n for a man not to know all the literature of his
specialty; while, as for general reading, when the "Publisher's
Circular" tells us that the different books that mankind have made are
numbered by millions, we sit down in a most comfortable despair, and
pick to our liking.

Thanks to modern fecundity, critics rarely molest authors with demands
for the _raison d'etre_ of a new book. The reviewer's question used to
be, "Why did the man publish? What need was there? What is he trying to
show?" One pontiff is said to have suggested burning up all the
different books in the world, except six thousand, so that the rest
might be read. There used to be pleas for condensations, as if people
were still fondly hoping to compass the realm of literature and science,
the blessed era of hopelessness having not yet dawned. But it is idle to
plead against diffuseness now, when writers are paid by the page or
line. "I want," said the editor of "La Situation" to Dumas, "a story
from you, entitled 'Terreur Prussienne a Francfort'--60 _feuilletons_ of
400 lines each; total, 84,000 lines." "And if it makes only 58?"
responded Dumas. "I require 60, of 400 lines each, averaging 31 letters
each line--744,000 letters." At noon of the day agreed upon, the
manuscript was in the hands of M. Hollander. If Sir Critic ever came
with foot-rule and condensing-pump to gravely detect diffusiveness in
the "Terreur Prussienne," it must have diverted the high contracting
parties.

It is said that a dialogue of Dumas the elder created a revolution in
the French mode of paying romance literature. Dumas, who was reckoned by
the line, one day introduced, they say, into his _feuilleton_ this
thrilling passage:

My son!
My mother!
Listen!
Speak!
Seest thou?
What?
This poniard!
It is stained--
With blood!
Whose?
Thy father's.
Ah!!!

After that Dumas was paid by the letter. To say sooth, the same
incident, with a different catastrophe, is related of Ponson Du Terrail,
who, one day, in his "Resurrection de Rocambole," filled about a column
with dialogue of this character:

Who?
I.
You?
Yes.
He shuddered.

Accordingly, as the story goes, the author being summoned before the
editor of the "Petit Journal," was notified that if this monosyllabic
chat went on, he would be paid by the word. "Very well," replied the
obliging novelist, "I will change my style;" and next day, M. Millaud
w