rought it about matters, in the view of the present historian, not
a _centime_. By "Dumas" is here and elsewhere--throughout this chapter
and throughout this book--meant Dumasity, which is something by itself,
and different from all other "-nesses and -tudes and -ties."

[Sidenote: The positive value as fiction and as literature of the books:
the less worthy works.]

We can therefore, if we choose, betake ourselves with a joyful and quiet
mind to the real things--the actual characteristics of that Dumasity,
Diabolicity, or _Dieu-sait-quoi_, which distinguishes (in measures and
degrees varying, perhaps essentially, certainly according to the
differing castes of readers) the great Mousquetaire trilogy; the hardly
less great collection of _La Reine Margot_ and its continuations; the
long eighteenth-century set which, in a general way, may be said to be
two-centred, having now Richelieu (the Duke, not the Cardinal) and now
Cagliostro for pivot; and _Monte Cristo_--with power to add to their
number. In what will be said, attention will chiefly be paid to the
books just mentioned, and perhaps a few more, such as _La_ _Tulipe
Noire_; nor is even this list so closed that anybody may not consider
any special favourites of his own admissible as subjects for the almost
wholly unmitigated appreciation which will follow. I do not think that
Dumas was ever at his best before the late sixteenth century or after
the not quite latest eighteenth. _Isabel de Baviere_ and the _Batard de
Mauleon_, with others, are indeed more readable than most minor
historical novels; but their wheels drive somewhat heavily. As for the
revolutionary set, after the _Cagliostro_ interest is disposed of, some
people, I believe, rate _Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge_ higher than I do.
It is certainly better than _Les Blancs et les Bleus_ or _Les Louves de
Machecoul_, in the latter of which Dumas has calmly "lifted" (or allowed
a lazy "young man" to lift) the whole adventure of Rob Roy at the Fords
of Frew, pretty nearly if not quite _verbatim_.[315] Of more avowed
translations such as _Ivanhoe_ and _Jacques Ortis_ (the latter about as
much out of his way as anything could be), it were obviously superfluous
to take detailed notice. In others the very titles, such as, for
instance, _Les Mohicans de Paris_, show at once that he is merely
imitating popular styles. Yet others, such as _Madame de Chamblay_[316]
(in which I cannot help thinking that the "young man" was