of his old friend, which has been excellently paraphrased and elaborated by Mr Lang.
"A writer so fertile, so rapid, so masterly in the ease with which he worked, could not escape the reproaches of barren envy. Because you overflowed with wit, you could not be 'serious'; because you created with a word, you were said to scamp your work; because you were never dull, never pedantic, incapable of greed, you were to be censured as desultory, inaccurate, and prodigal."
Having assured themselves that Dumas wrote rapidly and therefore badly, the critics proceeded quite confidently to dower that author with another literary vice.
In theology there is a sin so terrible as to be unmentionable; in literature there is a sin so awful as to be indefinable. Therefore, it was decided, in order to dispose once and for all of the French romancer's claims on the tender-hearted public, that he should be declared to have no "style." There is only one thing certain about this mysterious quality—that those who do not possess it cannot belong to the elect.
Far be it from us to dare to attempt to indicate the nature and habits of this mythical creation: we can only attempt to win a place for Dumas among the "stylists" (for we must "conform" to this creed in the literary religion) by putting forward the
