbeeloquent，shouldrunthenceforwardinourearslikethenoiseofbreakers，andthestory，ifitbeastory，repeatitselfinathousandcolouredpicturestotheeye.Itwasforthislastpleasurethatwereadsoclosely，andlovedourbookssodearly，inthebright，troubledperiodofboyhood.Eloquenceandthought，characterandconversation，werebutobstaclestobrushasideaswedugblithelyafteracertainsortofincident，likeapigfortruffles.Formypart，Ilikedastorytobeginwithanoldwaysideinnwhere，\"towardsthecloseoftheyear17—，\"severalgentlemeninthree—cockedhatswereplayingbowls.AfriendofminepreferredtheMalabarcoastinastorm，withashipbeatingtowindward，andascowlingfellowofHerculeanproportionsstridingalongthebeach;he，tobesure，wasapirate.Thiswasfurtherafieldthanmyhome—keepingfancylovedtotravel，anddesignedaltogetherforalargercanvasthanthetalesthatIaffected.
GivemeahighwaymanandIwasfulltothebrim;aJacobitewoulddo，butthehighwaymanwasmyfavouritedish.Icanstillhearthatmerryclatterofthehoofsalongthemoonlitlane;nightandthecomingofdayarestillrelatedinmymindwiththedoingsofJohnRannorJerryAbershaw;andthewords\"post—chaise，\"the\"greatNorthroad，\"\"ostler，\"and\"nag\"stillsoundinmyearslikepoetry.Oneandall，atleast，andeachwithhisparticularfancy，wereadstory—booksinchildhood，notforeloquenceorcharacterorthought，butforsomequalityofthebruteincident.Thatqualitywasnotmerebloodshedorwonder.Althougheachofthesewaswelcomeinitsplace，thecharmforthesakeofwhichwereaddependedonsomethingdifferentfromeither.Myeldersusedtoreadnovelsaloud;andIcanstillrememberfourdifferentpassageswhichIheard，beforeIwasten，withthesamekeenandlastingpleasure.OneIdiscoveredlongafterwardstobetheadmirableopeningofWHATWILLHEDOWITHIT：itwasnowonderIwaspleasedwiththat.Theotherthreestillremainunidentified.Oneisalittlevague;itwasaboutadark，tallhouseatnight，andpeoplegropingonthestairsbythelightthatescapedfromtheopendoorofasickroom.Inanother，aloverleftaball，andwentwalkinginacool，dewypark，whencehecouldwatchthelightedwindowsandthefiguresofthedancersastheymoved.ThiswasthemostsentimentalimpressionIthinkIhadyetreceived，forachildissomewhatdeaftothesentimental.Inthelast，apoet，whohadbeentragicallywranglingwithhiswife，walkedforthonthesea—
beachonatempestuousnightandwitnessedthehorrorsofawreck.
（8）Differentastheyare，alltheseearlyfavouriteshaveacommonnote—theyhaveallatouchoftheromantic.
Dramaisthepoetryofconduct，romancethepoetryofcircumstance.
Thepleasurethatwetakeinlifeisoftwosorts—theactiveandthepassive.Nowweareconsciousofagreatcommandoverourdestiny;anonweareliftedupbycircumstance，asbyabreakingwave，anddashedweknownothowintothefuture.Nowwearepleasedbyourconduct，anonmerelypleasedbyoursurroundings.
Itwouldbehardtosaywhichofthesemodesofsatisfactionisthemoreeffective，butthelatterissurelythemoreconstant.
Conductisthreepartsoflife，theysay;butIthinktheyputithigh.Thereisavastdealinlifeandlettersbothwhichisnotimmoral，butsimplya—moral;whicheitherdoesnotregardthehumanwillatall，ordealswithitinobviousandhealthyrelations;
wheretheinterestturns，notuponwhatamanshallchoosetodo，butonhowhemanagestodoit;notonthepassionateslipsandhesitationsoftheconscience，butontheproblemsofthebodyandofthepracticalintelligence，inclean，open—airadventure，theshockofarmsorthediplomacyoflife.Withsuchmaterialasthisitisimpossibletobuildaplay，fortheserioustheatreexistssolelyonmoralgrounds，andisastandingproofofthedisseminationofthehumanconscience.Butitispossibletobuild，uponthisground，themostjoyousofverses，andthemostlively，beautiful，andbuoyanttales.
Onethinginlifecallsforanother;thereisafitnessineventsandplaces.Thesightofapleasantarbourputsitinourmindtositthere.Oneplacesuggestswork，anotheridleness，athirdearlyrisingandlongramblesinthedew.Theeffectofnight，ofanyflowingwater，oflightedcities，ofthepeepofday，ofships，oftheopenocean，callsupinthemindanarmyofanonymousdesiresandpleasures.Something，wefeel，shouldhappen;weknownotwhat，yetweproceedinquestofit.Andmanyofthehappiesthoursoflifefleetbyusinthisvainattendanceonthegeniusoftheplaceandmoment.Itisthusthattractsofyoungfir，andlowrocksthatreachintodeepsoundings，particularlytortureanddelightme.Somethingmusthavehappenedinsuchplaces，andperhapsagesback，tomembersofmyrace;andwhenIwasachildI
triedinvaintoinventappropriategamesforthem，asIstilltry，justasvainly，tofitthemwiththeproperstory.Someplacesspeakdistinctly.Certaindankgardenscryaloudforamurder;
certainoldhousesdemandtobehaunted;certaincoastsaresetapartforshipwreck.Otherspotsagainseemtoabidetheirdestiny，suggestiveandimpenetrable，\"michingmallecho.\"TheinnatBurfordBridge，withitsarboursandgreengardenandsilent，eddyingriver—thoughitisknownalreadyastheplacewhereKeatswrotesomeofhisENDYMIONandNelsonpartedfromhisEmma—stillseemstowaitthecomingoftheappropriatelegend.Withintheseiviedwalls，behindtheseoldgreenshutters，somefurtherbusinesssmoulders，waitingforitshour.TheoldHawesInnattheQueen’sFerrymakesasimilarcalluponmyfancy.Thereitstands，apartfromthetown，besidethepier，inaclimateofitsown，halfinland，halfmarine—infronttheferrybubblingwiththetideandtheguardshipswingingtoheranchor;behind，theoldgardenwiththetrees.AmericansseekitalreadyforthesakeofLovelandOldbuck，whodinedthereatthebeginningoftheANTIQUARY.Butyouneednottellme—thatisnotall;thereissomestory，unrecordedornotyetcomplete，whichmustexpressthemeaningofthatinnmorefully.Soitiswithnamesandfaces;soitiswithincidentsthatareidleandinconclusiveinthemselves，andyetseemlikethebeginningofsomequaintromance，whichtheall—carelessauthorleavesuntold.Howmanyoftheseromanceshavewenotseendetermineattheirbirth;
howmanypeoplehavemetuswithalookofmeaningintheireye，andsunkatonceintotrivialacquaintances;tohowmanyplaceshavewenotdrawnnear，withexpressintimations—\"heremydestinyawaitsme\"—andwehavebutdinedthereandpassedon！IhavelivedbothattheHawesandBurfordinaperpetualflutter，ontheheels，asitseemed，ofsomeadventurethatshouldjustifytheplace;butthoughthefeelinghadmetobedatnightandcalledmeagainatmorninginoneunbrokenroundofpleasureandsuspense，nothingbefellmeineitherworthremark.Themanorthehourhadnotyetcome;butsomeday，Ithink，aboatshallputofffromtheQueen’sFerry，fraughtwithadearcargo，andsomefrostynightahorseman，onatragicerrand，rattlewithhiswhipuponthegreenshuttersoftheinnatBurford.（9）
Now，thisisoneofthenaturalappetiteswithwhichanylivelyliteraturehastocount.Thedesireforknowledge，Ihadalmostaddedthedesireformeat，isnotmoredeeplyseatedthanthisdemandforfitandstrikingincident.Thedullestofclownstells，ortriestotell，himselfastory，asthefeeblestofchildrenusesinventioninhisplay;andevenastheimaginativegrownperson，joininginthegame，atonceenrichesitwithmanydelightfulcircumstances，thegreatcreativewritershowsustherealisationandtheapotheosisoftheday—dreamsofcommonmen.Hisstoriesmaybenourishedwiththerealitiesoflife，buttheirtruemarkistosatisfythenamelesslongingsofthereader，andtoobeytheideallawsoftheday—dream.Therightkindofthingshouldfalloutintherightkindofplace;therightkindofthingshouldfollow;andnotonlythecharacterstalkaptlyandthinknaturally，butallthecircumstancesinataleansweronetoanotherlikenotesinmusic.Thethreadsofastorycomefromtimetotimetogetherandmakeapictureintheweb;thecharactersfallfromtimetotimeintosomeattitudetoeachotherortonature，whichstampsthestoryhomelikeanillustration.Crusoerecoilingfromthefootprint，AchillesshoutingoveragainsttheTrojans，Ulyssesbendingthegreatbow，Christianrunningwithhisfingersinhisears，theseareeachculminatingmomentsinthelegend，andeachhasbeenprintedonthemind’seyeforever.Otherthingswemayforget;wemayforgetthewords，althoughtheyarebeautiful;wemayforgettheauthor’scomment，althoughperhapsitwasingeniousandtrue;buttheseepoch—makingscenes，whichputthelastmarkoftruthuponastoryandfillup，atoneblow，ourcapacityforsympatheticpleasure，wesoadoptintotheverybosomofourmindthatneithertimenortidecaneffaceorweakentheimpression.
This，then，istheplasticpartofliterature：toembodycharacter，thought，oremotioninsomeactorattitudethatshallberemarkablystrikingtothemind’seye.Thisisthehighestandhardestthingtodoinwords;thethingwhich，onceaccomplished，equallydelightstheschoolboyandthesage，andmakes，initsownright，thequalityofepics.Comparedwiththis，allotherpurposesinliterature，exceptthepurelylyricalorthepurelyphilosophic，arebastardinnature，facileofexecution，andfeebleinresult.ItisonethingtowriteabouttheinnatBurford，ortodescribescenerywiththeword—painters;itisquiteanothertoseizeontheheartofthesuggestionandmakeacountryfamouswithalegend.Itisonethingtoremarkandtodissect，withthemostcuttinglogic，thecomplicationsoflife，andofthehumanspirit;
itisquiteanothertogivethembodyandbloodinthestoryofAjaxorofHamlet.Thefirstisliterature，butthesecondissomethingbesides，foritislikewiseart.
Englishpeopleofthepresentday（10）areapt，Iknownotwhy，tolooksomewhatdownonincident，andreservetheiradmirationfortheclinkofteaspoonsandtheaccentsofthecurate.Itisthoughtclevertowriteanovelwithnostoryatall，oratleastwithaverydullone.Reducedeventothelowestterms，acertaininterestcanbecommunicatedbytheartofnarrative;asenseofhumankinshipstirred;andakindofmonotonousfitness，comparabletothewordsandairofSANDY’SMULL，preservedamongtheinfinitesimaloccurrencesrecorded.Somepeoplework，inthismanner，withevenastrongtouch.Mr.Trollope’sinimitableclergymennaturallyarisetothemindinthisconnection.ButevenMr.Trollopedoesnotconfinehimselftochroniclingsmallbeer.
Mr.Crawley’scollisionwiththeBishop’swife，Mr.Melnottedallyinginthedesertedbanquet—room，aretypicalincidents，epicallyconceived，fitlyembodyingacrisis.OragainlookatThackeray.IfRawdonCrawley’sblowwerenotdelivered，VANITY
FAIRwouldceasetobeaworkofart.Thatsceneisthechiefganglionofthetale;andthedischargeofenergyfromRawdon’sfististherewardandconsolationofthereader.TheendofESMONDisayetwiderexcursionfromtheauthor’scustomaryfields;
thesceneatCastlewoodispureDumas;thegreatandwilyEnglishborrowerhashereborrowedfromthegreat，unblushingFrenchthief;
asusual，hehasborrowedadmirablywell，andthebreakingoftheswordroundsoffthebestofallhisbookswithamanly，martialnote.ButperhapsnothingcanmorestronglyillustratethenecessityformarkingincidentthantocomparethelivingfameofROBINSONCRUSOEwiththediscreditofCLARISSAHARLOWE.CLARISSA
isabookofafarmorestartlingimport，workedout，onagreatcanvas，withinimitablecourageandunflaggingart.Itcontainswit，character，passion，plot，conversationsfullofspiritandinsight，letterssparklingwithunstrainedhumanity;andifthedeathoftheheroinebesomewhatfrigidandartificial，thelastdaysoftheherostriketheonlynoteofwhatwenowcallByronism，betweentheElizabethansandByronhimself.Andyetalittlestoryofashipwreckedsailor，withnotatenthpartofthestylenorathousandthpartofthewisdom，exploringnoneofthearcanaofhumanityanddeprivedoftheperennialinterestoflove，goesonfromeditiontoedition，everyoung，whileCLARISSAliesupontheshelvesunread.Afriendofmine，aWelshblacksmith，wastwenty—
fiveyearsoldandcouldneitherreadnorwrite，whenheheardachapterofROBINSONreadaloudinafarmkitchen.Uptothatmomenthehadsatcontent，huddledinhisignorance，butheleftthatfarmanotherman.Therewereday—dreams，itappeared，divineday—dreams，writtenandprintedandbound，andtobeboughtformoneyandenjoyedatpleasure.Downhesatthatday，painfullylearnedtoreadWelsh，andreturnedtoborrowthebook.Ithadbeenlost，norcouldhefindanothercopybutonethatwasinEnglish.Downhesatoncemore，learnedEnglish，andatlength，andwithentiredelight，readROBINSON.Itislikethestoryofalove—chase.IfhehadheardaletterfromCLARISSA，wouldhehavebeenfiredwiththesamechivalrousardour？Iwonder.YetCLARISSAhaseveryqualitythatcanbeshowninprose，onealoneexcepted—pictorialorpicture—makingromance.WhileROBINSON
depends，forthemostpartandwiththeoverwhelmingmajorityofitsreaders，onthecharmofcircumstance.
Inthehighestachievementsoftheartofwords，thedramaticandthepictorial，themoralandromanticinterest，riseandfalltogetherbyacommonandorganiclaw.Situationisanimatedwithpassion，passionclotheduponwithsituation.Neitherexistsforitself，buteachinheresindissolublywiththeother.Thisishighart;andnotonlythehighestartpossibleinwords，butthehighestartofall，sinceitcombinesthegreatestmassanddiversityoftheelementsoftruthandpleasure.Suchareepics，andthefewprosetalesthathavetheepicweight.Butasfromaschoolofworks，apingthecreative，incidentandromanceareruthlesslydiscarded，somaycharacteranddramabeomittedorsubordinatedtoromance.Thereisonebook，forexample，moregenerallylovedthanShakespeare，thatcaptivatesinchildhood，andstilldelightsinage—ImeantheARABIANNIGHTS—whereyoushalllookinvainformoralorforintellectualinterest.Nohumanfaceorvoicegreetsusamongthatwoodencrowdofkingsandgenies，sorcerersandbeggarmen.Adventure，onthemostnakedterms，furnishesforththeentertainmentandisfoundenough.DumasapproachesperhapsnearestofanymoderntotheseArabianauthorsinthepurelymaterialcharmofsomeofhisromances.TheearlypartofMONTECRISTO，downtothefindingofthetreasure，isapieceofperfectstory—telling;themanneverbreathedwhosharedthesemovingincidentswithoutatremor;andyetFariaisathingofpackthreadandDanteslittlemorethananame.Thesequelisonelong—drawnerror，gloomy，bloody，unnaturalanddull;butasfortheseearlychapters，Idonotbelievethereisanothervolumeextantwhereyoucanbreathethesameunmingledatmosphereofromance.Itisverythinandlighttobesure，asonahighmountain;butitisbriskandclearandsunnyinproportion.Isawtheotherday，withenvy，anoldandaverycleverladysettingforthonasecondorthirdvoyageintoMONTECRISTO.Herearestorieswhichpowerfullyaffectthereader，whichcanhereperusedatanyage，andwherethecharactersarenomorethanpuppets.Thebonyfistoftheshowmanvisiblypropelsthem;theirspringsareanopensecret;theirfacesareofwood，theirbelliesfilledwithbran;andyetwethrillinglypartakeoftheiradventures.Andthepointmaybeillustratedstillfurther.ThelastinterviewbetweenLucyandRichardFeverilispuredrama;morethanthat，itisthestrongestscene，sinceShakespeare，intheEnglishtongue.Theirfirstmeetingbytheriver，ontheotherhand，ispureromance;ithasnothingtodowithcharacter;itmighthappentoanyotherboyormaiden，andbenonethelessdelightfulforthechange.AndyetIthinkhewouldbeaboldmanwhoshouldchoosebetweenthesepassages.Thus，inthesamebook，wemayhavetwoscenes，eachcapitalinitsorder：intheone，humanpassion，deepcallinguntodeep，shallutteritsgenuinevoice;inthesecond，accordingcircumstances，likeinstrumentsintune，shallbuildupatrivialbutdesirableincident，suchaswelovetoprefigureforourselves;
andintheend，inspiteofthecritics，wemayhesitatetogivethepreferencetoeither.Theonemayaskmoregenius—Idonotsayitdoes;butatleasttheotherdwellsasclearlyinthememory.