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next reading was in winter…time； when I lived alone upon the
Pentlands。 I would return in the early night from one of my
patrols with the shepherd； a friendly face would meet me in the
door； a friendly retriever scurry upstairs to fetch my slippers；
and I would sit down with the VICOMTE for a long； silent； solitary
lamp…light evening by the fire。 And yet I know not why I call it
silent； when it was enlivened with such a clatter of horse…shoes；
and such a rattle of musketry； and such a stir of talk； or why I
call those evenings solitary in which I gained so many friends。 I
would rise from my book and pull the blind aside； and see the snow
and the glittering hollies chequer a Scotch garden； and the winter
moonlight brighten the white hills。 Thence I would turn again to
that crowded and sunny field of life in which it was so easy to
forget myself； my cares； and my surroundings： a place busy as a
city； bright as a theatre； thronged with memorable faces； and
sounding with delightful speech。 I carried the thread of that epic
into my slumbers； I woke with it unbroken； I rejoiced to plunge
into the book again at breakfast； it was with a pang that I must
lay it down and turn to my own labours； for no part of the world
has ever seemed to me so charming as these pages； and not even my
friends are quite so real； perhaps quite so dear； as d'Artagnan。
Since then I have been going to and fro at very brief intervals in
my favourite book； and I have now just risen from my last （let me
call it my fifth） perusal； having liked it better and admired it
more seriously than ever。 Perhaps I have a sense of ownership；
being so well known in these six volumes。 Perhaps I think that
d'Artagnan delights to have me read of him； and Louis Quatorze is
gratified； and Fouquet throws me a look； and Aramis； although he
knows I do not love him； yet plays to me with his best graces； as
to an old patron of the show。 Perhaps； if I am not careful；
something may befall me like what befell George IV。 about the
battle of Waterloo； and I may come to fancy the VICOMTE one of the
first； and Heaven knows the best； of my own works。 At least； I
avow myself a partisan； and when I compare the popularity of the
VICOMTE with that of MONTRO CRISTO； or its own elder brother； the
TROIS MOUSQUETAIRES； I confess I am both pained and puzzled。
To those who have already made acquaintance with the titular hero
in the pages of VINGT ANS APRES； perhaps the name may act as a
deterrent。 A man might； well stand back if he supposed he were to
follow； for six volumes； so well…conducted； so fine…spoken； and
withal so dreary a cavalier as Bragelonne。 But the fear is idle。
I may be said to have passed the best years of my life in these six
volumes； and my acquaintance with Raoul has never gone beyond a
bow； and when he； who has so long pretended to be alive； is at last
suffered to pretend to be dead； I am sometimes reminded of a saying
in an earlier volume： 〃ENFIN； DIT MISS STEWART；〃 … and it was of
Bragelonne she spoke … 〃ENFIN IL A FAIL QUELQUECHOSE： C'EST； MA
FOI！ BIEN HEUREUX。〃 I am reminded of it； as I say； and the next
moment； when Athos dies of his death； and my dear d'Artagnan bursts
into his storm of sobbing； I can but deplore my flippancy。
Or perhaps it is La Valliere that the reader of VINGT ANS APRES is
inclined to flee。 Well； he is right there too； though not so
right。 Louise is no success。 Her creator has spared no pains； she
is well…meant； not ill…designed； sometimes has a word that rings
out true； sometimes； if only for a breath； she may even engage our
sympathies。 But I have never envied the King his triumph。 And so
far from pitying Bragelonne for his defeat； I could wish him no
worse （not for lack of malice； but imagination） than to be wedded
to that lady。 Madame enchants me； I can forgive that royal minx
her most serious offences； I can thrill and soften with the King on
that memorable occasion when he goes to upbraid and remains to
flirt； and when it comes to the 〃ALLONS； AIMEZ…MOI DONC；〃 it is my
heart that melts in the bosom of de Guiche。 Not so with Louise。
Readers cannot fail to have remarked that what an author tells us
of the beauty or the charm of his creatures goes for nought； that
we know instantly better； that the heroine cannot open her mouth
but what； all in a moment； the fine phrases of preparation fall
from round her like the robes from Cinderella； and she stands
before us； self…betrayed； as a poor； ugly； sickly wench； or perhaps
a strapping market…woman。 Authors； at least； know it well； a
heroine will too often start the trick of 〃getting ugly；〃 and no
disease is more difficult to cure。 I said authors； but indeed I
had a side eye to one author in particular； with whose works I am
very well acquainted； though I cannot read them； and who has spent
many vigils in this cause； sitting beside his ailing puppets and
（like a magician） wearying his art to restore them to youth and
beauty。 There are others who ride too high for these misfortunes。
Who doubts the loveliness of Rosalind？ Arden itself was not more
lovely。 Who ever questioned the perennial charm of Rose Jocelyn；
Lucy Desborough； or Clara Middleton？ fair women with fair names；
the daughters of George Meredith。 Elizabeth Bennet has but to
speak； and I am at her knees。 Ah！ these are the creators of
desirable women。 They would never have fallen in the mud with
Dumas and poor La Valliere。 It is my only consolation that not one
of all of them； except the first； could have plucked at the
moustache of d'Artagnan。
Or perhaps； again； a proportion of readers stumble at the
threshold。 In so vast a mansion there were sure to be back stairs
and kitchen offices where no one would delight to linger； but it
was at least unhappy that the vestibule should be so badly lighted；
and until； in the seventeenth chapter； d'Artagnan sets off to seek
his friends； I must confess； the book goes heavily enough。 But；
from thenceforward； what a feast is spread！ Monk kidnapped；
d'Artagnan enriched； Mazarin's death； the ever delectable adventure
of Belle Isle； wherein Aramis outwits d'Artagnan； with its epilogue
（vol。 v。 chap。 xxviii。）； where d'Artagnan regains the moral
superiority； the love adventures at Fontainebleau； with St。
Aignan's story of the dryad and the business of de Guiche； de
Wardes； and Manicamp； Aramis made general of the Jesuits； Aramis at
the bastille； the night talk in the forest of Senart； Belle Isle
again； with the death of Porthos； and last； but not least； the
taming of d'Artagnan the untamable； under the lash of the young
King。 What other novel has such epic variety and nobility of
incident？ often； if you will； impossible； often of the order of an
Arabian story； and yet all based in human nature。 For if you come
to that； what novel has more human nature？ not studied with the
microscope； but seen largely； in plain daylight； with the natural
eye？ What novel has more good sense； and gaiety； and wit； and
unflagging； admirable literary skill？ Good souls； I suppose； must
sometimes read it in the blackguard travesty of a translation。 But
there is no style so untranslatable； light as a whipped trifle；
strong as silk； wordy like a village tale； pat like a general's
despatch； with every fault； yet never tedious； with no merit； yet
inimitably right。 And； once more； to make an end of commendations；
what novel is inspired with a more unstained or a more wholesome
morality？
Yes； in spite of Miss Yonge； who introduced me to the name of
d'Artagnan only to dissuade me from a nearer knowledge of the man；
I have to add morality。 There is no quite good book without a good
morality； but the world is wide； and so are morals。 Out of two
people who have dipped into Sir Richard Burton's THOUSAND AND ONE
NIGHTS； one shall have been offended by the animal details； another
to whom these were harmless； perhaps even pleasing； shall yet have
been shocked in his turn by the rascality and cruelty of all the
characters。 Of two readers； again； one shall have been pained by
the morality of a religious memoir； one by that of the VICOMTE DE
BRAGELONNE。 And the point is that neither need be wrong。 We shall
always shock each other both in life and art； we cannot get the sun
into our pictures； nor the abstract right （if there be such a
thing） into our books； enough if； in the one； there glimmer some
hint of the great light that blinds us from heaven； enough if； in
the other； there shine； even upon foul details； a spirit of
magnanimity。 I would scarce send to the VICOMTE a reader who was
in quest of what we may call puritan morality。 The ventripotent
mulatto； the great cater； worker； earner and waster； the man of
much and witty laughter； the man of the great heart and alas！ of
th