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seem； I have long been faithful； and hope to be faithful to the day
of death。 I have never read the whole of Montaigne； but I do not
like to be long without reading some of him； and my delight in what
I do read never lessens。 Of Shakespeare I have read all but
RICHARD III； HENRY VI。； TITUS ANDRONICAS； and ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS
WELL； and these； having already made all suitable endeavour； I now
know that I shall never read … to make up for which unfaithfulness
I could read much of the rest for ever。 Of Moliere … surely the
next greatest name of Christendom … I could tell a very similar
story； but in a little corner of a little essay these princes are
too much out of place； and I prefer to pay my fealty and pass on。
How often I have read GUY MANNERING； ROB ROY； OR REDGAUNTLET； I
have no means of guessing； having begun young。 But it is either
four or five times that I have read THE EGOIST； and either five or
six that I have read the VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE。
Some； who would accept the others； may wonder that I should have
spent so much of this brief life of ours over a work so little
famous as the last。 And； indeed； I am surprised myself； not at my
own devotion； but the coldness of the world。 My acquaintance with
the VICOMTE began； somewhat indirectly； in the year of grace 1863；
when I had the advantage of studying certain illustrated dessert
plates in a hotel at Nice。 The name of d'Artagnan in the legends I
already saluted like an old friend； for I had met it the year
before in a work of Miss Yonge's。 My first perusal was in one of
those pirated editions that swarmed at that time out of Brussels；
and ran to such a troop of neat and dwarfish volumes。 I understood
but little of the merits of the book； my strongest memory is of the
execution of d'Eymeric and Lyodot … a strange testimony to the
dulness of a boy； who could enjoy the rough…and…tumble in the Place
de Greve； and forget d'Artagnan's visits to the two financiers。 My
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 seven