doubtless sincere, this affection tends to the destruction of the angel, because the demon must necessarily endeavor to drag that heavenly being down into his own eternal darkness. Here a Balzac devotee at once recalls an almost identical paragraph in "Vautrin's Last Incarnation," with an allusion to Maturin's treatment of the matter. We have here an unusually telling illustration of the way in which one and the same group of characters, or one and the same situation, once it has been thrown into the literary market, keeps haunting the minds of contemporary writers, however much these may differ in degree and kind of talent. Spindler was a pigmy by the side of Balzac, yet there was at any rate, during the earlier period of his career, a yearning in him for something beyond mere sensationalism. Unfortunately this hankering was not strong enough to prompt him to serious efforts for the overcoming of his many defects of taste and education. Hence it did him more harm than good, for to it was mainly due the mongrel character of his novels, which are neither frank stories of adventure nor studies of character and manners pure and simple, but an impotent mess of many heterogeneous ingredients. His lack of constructive skill was also detrimental. The beginnings of his novels are invariably their best parts; "The Jew" has an excellent one, and the first chapters of "Boa Constrictor" are far from uninteresting. But compare them with the prologue of "MonteChristo," and you will have a revelation of what constitutes true genius for story-telling for the masses. Not that Dumas did not realize the effect on his public of a little scientific and philosophical charlatanry, judiciously displayed-none ever understood that trick better than he. But he never allowed it to obscure his purely sensational effects. Never, at least, when the work to which he lent his name was really done by himself. In "Monte-Christo" it looks as if such was the case only up to the time of the hero's escape from prison. After that the story soon becomes nothing but a heavy mass of rubbish which it takes all the strength of the prologue to float. Although Edmond Dantes won hosts of admirers, Dumas appears to have felt a desire to create something more human.

He did so in "The Three Musketeers," a novel which already has acquired a more solid hold on mankind's affection than "Monte-Christo," and in all probability will outlive it. In "Monte-Christo" a thin veneer conceals very poorly the physical and moral impossibility of the entire story; in "The Three Musketeers" the foundation is more substantial. In order to satisfy the widespread craving for baffling adventure, without having to call on the very devil or some cousin of his for assistance, the author split the hero into four individuals, each of whom is a giant of sagacity or physical strength, or both at once, and each one furthermore provided with a faithful valet who is sort of popular double or goodnatured caricature of his master. This miniature army Dumas marshals with such consummate skill that to this day vast numbers of readers surrender after an attack or two. It need not be remarked that the intellectual aspirations of the Vatheks and Fausts are here entirely eliminated, the sole aim of the musketeers being to get as full and satisfactory play for their animal spirits as possible. Their success is undeniable, but it is equally true that it is gained largely through an absolute disregard of what is somewhat vaguely called scruples. They sponge on their mistresses, compelling them to rob their husbands if their own purse be empty, and, generally speaking, form a gang of swashbucklers and roysterers that every mother would warn her son against joining. At the outset of his Parisian life, d'Artagnan plays Milady a vile trick which Eugène de Rastignac even at his lowest would never dream of imitating.

Aside from this, d'Artagnan and his fellows reveal in reality more kinship with Balzac's pushing men than with Scott's prim youths, only where Balzac judges and condemns Dumas admires and applauds. Dumas is here and there thoughtlessly spoken of as a French Scott, but the resemblance is scarcely even superficial. Scott's historical insight is not amazing, but by the side of Dumas he appears an inspired seer. What Dumas is after in remote ages is solely opportunities for his heroes to fight and drink, to court princesses or the wives of commoners. His idea of the only

proper solution of the most momentous historical conflicts is of crystalline simplicity. There is always, according to him, one man, a Lord Protector or a Cardinal Prime Minister, on whom the fate of the world depends; you get possession of that individual, put him in a trunk or a sedan chair and keep him there until he comes to terms, and the desired political change will be effected in a jiffy.

er.

But whatever one may think of Dumas as a leader of nations, there can be no doubt of his skill in managing a duel or any other affair of equally limited scope, where the bravery or shrewdness of one man is pitted against that of anothAnd no one ever drew good fellowship among men better. He is at home with soldiers in the tent, the tavern, and on the rampart. Whenever he attempts to step into other spheres he becomes painfully awkward and even affected. And he makes such attempts too frequently in the sequels to "The Musketeers," especially in "Ten Years After," with its long, mawkish La Vallière episodes. The musketeers themselves, however, grow old consistently and charmingly.

"The Musketeer" novels have met with more ups and downs than, perhaps, any other works of fiction. Never rated excessively high in the land where they were produced, they were eagerly read there and in most other countries by boys of all ages, from seventeen to seventy. But while English boys probably formed no exception to the rule, their guardians viewed the French daredevils with suspicion and disgust. When Dumas had been long in his grave, English encyclopedias and similar oracular publications still spoke of Dumas' fiction as a heap of rottenness. Then, mainly through the efforts of the late R. L. Stevenson, the tone began to change, and has kept changing ever since until at present it has reached the other extreme, where Dumas is extolled as the high priest of the loftiest and purest ideals.

The truth of the matter is that, such as the musketeers are, they live. And it cannot be too often repeated that in literature one scapegrace of flesh and blood is more valuable than seventeen rag dolls with the most ethereal ideals. Hence "The Three Musketeers" is a better book than "Daniel

Deronda" or the latest sociological novel, whatever its title may be.

After Dumas fixed the types of Monte-Christo and the musketeers, their descendants have ruled popular romance in a succession almost as unbroken as that of the Oldenburg dynasty in Denmark, where every other king is a Christian, every other a Frederick. The types have not in all cases preserved their original outlines intact; here and there they have become slightly blurred by borrowing features from each other. But it is safe to say that there is something of d'Artagnan or Edmond Dantes, or both, in the heroes of every eminently successful story of adventure of the last fifty years, whether its author be a Frenchman or a Hungarian, a Dane or a Pole, Englishman or American-Paul Féval or Maurus Jokai, Carit Etlar or Henryk Sienkiewicz, Ponson du Terrail, Anthony Hope, or Archibald Clavering Gunther. It will be observed that some of the names just enumerated lead us beyond the borders of literature proper. This is done purposely. It will not hurt us to ponder over the fact that while of late the chief novelists have neglected the superior man, the rank and file of the fiction makers have assiduously cultivated him. Is it not time for some great novelist again to bring him back from his exile as Goethe did a hundred years ago? Surely the nineteenth century has seen. great men enough, on both sides of the globe, to stimulate writers to create anew one or more of them.

For the sake of completeness it may be noted before concluding that a near relation to the superior man (or maybe it is himself in disguise) has enjoyed an extensive popularity for the last thirty or forty years. It is the "Great Detective.' He was discovered or invented by Balzac in Corentin, and provided with highly improved methods by Edgar Poe, from whom Paul Féval borrowed him to unravel the dark mysteries of "Jean the Devil." Or it may have been Féval's secretary who did the borrowing. It is certain that under his direction the detective subsequently performed deeds unparalleled before and after. That secretary was Emile Gaboriau, author of "File No. 113" and "M. Lecoq." JOAKIM Reinhard.

THE NEW EDITION OF TIMROD.1

THE appearance of the new edition of Timrod's poems last spring was hailed with delight by his admirers throughout the South, and was also warmly welcomed at the North. It well deserves much of the praise that has been bestowed upon it. The portrait of the poet which acts as a frontispiece seems to be decidedly the best picture of him extant; the price is moderate enough to place the book within the reach of lovers of poetry; there is a lengthy biographical and critical introduction; and the book is gotten up with all the typographical skill which is associated with the well-known firm that publishes it. In this last respect the edition is especially a thing of beauty." On the other hand, there are certain defects to be found in it that deserve to be noted along with its excellences. Besides, a new edition of Timrod is an event in the literary world, particularly at the South, and it therefore demands more than a mere passing notice.

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There have been published three separate editions of Timrod's poems. The first appeared in 1860 from the press of Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, who seem to have had at that day a monopoly of American poetry. It was a modest little volume, very neatly printed, only 130 pages, but these contain, with but few exceptions, Timrod's best work, much of which had appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger and Russell's Magazine during the ten years previous to 1860. In this volume were to be found such familiar lyrics as "Dreams," "The Problem," "The Arctic Voyager," "A Year's Courtship," "The Lily Confidante," and "To a Captive Owl"-in fact, nearly all his best poetry before the war, because "Two Portraits" and "Three Pictures,"2

1 Poems of Henry Timrod. Memorial Edition. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1899.

2 There is some doubt about this poem being Timrod's, though it is indexed as such in the various indexes of Harper's Magazine. It has never been included in any of the editions of the poet.