d stereotyped commonplace, an almost equally
absolute necessity, to begin any notice of the Abbe Prevost by remarking
that nothing of his voluminous work is now, or has been for a long time,
read, except _Manon Lescaut_. It may be added, though one is here
repeating predecessors to not quite the same extent, that nothing else
of his, in fiction at least, is worth reading. The faithful few who do
not dislike old criticism may indeed turn over his _Le Pour et [le]
Contre_ not without reward. But his historical and other
compilations[339]--his total production in volumes is said to run over
the hundred, and the standard edition of his _Oeuvres Choisies_
extends to thirty-nine not small ones--are admittedly worthless. As to
his minor novels--if one may use that term, albeit they are as major in
bulk as they are minor in merit--opinions of importance, and presumably
founded on actual knowledge, have differed somewhat strangely.
Sainte-Beuve made something of a fight for them, but it was the
Sainte-Beuve of almost the earliest years (1831), when, according to a
weakness of beginners in criticism, he was a little inclined "to be
different," for the sake of difference. Against _Cleveland_ even he
lifts up his heel, though in a rather unfortunate manner, declaring the
reading of the greater part to be "aussi fade que celle d'_Amadis_." Now
to some of us the reading of _Amadis_ is not "fade" at all. But he finds
some philosophical and psychological passages of merit. Over the
_Memoires d'un Homme de Qualite_--that huge and unwieldy galleon to
which the frail shallop of _Manon_ was originally attached, and which
has long been stranded on the reefs of oblivion, while its fly-boat
sails for ever more--he is quite enthusiastic, finds it, though with a
certain relativity, "natural," "frank," and "well-preserved," gives it a
long analysis, actually discovers in it "an inexpressible savour"
surpassing modern "local colour," and thinks the handling of it
comparable in some respects to that of _The Vicar of Wakefield_! The
_Doyen de Killerine_--the third of Prevost's long books--is "infinitely
agreeable," "si l'on y met un peu de complaisance." (The Sainte-Beuve of
later years would have noticed that an infinity which has to be made
infinite by a little complaisance is curiously finite). The later and
shorter _Histoire d'une Grecque moderne_ is a _joli roman_, and
_gracieux_, though it is not so charming and subtle as Crebillon _fils_
woul