where you shall look in vain for
moral or for intellectual interest. No human face or voice greets us
among that wooden crowd of kings and genies, sorcerers and beggarmen.
Adventure, on the most naked terms, furnishes forth the entertainment
and is found enough. Dumas approaches perhaps nearest of any modern to
these Arabian authors in the purely material charm of some of his
romances. The early part of "Monte Cristo," down to the finding of the
treasure, is a piece of perfect story-telling; the man never breathed
who shared these moving incidents without a tremor; and yet Faria is a
thing of packthread and Dantes little more than a name. The sequel is
one long-drawn error, gloomy, bloody, unnatural, and dull; but as for
these early chapters, I do not believe there is another volume extant
where you can breathe the same unmingled atmosphere of romance. It is
very thin and light, to be sure, as on a high mountain; but it is brisk
and clear and sunny in proportion. I saw the other day, with envy, an
old and very clever lady setting forth on a second or third voyage into
"Monte Cristo." Here are stories which powerfully affect the reader,
which can be reperused at any age, and where the characters are no more
than puppets. The bony fist of the showman visibly propels them; their
springs are an open secret; their faces are of wood, their bellies
filled with bran; and yet we thrillingly partake of their adventures.
And the point may be illustrated still further. The last interview
between Lucy and Richard Feverel is pure drama; more than that, it is
the strongest scene, since Shakespeare, in the English tongue. Their
first meeting by the river, on the other hand, is pure romance; it has
nothing to do with character; it might happen to any other boy and
maiden, and be none the less delightful for the change. And yet I think
he would be a bold man who should choose between these passages. Thus,
in the same book, we may have two scenes, each capital in its order: in
the one, human passion, deep calling unto deep, shall utter its genuine
voice; in the second, according circumstances, like instruments in tune,
shall build up a trivial but desirable incident, such as we love to
prefigure for ourselves; and in the end, in spite of the critics, we may
hesitate to give the preference to either. The one may ask more
genius--I do not say it does; but at least the other dwells as clearly
in the memory.

True romantic art, again, makes a