The fundamental rule of dress we take to be the following--utility in

all cases, ornament when practicable. The first should ever precede,

and serve as the basis to the second; and it is the inversion of their

due positions that causes so many applications of the _utile_ and the

_dulce_ to end in sheer absurdity. The _usefulness_ of any article or

system of dress depends entirely upon climate, modified of course by

the occupation or pursuits of the wearer; the _beauty_ of it or the

suitableness of the ornament to the character of the vestment. We defy

all the editors of the _Recueils des Modes, Petits Courriers des

Dames, Belles Assemblees_, &c., with even the poet-laureates of Moses

and Son, Hyam and Co., with the whole host of Israelitish schneiders,

to find out a better aesthetic definition of the law of dress than

this. Who would have the effrontery to maintain that an Englishman,

the very type of the useful at Calcutta in his cotton jacket and

nankeens, would in the same habiliments be a suitably dressed man at

St Petersburg? and however much a well-set ring may ornament an

aristocratic finger, (though aristocratic fingers, like aristocratic

hands, as Byron observes, need no ornament to tell their origin,) who

but an Otaheitan would admire the application of them to the gouty

toes of some "fine old English gentleman?" Usefulness first, then, and

ornament afterwards; think first of what you actually want for your

health or comfort; cut your coat upon that pattern, clap on your lace

afterwards; but enrich it only to improve its appearance, not to

interfere with, to conceal, or to alter its original destination.

To begin, however, methodically, let us take what are commonly

understood by well-dressed English people of the present day, and let

us criticise them from top to toe. And first, then, of a gentleman's

head--_le chef_, as the French call it--and the _chapeau_, its present

gear. What a covering! what a termination to the capital of that

pillar of the creation, Man! what an ungraceful, mis-shapen, useless,

and uncomfortable appendage to the seat of reason--the brain-box!

Does it protect the head from either heat, cold, or wet? Does it set

off any of natural beauty of the human cranium? Are its lines in

harmony with, or in becoming contrast to, the expressive features of

the face? Is it comfortable, portable, durable, or cheap? What

qualities, either of use or ornament, has it in its favour that it

should be the crowning point of a well-dressed man's toilet? The hat

is, beyond all doubt, one of the strangest vestimental anomalies of

the nineteenth century.

The history of the hat is this:--The simplest covering for a man's

head after his own unshorn locks--(do not remind us of the matted and

_living_ locks of the Indians or Hottentots)--must have been something

like the Greek skull-cap. This we hold to have been the root, or

nucleus, of the hat; and yet even this cap had a fault in point of

utility, for it failed to shadow the eyes: and on the earliest Greek

monuments we find a cap with a wide brim appended, or a flattish

straw-hat following close upon the Phrygian bonnet. A light flattish

hat has its recommendation in a warm country, but it will not do for

the winds and storms of a northern clime; and hence all the old Gauls,

the northern nations, the Tartars, and the peasants of Europe, for

many a long century wore a modified cap--sometimes swelling out into

ornamental proportions, at others shrinking into the primitive

simplicity of the Phrygian or Greek cap. Shall we confess it,

fastidious reader?--we strongly suspect the cap worn by that idle

fellow Paris, when he so impudently ogled the goddesses on Mount Ida,

to have been very similar to the good old _bonnet de nuit_ of our

grandfathers--(shall we whisper it, of ourselves?) Yes, that little

cocked-up corner at the top looks like a budding tassel; he never had

such bad taste as to tie it with a riband round his brows; and we do

not read in Homer that Helen, though a capital workwoman, ever gave

him one; but we are inclined to believe that the old punty-dunty,

pudding-bag-shaped cap which is still worn by the French peasantry in

their field occupations, and is still patronized by a large portion of

Queen Victoria's loving subjects, is of the highest antiquity, and

based, we have no doubt, on utility. We must be candid enough to say,

that we give up the argument as to the intrinsic beauty of this

species of cap--truly we think it the very type of all that is

slovenly; but for use, there is not a more comfortable, portable,

pliable, buyable, and washable a commodity, than your--nightcap are we

to say? no--than your _bonnet Grec_.

Hats, properly so called, whether of cloth or fur, were evidently the

invention of some out-of-door people; but then they were not the

brimless pyramidal canisters of the present fashion, but were either

caps with dependent brims, or else broad and flexible Spanish

_sombreros_. The very idea of a hat is that of utility--something to

keep off the sun and the rain--any thing will do for warmth that will

aid the hair in keeping in the natural caloric of a man's head; and

hence we much doubt whether the Irish, that hot-headed nation, ever

wore hats in early times. From the want of shade being early felt by

civilized nations, more than shelter from rain, and from hat-shapes

being found on early southern monuments, we are inclined to think that

the hat was more extensively worn in Southern than in Northern Europe;

more, as it is, in Southern England than in Northern Scotland. Hence,

although we find many iron skull-caps, like hats, used by the military

in the fifteenth century; and although we find traces of hats even in

the plebeian costumes of the middle ages--yet we look upon the Spanish

and Italian hat of the sixteenth century, as the more immediate origin

of its degenerate successor, the actual _chapeau_. We need not trace

the variations of its form through the seventeenth century, from the

high-crowned things of Henry III. of France, and James I. of England,

to the graceful beavers of Louis XIII., Philip III., and Charles I. of

England; the change was all in favour of the beaver; and certainly the

hat reached its culminating point of excellence during the reign of

our martyr king. Who has studied the splendid portraits of Vandyke, or

the heads of Rubens, and has not perceived the uncommon grace given to

them by the well-proportioned and not excessive hat? Who does not

remember the fine portrait of Rubens himself, with his black Spanish

hat turned up in front, the very perfection of that style of

head-dress? Put a modern hat by the side of this hat of Rubens, and

say which bears off the palm; there can hardly be two opinions upon

the subject. The great change of this hat took place, as is well

known, in Louis XIV.'s court, where first of all feathers were laid

all round upon the flat of the brim, and next the brim was edged with

lace, and pinched or cocked up, for greater use in military service.

It might have been useful for a military man, especially one who had

to handle a bayoneted musket; but it was a fatal invasion of the

principle of beauty to adopt a permanent cock. There is no doubt that

the flat cocked hat, the small three-cornered pinched hat of the days

of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., gave much smartness to the soldier, and

much neatness to the civilian; the change, too, corresponded with

other alterations of dress, from the loose and flowing, to the tight

and succinct principle; but picturesque effect was entirely lost; all

the sentimentality, all the romance of the hat, evaporated in the

formal cock. But this small flat hat of the seventeenth and eighteenth

centuries, was perfection and beauty itself, compared with the

outrageous and elevated cocked hat which came into fashion sometime

before 1750, and which is the immediate prototype of the present

military cocked hat. Here the principle of utility was entirely

abandoned; it was sacrificed to the display of an unnatural brim. The

hat was no longer formed by the pinching up of a circular brim of

moderate dimensions; but three enormous flaps were made to rear their

unwieldy height in the air, and were strengthened, stiffened, and

supported, against the envious winds, to the torment of the wearer,

and to the disfigurement of his person. All through the first half of

the tasteless reign of good old George III., did this horrible

covering disguise the beau's head; and the effect of it may still be

judged of by his grandchildren, when they contemplate, not without

awe, the rubicund figure of some metropolitan church-beadle with his

large-caped coat, silver-headed cane, and monstrous three-cornered

hat. Our modern great ladies, strange to say, seem to have an especial

affection for this hat, since they take particular care to have a

couple of footmen behind their carriage glorying in this capital

atrocity, while on the coach-box they encourage the older form of the

flat cocked hat of Louis XV.

All cocked hats, be it observed, are glorious rain-traps; the only

improvement they are capable of is one not yet patented, namely, the

appending of neat flexible spouts, say of Macintosh cloth, from each

corner, so as to convey the water in pleasant meanderings over the

back and coat-tails. In dry weather these spouts might be tied up, and

would form graceful curves either before, behind, or on one side of

the cocked flaps, while in a shower they would add dignity to utility,

as they hung all adown the back of the wearer. One kind of utility,

however, the old cocked hat certainly had; it served in some degree,

maugre the looping up of the brim, to shelter the face from the sun;

not indeed when worn full front, as it was in Dr Johnson's time, and

as we remember the household troops used to wear it--but when, by a

daring innovation of revolutionary times, it came to be turned round

on its human pivot, and lay gently athwart the line of vision. Thus it

is that our generals wear it in this nineteenth century; thus it was

that the Great Duke got all through Spain with it; though Napoleon,

who greatly reduced its dimensions, always kept to the orthodox

full-front; and in all positions, except the latter, it certainly does

shade some portion of the face from the sun. But while, for example,

the projection of one peak shades the nose, the ears and cheeks are

left to fish for themselves; or else, if the hat wheels round again to

the front, the ears come under its benignant shade, but the tip of the

proboscis suffers awfully. The cocked hat has always been a two-horned

dilemna ever since the third peak moved up in the world from its

original position of horizontal equality, and aspired to be a near

neighbour of the cockade or towering plume.

It was that wicked revolution of France, or rather that dissolute time

preceding it, which produced the most mischief in the hat line. Look

at any of the pictures of that day--look at the portraits of the

Conventionalists--look at the old prints of country gentlemen hunting

or riding races at Newmarket--remember the Sir Joshuas in many a noble

gallery; and you will not fail to remark that the choice spirits of

the day, the go-ahead lads of that time, had let down the flaps of

their cocked hats into slouching, and we must say, most slovenly

circular brims. There was a sort of free-and-easy look affected in

that day about the head, totally at enmity with the prim rigidity of

the cocked beaver; you might have taken off your _chapeau rond_, as it

then came to be called, and you might have sat on it--it would have

been never the worse; but not so with its stiff old father--no

liberties were to be taken with him; once sit upon him, and you would

have crushed him forever. This very difference of hats marked a

difference of politics--at least in France. There the old _chapeau a

trois cornes_ was the badge of the aristocracy: the _chapeau rond_ and

the _bonnet rouge_ were sworn brothers in the cause of democracy. The

times were getting unhinged; all fashions were relaxing; so were

public morals; so were private morals; so were men's hats: hats and

heads seemed to have a sympathy, and to have gone wrong together.

And what has been the history of the hat since that day?--the

civilian's hat we mean. Who remembers the overlapping crowns which

came into fashion soon after the great peace, at a time when Frenchmen

wore their brims extravagantly pinched up at the sides, and deeply

pulled down fore and aft? Sometimes the hat rose up in pyramidal

majesty; sometimes it was shut in like a telescope wanting to be

pulled out. And then every kind of fancy man had a fancy hat: there

was the Neck-or-nothing hat, the Bang-up, the Corinthian, the Jerry,

and the Logic; or else distinguished leaders of _ton_ lent their names

to it, and we had the Petershams, the Barringtons, &c. Through every

degree of absurdity has the _chapeau rond_ passed, until it seems to

have settled down into that quiescent state of mediocrity which marks

the decline of empires and of hats. The brim is no longer only half an

inch broad as it was once, nor four inches broad as we also remember

it: it seems to vary between the limits of one inch and two--a breadth

just sufficient to let the line of shade, when the head is erect, come

upon the eye-lids, and just sufficient to clear the ears. But if the

head be moved ever so little, or if the rain come down ever so

slantingly, the services of the hat are at an end: it is well enough

to intercept any thing coming down perpendicularly, but

"slantendicularly," as friend Slick says--no. Its present height is

just enough to prevent your wearing it in a carriage, and such, too,

as to give a moderate wind a good purchase upon it: the substance is

such that the least exposure to wet ruins it, whether of beaver or

silk; a moderate blow will crack or break its form; and for the first

week, if you have any thing like a sensitive head, or any bosses of

unknown qualities protruding from your cranium, you are doomed to

incessant headache from hat-pinchings. It has no properties of

usefulness to recommend it, and none of ornament, saving this--if it

can be called such--the being an invaluable appendage for a little man

to make himself appear tall. What a wide interval from the simplicity

of its Phrygian original!

Having, therefore, criticized our present head-gear, and condemned our

hats, without pulling them to pieces, let us enquire what a proper

covering for the head should be: first of all in point of usefulness,

and next in point of comely appearance. But let no man vainly imagine

that we expect to suit the fancies of all the creatures privileged to

wear hats, or even to cover their heads; we do not pretend to invent,

or decide upon, any one given type or form of head-dress. So many are

the wants of a man in covering his head, so widely differing from each

other are the exigencies of different people, that uniformity in hats

is to be given up as a bad job: to attempt it would foil the strength

of a Hercules: the utmost we can hope to effect is to lay down

certain limits for the variations of this apex of human pride.

For us, then, who live in a climate rainy, windy, hot, and cold, all

within any twenty-four hours of the year, just as the case may be, it

is plain that we want for general use something that will be proof

against the atmospherical accidents that may befall any man who goes

abroad to take the air. And here let it be observed, that in reasoning

about hats, all thoughts about that effeminate invention, the

umbrella, are to be laid aside. This utensil is truly a disgrace to

the manhood of the times; and its existence, by allowing people to

dispense with warm cloaks and other anti-rain appliances, has caused

more disease, in letting them catch cold, than any thing else we know

of. Our stalwart ancestors did admirably well without umbrellas; they

wore good cloaks or coats, and broad beavers to keep the rain out of

their necks, faring not a jot the worse for it. Umbrellas are only fit

for men-milliners, Cockney travellers, and women. The nature of a hat,

we flatter ourselves, is something independent of cotton and

whalebone; and instead of the umbrella claiming precedence over the

hat, the hat, we take it, should be above the umbrella. An

Englishman's hat, then, should be something that will keep the rain

off his face and neck when the weather is bad, and shield his eyes

from the glare of the sun on the few days when sunlight is

oppressive--and these two requirements settle at once, on all

principles of common sense, that a man, if he has only one kind of

covering for the head, should have a hat with a broad brim. This is

the very foundation of the definition of an useful hat, providing that

a hat is really to be the thing worn for protecting a man's upper

story. Usefulness will also decide against height in the crown. _Cui

bono_ this same high crown of ours, that looks more like a

watering-pot deprived of its spout and handle than a reasonable

article of human apparel? Down with the crowns, say we! If you will

wear a hat, down with your crown. You may put down your half-sovereign

or sovereign, or whatever you please, for your new hat first of all,

but down with your crown too. Here, gentle reader, you will exclaim

against our taste, and will protest that we would sacrifice every

thing to that horrid utilitarian principle, which opposes all ideas of

beauty and poetry. We are free to confess that, in our opinion, there

is not much poetry to be made about such a subject--unless some

obsolete verses, "All round my hat," may be alleged to the contrary;

but as for the beauty of the head-piece, we protest that we admit its

existence, and think that it should be consulted by whomsoever would

pay proper attention to his own outward appearance. The merely useful

may possibly make the shape approximate to that of a Quaker's or a

jarvey's, but the beautiful has to elevate and modify it into the

mystical proportions fit for a man of taste. One other quality,

however, which is intimately connected with the useful, has to be

noticed. The substance should not be hard and unyielding. Witness, ye

reminiscences--ye painful images of bygone headachs, even yet flitting

through our brain like Titanic thunderbolts!--accursed be the memory

of that fellow Tightfit in Old Bond Street, who used to screw his hats

on our cranium when we were young, and ere London had awakened us! As

you value your comfort, dear reader, never purchase a hard hat. A hard

heart may be borne with, but a hard hat--never! And last of all, a hat

should be light--yes, the lighter the better--light as a gossamer web,

though 'tis a simile that will not bear stretching. You may have the

misfortune to be a heavy-headed man, but do not add to it that of

being heavy-hatted. Avoid the extremity of suffering; and observe the

climax of ill from which we would shield your head--a narrow-brimmed,

hard, heavy, high-crowned hat--

"tode gar brotois megiston elthet' ek theon kakon."

The covering of the head, then, must have its usefulness made

ornamental, if not beautiful; and the due ornamentation of it will

depend principally upon its form, but also upon its colour and

material. Now, form is the principal thing; every one that has half

an eye for art will tell you this--'tis an admitted axiom. Either,

then, the shape of the covering should conform to that of the head, or

it should not, and we take our ground in support of the latter

position. The natural form of the head is determined by the rotundity

of the cranium, beautifully modified by the waving curls of the

hair--we speak of the abstract well-formed head; and nothing that

approaches to the same shape will ever do more than give a bad

substitute for the outline of the head as nature framed it. Any

covering conceals the hair; and if you remove from sight this

intrinsically beautiful integument, it is a principle of bad taste to

put in its place only a poor copy of the same contour. If you cover

the head, cover it with something that forms lines not curving like

the skull, nor yet so angular as to create too striking an opposition

of ideas in the mind of the beholder. A close-fitting untasseled

skull-cap does not improve the form of the head, for it is not half so

graceful as the hair; but a square hat or pyramidal cap is truly

detestable. This is the reason why the common nightcap is ugly; it

fits the head too closely, and its upper end conveys the ludicrous

idea of something made to be pulled at. On the other hand, the double

nightcap, pulled out and allowed to hang down on one shoulder, Spanish

fashion, is less ugly--though far removed from our own ideas of

beauty--because it introduces a new system of curves, and acts as a

kind of dependent drapery to compensate for the concealment of the

hair. Here is also the reason why the common hat is so frightful; it

gives us straight or nearly straight lines, going upwards like

tangents from the oval of the face, and cut off above by another

straight line (the section of the crown) at right angles: all such

lines and angles are foreign to the face and head. The common nightcap

is too familiar, the common hat too stiff. Observe the lines of the

face and head; the projection of the nose, the rounded angularity of

the chin; the vertical section of the head affording curves with

decided yet harmonious irregularities; the horizontal section

producing a nearly regular contour. Well, it is upon principles of

this kind that the covering of the head should be beautified. Now, we

profess ourselves unable to make any better reconciliation of the

useful with the beautiful for this purpose, than in the small,

flexible, light, and broad-brimmed hat, which is still to be found in

some Spanish and Italian pictures; a hat not quite so large as that

worn in the reign of Charles I., yet with all its freedom and

capability of assuming a variety of graceful forms; not so stiff as

the beaux of the Spanish court, and the rakes of our own merry

monarch's palace made it; not so formal as we know James I. and Lord

Bacon used to wear; but something between all these three types. The

prevalence of straight lines in it should be avoided without its

appearing slovenly, and its dimensions should be such as to consult

convenience without relapsing into a homely vulgarity. Such a kind of

hat admits of any further ornament which the fancy of the wearer may

induce him to add; a feather, a band, a buckle, or even a plain button

for occasionally looping up the brim on one side or other, (not two

sides, for it would return to the old cocked hat,)--any of these

extraneous additions would harmonize, and would be in due character

with its shape. Such a hat would certainly be useful; and that it

would be ornamental we have only to decide by consulting our eyes, and

by looking at our ancestors' portraits of the seventeenth century.

But there is another kind of covering for the head, which, for its

peculiar purposes, seems to us more useful and more ornamental even

than this hat; we allude to the common round travelling cap, the

officers' undress cap in the British army. Are you going a journey?

have you any rough work to do? have you got a headach and want

something light? would you put on something that will not spoil by

being pulled about, sat on, slept on, and stood on? something handy,

useful, comfortable, and withal good-looking?--What do you do? you get

a foraging cap. Every man looks well in a foraging cap; it harmonizes

with every body's face: it makes the old look young, and the young

look smart: it is, without pretence, plain in detail, and yet elegant

in outline: it has no straight lines in it, and yet its curves are in

contrast with those of the head; they run in opposite directions: and

the shade of the cap, if it has one, emulates the decisiveness of the

nose, and gives character to the profile of the head, just as the nose

gives point and force to the face. Nothing so easily admits of

suitable ornament: a plain band--a golden one--or even a coloured

one--makes it suitable to the various ranks and occupations of men:

while its material, admitting of infinite variety, according to the

taste of the wearer, never injures the source of its beauty its form.

The cap fails in only one thing; it is unfit for rainy weather; it

will only do for dry days. Do not attempt to put a flap behind it, and

tie it under your chin--you at once convert it into an ugly nightcap;

its curves then imitate those of the head, and the ridiculous takes

the place of the becoming. For three hundred days, however, out of the

three hundred and sixty-five, such a cap may be worn with the greatest

comfort and advantage: while, for simplicity and elegance, it has no

rival. We exclude most vigorously all other kinds of caps; we admit

nothing but the common round foraging cap, with a small shade over the

eyes; we especially set our faces against the little quirked Highland

cap, now revived, and becoming popular among the southrons. This cap

has part of its curves--those behind the head approximating too

closely to the curve of the skull: in fact, at the hinder part it is a

skull-cap; whereas, the other part of the curves in front are too much

in opposition to the outline of the face: they bend over and form an

unpleasant contrast with the nose and chin: they are deficient in the

shade or visor, and there is not one man in a thousand whose face they

suit. All fancy-caps with whalebone, falling tops, angular

projections, &c., are utterly abominate; we pin our faith to the

quiet, unsophisticated, gentlemanlike cap worn by our officers: it

beats almost any other head-dress in the world.

The prevailing tendency of the age is to avoid distinctions of dress

except in the value of the material, and then only between the two

great divisions of society--the affluent and the poor. Hence all

ornament seems to be a superfluity, except upon occasions of public

display or military service; and men will not now listen to any one

who advises them to put feathers and gold lace on their hats and caps:

they would as soon think of returning to the embroidered coats of

their grandfathers. The principle is a good one: in the palmy days of

Rome, the differences of dress bore no proportion to the differences

of station; distinction in dress was the failing of the middle ages, a

consequence of some lurking seeds of northern barbarism, which are

only now ceasing to be propagated. We seem, like the great men of the

Eternal City eighteen hundred years ago, to be looking more at the

inward worth and influence of a man, than at his outward state and

dress; and it is a good sign of the times; it is a reasonable

inclination of the mind; but it confines the exercise of taste in

dress. Men of the present day are determined to be plain about the

head as well as about the body; all ornament of head-dress they have

left to soldiers and to the fairer half of the creation:--_sed haec

hactenus_--we reserve our remarks on the _coiffures_ of these two

classes for another occasion.

H. L. J.

THE THREE GUARDSMEN.

Guardsmen have at all periods been a racketing, rollicking set of

fellows. Whether ancients or moderns, infidels or Christians,

praetorians or janissaries, the _mousquetaires_ and Scottish archers of

the French Louises, or the lifeguards of "bonnie Dundee's" own

regiment, they have always claimed, and usually enjoyed, a greater

degree of license than is accorded to the more unpretending soldiery

of the line. The first in the field, and the last out of it, they have

sometimes seemed to think that, by thrashing the king's enemies, they

acquired a right to baton his subjects, that captured cities atoned

for the wrongs of deluded damsels, and that each extra blow struck in

the fight, entitled them to an extra bottle in the barrack-room. On

duty, discipline--off duty, dissipation--seems to have been the motto

of these gentlemen; and if it be the case, that they occasionally

forgot the former part of their device, it, on the other hand, is no

where upon record, that they were oblivious of its latter portion.

Fighting hard and drinking hard, living hard and dying hard, the

bravest men and most desperate debauchees of all countries, have worn

the uniform of guardsmen.

Our old friend, M. Alexandre Dumas, who, if we may believe one of his

biographers, passes twelve hours a-day in driving a goosequill for the

entertainment and particular edification of his countrymen, found

himself, one fine morning, desperately at a loss for something to

write about. He is, perhaps, not the first writer of fiction who has

been in a like predicament; and even if he were, it would be neither

wonderful nor unpardonable, seeing that his average rate of production

is about three volumes per month. There is a limit to all things, even

to the imagination of a French romance writer; and M. Dumas, without

exception the most prolific of modern scribblers, was for once hard up

for a subject.

_L'hopital n'est pas pour les chiens_, says the French proverb. It

occurred to M. Dumas, that the league or two of books in the

Bibliotheque Royale were not placed there for the mere purpose of

astonishing provincials, or causing English tourists to stare and lift

up their hands in admiration; but that one of the objects of their

preservation might well be, that they should afford suggestions to any

distinguished _litterateur_ who happened to be, like himself, in want

of an idea. Emerging, therefore, from his comfortable abode in the

Chaussee d'Antin, he turned his steps in the direction of the royal

library, and was soon up to his ears in dusty tomes and jaundiced

parchments. After much research, he discovered a folio manuscript,

numbered, as he tells us in his preface, 4772 or 4773, and purporting

to be a memoir, by a certain Count de la Fere, of events that occurred

in France towards the latter part of the reign of Louis the

Thirteenth. Upon perusal, he found this MS. so interesting, that he

applied for, and obtained permission to publish it; and the memoir in

question saw the light under the title of _Les Trois Mousquetaires_.

The piquant and interesting matter contained in this book, caused it

to be much read, and numerous persons were curious to see the original

manuscript. To their infinite surprise, however, they could obtain no

account whatever of such a document; and what was still more

provoking, the librarians seemed to look upon them as insane when they

asked for it. There was much running up and down the library stairs,

much mounting upon step-ladders, and tumbling of paper and parchment,

much grumbling of puzzled librarians and disappointed applicants,

until at last, the most obstinate became convinced that the aforesaid

MS. had no existence save in the imagination of M. Dumas, who had, as

it is vulgarly styled, "taken a rise" out of the public.

In the spring of the year 1625, a young Gascon gentleman named

D'Artagnan, left his home to seek fortune at Paris. He was mounted on

an ill-looking cob, some fourteen years of age--that is to say,

within four years as old as its rider; the sword which his father

buckled on him at parting, was more remarkable for its length than its

elegance; his purse contained fifteen crowns, and his valise a couple

of shirts. To compensate for this meagre equipment, he rode like a

Tartar, and fenced like a St George; and was moreover possessed of

three qualifications invaluable to a man who has his way to make in

the world--a clear head, a light heart, and a courage that nothing

could daunt. One thing more he had; a letter of recommendation from

his father to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the mousquetaires, or

body-guards, of his Majesty Louis the Thirteenth.

Nearly the last words of the worthy old Gascon, who was compelled by

his poverty to send his son forth into the world thus slenderly

provided, were an injunction to honour the King and Cardinal

Richelieu, then in the zenith of his power, and to fight as often as

he could get an opportunity. With such counsels yet ringing in his

ears, it is not surprising, that before reaching Paris young

D'Artagnan gets into a very pretty quarrel against overpowering odds,

is somewhat maltreated, and, while senseless from the blows he has

received, has his letter stolen from him by an emissary of the

Cardinal, among whose political enemies M. de Treville stands in the

foremost rank. The young adventurer, however, consoles himself for his

loss, shakes his feathers, and arrives at Paris without further

accident. Before entering the capital he disposes of his horse, of

whose uncouth appearance he is heartily ashamed; and after improving

his toilet as well as his scanty wardrobe will allow, he proceeds to

the hotel of Monsieur de Treville, where he falls in with the three

mousquetaires who give a title to the book, in which, however,

D'Artagnan plays the most conspicuous and important part. He finds the

hotel Treville throned with applicants for an audience, petitioners,

mousquetaires, and lackeys bearing letters from persons of the first

importance. He sends in his name, and after some delay, is admitted.

Here is M. Dumas' account of the interview.

"Monsieur de Treville was that day in a particularly bad humour;

nevertheless he returned D'Artagnan's profound bow with a polite

inclination of the head, and smiled at the strong Gascon accent in

which the young man uttered his compliments. The sound recalled to

his mind his own youth and his native country, two things of which

the recollection is apt to make most men smile. He then waved his

hand to D'Artagnan, as if requesting him to have a moment's

patience, and approaching the door leading to the anteroom, he

called out in an imperious and angry tone--

"'Athos! Porthos! Aramis!'

"Two mousquetaires, who had already attracted D'Artagnan's

attention, left the groups of which they formed a part, and

entered the audience chamber, of which the door was immediately

closed behind them.

"There was a remarkable contrast in the appearance of these two

guardsmen. One was a man of gigantic stature, loud-voiced, and of

stern and haughty countenance; the other, on the contrary, was of

gentle and _naive_ physiognomy, with smooth rosy cheeks, a soft

expression in his black eye, a delicate mustache on his upper lip,

white hands, and a voice and smile remarkable for their mildness.

The bearing of these two gentlemen upon entering the presence of

their captain, showed a happy mixture of submission and dignity,

which excited the admiration of D'Artagnan, who was already

disposed to look upon the mousquetaires as demigods, and upon

their chief as an Olympic Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

"Monsieur de Treville took two or three turns up and down the

apartment, silent, and with a contracted brow, passing each time

before Porthos and Aramis, who remained mute and immoveable as if

upon the parade ground. Suddenly he stopped, and measured them

from head to foot with an angry glance.

"'Do you know what the King told me, gentlemen, and that no longer

ago than yesternight? Do you know, I say, what his Majesty told

me?'

"'No,' replied the two guardsmen after a moment's silence. 'No,

sir, we do not know it.'

"'But I hope you will do us the honour to inform us,' said Aramis

in his most polite tone, and with his most graceful bow.

"'He told me that henceforward he would recruit his mousquetaires

from among the guards of Monsieur le Cardinal.'

"'Among the guards of Monsieur le Cardinal! And why so?' demanded

Porthos abruptly.

"'Because he finds that his own sour wine requires to be improved

by the admixture of some more generous liquor.'

"The two guardsmen coloured up to the eyes. D'Artagnan felt

uncertain whether he was standing on his head or his heels.

"'Yes,' continued Monsieur de Treville with increased vivacity,

'and his Majesty is right; for, by my honour, the mousquetaires

cut a sorry figure at the court! Monsieur le Cardinal was relating

yesterday at the King's card-table, in a tone of condolence that

displeased me no little, how those infernal mousquetaires, those

_sabreurs_ as he ironically called them, had forgotten themselves

over their bottle at a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and how a patrol

of his guards had found it necessary to arrest them. I thought he

was going to laugh in my face as he said the words, looking at me

all the time with his tiger-cat eyes. _Morbleu!_ you ought to know

something about it. You were amongst them; the cardinal named you.

Mousquetaires, indeed, who allow themselves to be arrested! But it

is my fault for not choosing my men better. What the devil

possessed you, Aramis, to ask me for a guardsman's uniform, when a

priest's surplice would have fitted you better? And you, Porthos,

what is the use of your wearing that magnificent embroidered

sword-belt, if the weapon it supports is of such small service to

you? And Athos, I do not see Athos. Where is he?'

"'Sir,' replied Aramis gravely, 'he is ill--very ill.'

"'Ill, say you? And of what disease?'

"'It is feared that it is the small-pox, sir,' replied Porthos,

who was desirous of putting in a word. 'It would be a great pity,

for it would assuredly spoil his appearance.'

"'The small-pox! A fine story indeed! The small-pox at his age!

Not so! But wounded, I suppose--killed perhaps. _Sangdieu!_

Messieurs les Mousquetaires, I insist upon your ceasing to

frequent taverns and places of bad repute. I will have no more

brawling and sword-playing in the public streets. I will not have

my regiment made a laughing-stock to the Cardinal's guards, who

are brave fellows, prudent and quiet--who do not get themselves

into trouble, and if they did, would not allow themselves to be

arrested. Not they! They would sooner die upon the spot than

recede an inch. It is only the King's mousquetaires who run away

or are taken prisoners.'

"Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They would willingly have

strangled their chief, if they had not felt that it was the great

affection he bore them that induced him to speak thus harshly.

They bit their lips till the blood came, and clutched the hilts of

their swords in silent fury. Several of the guardsmen in the

anteroom, who had heard Monsieur de Treville's summons to Athos,

Porthos, and Aramis, and suspected what was going on, had applied

their ears to the tapestry, and lost not a word of their captain's

reproaches, which they repeated to those around them, who in their

turn repeated them to their comrades on the staircase and in the

courtyard. In an instant, from the anteroom to the street, all was

commotion.

"'Ha! his Majesty's mousquetaires allow themselves to be arrested

by the Cardinal's guards!' continued Monsieur de Treville, who was

as furious as his soldiers. 'Aha! sirs, six of his Eminence's

guards arrest six of the King's! _Morbleu!_ I have made up my mind

what to do. I will go at once to the Louvre, resign my post as

captain of mousquetaires, and solicit a lieutenancy in the

Cardinal's guards; and if I am refused, _morbleu!_ I will turn

priest!'

"At these words the murmur outside the audience chamber became an

explosion. On all sides oaths and blasphemies were resounding.

D'Artagnan looked about for a place to hide himself. He felt a

strong inclination to get under the table.

"'Well, captain,' said Porthos, who was completely beside himself

with rage and vexation, 'the truth is that we were six against

six; but they attacked us treacherously; and before we could draw

a sword, two of us were dead men, and Athos desperately wounded

and equally useless. You know Athos, captain; well, twice he tried

to get up, and twice he fell down again. Nevertheless, we did not

yield ourselves prisoners; we were taken off by main force, and on

the way to the guard-house we managed to break away from them. As

to Athos, they thought him dead, and left him on the ground. That

is the real truth of the matter. And what then, captain! One

cannot win every battle. The great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia,

and Francis I., who, from what I have heard, was no fool in the

fighting way, got roughly handled at Pavia.'

"'And I have the honour to assure you, sir,' said Aramis, 'that I

killed one of the guards with his own sword, for mine was broken

at the first onset.'

"'I did not know that,' said Treville in a more gentle tone. 'I

see that the Cardinal exaggerated matters.'

"'But for heaven's sake, sir,' continued Aramis, encouraged by the

softened manner of his commander, 'for heaven's sake, do not

mention that Athos is wounded: he would be in despair if the King

heard of it; and as the wound is very serious, having passed

through the shoulder and entered the breast, it is to be

feared....'

"At this moment the tapestry that covered the door was raised, and

the head of a man of noble aspect and handsome features, but

fearfully pale, appeared below the fringe.

"'Athos!' exclaimed the two guardsmen.

"'Athos!' repeated Monsieur de Treville himself.

"You asked for me, sir,' said Athos to Monsieur de Treville, in a

calm but enfeebled voice--'my comrades told me that you asked for

me, and I hastened to obey your summons.'

"And so saying, the mousquetaire entered the room with a tolerably

firm step, in full uniform and belted as usual. Monsieur de

Treville, touched to the soul by this proof of courage, sprang to

meet him.

"'I was telling these gentlemen,' said he, 'that I forbid my

mousquetaires to expose their lives without necessity; that brave

men are very dear to the King, and his Majesty knows that his

mousquetaires are the bravest men upon the face of the earth. Your

hand, Athos!'

"And without waiting for the new comer to hold out his right hand,

Monsieur de Treville seized and pressed it energetically, not

observing that Athos, in spite of his command over himself,

writhed with pain, and grew each moment paler than before. The

room-door had remained half open, and a loud murmur of

satisfaction from without replied to the words addressed to Athos

by Monsieur de Treville. The heads of two or three mousquetaires,

who forgot themselves in the enthusiasm of the moment, appeared at

the opening of the tapestry. Doubtless Monsieur de Treville was

about to check sharply this infraction of the laws of etiquette,

when he suddenly felt the hand of Athos contract in his, and

looking at the guardsman, he saw that he was going to faint. At

the same moment Athos, who had summoned all his energies to

struggle against the sufferings he endured, was overcome by the

torture of his wound, and fell senseless to the ground.

"'A surgeon!' cried Monsieur de Treville. 'My surgeon--the

King's--the best! A surgeon! or, _sangdieu!_ my brave Athos will

die!'"

The swoon of Athos had merely been occasioned by loss of blood. The

surgeon declares there is no danger, and D'Artagnan, who has stood his

ground with true Gascon tenacity, at length obtains an audience. The

loss of his letter of recommendation now proves a great disadvantage

to him. In those days of court intrigue and espionage, men were

naturally suspicious of each other, and the mingled _naivete_ and

shrewdness of the young Bearnais, are causes for Monsieur de Treville

at first suspecting him of being a spy of the Cardinal's. His

suspicions, however, are wearing off, and he is disposed to be useful

to D'Artagnan, although he cannot admit him into the mousquetaires--a

noviciate of two years in some other regiment being the indispensable

condition of admission into that favoured corps--when D'Artagnan,

happening to look out of the window, starts, reddens with anger, and

rushes to the door. He has recognised, in a passer-by, the person who

had stolen his letter; and leaves Monsieur de Treville in doubt

whether he has to do with a madman or with an emissary of the

Cardinal's, who, fearing himself suspected, takes this pretext for

effecting a retreat.

In his hurry to leave the hotel and pursue his robber, D'Artagnan gets

into all sorts of scrapes. On the landing-place he runs against Athos,

who is returning home after having his wound dressed. Some hasty words

pass, a challenge is the result, and rendezvous is taken for noon in a

field near the Carmelite convent, then a favourite duelling ground. In

the gateway of the courtyard, Porthos is talking with one of his

comrades, and D'Artagnan, in trying to pass between them, gets

entangled in the velvet cloak of the former, and discovers, what the

guardsman had been most anxious to conceal, that the front only of his

embroidered shoulder-belt was gold, and the back mere leather.

Porthos, not having sufficient pistoles to purchase a whole belt, had

gratified his vanity with half a one, and wore his cloak to conceal

the deficiency. The young Gascon finds himself with a second duel on

his hands, and sets himself down as a dead man. Meantime his robber

has disappeared, and as D'Artagnan is proceeding in the direction of

his lodging, he encounters Aramis, standing in the middle of the

street with some other gentlemen. Furious with himself for the follies

he has been committing, D'Artagnan has made a resolution to be all

things to all men, at least for the hour or two that he still has to

live; and observing that Aramis has dropped a handkerchief, and placed

his foot upon it, he hastens to drag it from under his boot, and

present it to him with a most gracious bow and smile. A coronet and

cipher on the embroidered cambric attract notice, and draw down a

shower of raillery upon the head of the mousquetaire, who, in order to

shield the honour of a lady, is compelled to deny that the

handkerchief is his. His companions walk away, and Aramis reproaches

D'Artagnan with his officiousness. The Gascon blood gets up, good

resolutions are forgotten, and a third rendezvous is the result.

M. Dumas is never more at home than in the description of duels.

Himself an excellent swordsman, he luxuriates and excels in the

description of points and parries, cartes and tierces, and of the

vigorous estocades which his heroes administer to each other. One of

the good chapters of the book--and there are many such--is the one in

which D'Artagnan encounters the three redoubtable champions whom he

has so heedlessly provoked. We will endeavour, by abridgement, to lay

it before our readers.

"D'Artagnan knew nobody at Paris, and betook himself, therefore,

to his first rendezvous without seconds, intending to content

himself with those whom his adversary should bring. Moreover, his

firm intention was to make all reasonable apologies to Athos,

fearing that there would result from this duel the usual

consequence of an encounter between a young and vigorous man and

a wounded and feeble one--if the former is conquered, his

antagonist's triumph is doubled; and if he conquers, he is

accused of taking an advantage, or of being brave at small risk.

Besides this, either we have been unsuccessful in the exposition

of our young adventurer's character, or the reader will have

already perceived that D'Artagnan was no ordinary man. Thus,

although he repeated to himself that his death was inevitable, he

by no means made up his mind to fall an easy sacrifice, as one

less cool and courageous than himself might perhaps have done. He

reflected on the different characters of the three men with whom

he had to fight, and began to think that his case was not so

desperate as it might have been. He hoped, by the candid and

loyal apology which he intended to offer, to make himself a

friend of Athos, whose austere mien and noble air pleased him

greatly. He flattered himself that he should be able to

intimidate Porthos by the affair of the shoulder-belt, which he

could, if not killed upon the spot, relate to every body, and

which would cover the giant with ridicule. Finally, he did not

feel much afraid of Aramis, and he resolved, if he lived long

enough, either to kill him, or at least to administer to him a

wound in the face, that would considerably impair the beauty of

which he was evidently so proud.

"When D'Artagnan arrived in sight of the waste land adjoining the

convent of barefooted Carmelites, noon was striking, and Athos

was already on the ground. The guardsman, who still suffered

cruelly from his wound, was seated on a post, and awaiting his

adversary with the calm countenance and dignified air that never

abandoned him. Upon D'Artagnan's appearance, he rose courteously,

and advanced a few steps to meet him. Our Gascon, on his side,

made his approach hat in hand, the plume trailing on the earth.

"'Sir,' said Athos, 'I have given notice to two gentlemen to act

as my seconds, but they are not come. I am surprised at it, for

they are usually punctual.'

"'For my part, sir,' returned D'Artagnan, 'I have no seconds. I

arrived in Paris yesterday, and know no one but Monsieur de

Treville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the

honour to be a friend of his.'

"Athos glanced at the beardless chin and youthful mien of his

adversary, and seemed to reflect for a moment.

"'_Ah ca_!' said he at last, speaking half to himself and half to

D'Artagnan; '_ah ca_! but if I kill you, it will be something

very like child-murder.'

"'Not exactly, sir,' replied D'Artagnan, with a bow that was not

without its dignity; 'not exactly, sir, since you do me the

honour to meet me with a wound by which you must be greatly

inconvenienced.'

"Inconvenienced certainly, and you hurt me terribly, I must

acknowledge, when you ran against me just now; but I will use my

left hand, according to my custom in such circumstances. Do not

suppose on that account that I am sparing you; I fight decently

with both hands, and a left-handed swordsman is an awkward

antagonist when one is not prepared for him. I am sorry I did not

tell you of it sooner, that you might have got your hand in

accordingly.'

"'Truly, sir,' said D'Artagnan, with another bow, 'I know not how

to express my gratitude for such courtesy.'

"'You are too obliging to say so,' returned Athos, with his

princely air; 'let us talk of something else, if not disagreeable

to you. Ah, _sangbleu_! you hurt me terribly! My shoulder burns.'

"'If you would permit me,' said D'Artagnan, timidly.

"'What then, sir?'

"'I have a balm that is wonderfully efficacious in the cure of

wounds. I hold the recipe from my mother, and have myself

experienced its good effects.'

"'Well?'

"'Well, I am sure that in less than three days it would heal your

wound; and at the end of that time, sir, it would still be a

great honour for me to meet you.'

"D'Artagnan said these words with a simplicity that did credit to

his natural courtesy of feeling, at the same time that it could

not give rise to the slightest doubt of his courage.

"'_Pardieu_, sir!' said Athos, 'your proposition pleases me, not

that I can accept it, but because it is that of a chivalrous

gentleman. It is thus that spoke and acted those heroes of

Charlemagne's days, on whom every cavalier should strive to model

himself. Unfortunately we do not live in the times of the great

emperor, but in those of Cardinal Richelieu; and however well we

might keep our secret, it would be known before three days had

elapsed that we intended to fight, and our duel would be

prevented. _Ah ca_! where can those idlers be?'

"'If you are in haste, sir,' resumed D'Artagnan with the same

simplicity with which he had a moment before proposed to put off

the duel for three days--'if you are pressed for time, and that

it pleases you to finish with me at once, let me beg of you to do

so.'

"'Another proposal that I like,' said Athos with an approving nod

of the head; 'it is that of a man lacking neither wit nor valour.

Sir, I like men of your stamp; and I see that if we do not kill

one another, I shall hereafter have much pleasure in your

society. But let us wait for these gentlemen, I beg of you. I

have plenty of time, and it will be more according to rule. Ha!

here comes one of them.'

"At that moment the gigantic form of Porthos appeared at the

extremity of the Rue Vaugirard.

"'What!' cried D'Artagnan, 'Monsieur Porthos is one of your

seconds?'

"'Yes; is it disagreeable to you?'

"'By no means.'

"'And here is the other.'

"D'Artagnan turned his head and recognised Aramis.

"'What!' he exclaimed in still greater astonishment, 'Monsieur

Aramis is the other?'

"'Certainly; do you not know that we are never seen asunder, and

are known in court, camp, and city, as Athos, Porthos, and

Aramis, or the three inseparables? But you are just arrived from

Gascony, which accounts for your being unacquainted with these

circumstances.'

"Meanwhile Porthos, who had abandoned his cloak and changed his

shoulder-belt, approached, nodded to Athos, but on beholding

D'Artagnan, remained struck with astonishment.

"'This is the gentleman I am to fight with,' said Athos

indicating D'Artagnan with his hand, at the same time bowing to

him.

"'It is with him that I am to fight,' said Porthos.

"'Not till one o'clock,' said D'Artagnan.

"'And I also,' said Aramis, who just then came up.

"'Our appointment was for two o'clock,' said D'Artagnan with

perfect composure.

"'What are you going to fight about, Athos?' asked Aramis.

"'Faith, I can hardly tell you. He hurt my shoulder. And you,

Porthos?'

"'I fight because I am so minded,' replied Porthos colouring.

"Athos, whom nothing escaped, saw a slight smile curling

D'Artagnan's lip.

"'We had a dispute about dress,' said the young Gascon.

"'And you, Aramis?' asked Athos.

"'A theological difference,' replied Aramis, making a sign to

D'Artagnan that he wished the cause of their duel to remain a

secret.

"'Indeed!' said Athos looking at D'Artagnan.

"'Yes, a point of St Augustin on which we are not agreed,' said

the latter.

"'Decidedly he is a man of wit and sense,' muttered Athos to

himself.

"'And now that you are all assembled, gentlemen,' said

D'Artagnan, 'allow me to apologise to you.'

"At the word apologise, a cloud passed across the features of

Athos, Porthos smiled contemptuously, Aramis made a negative

sign.

"'You do not understand me, gentlemen,' said D'Artagnan raising

his head proudly. 'I only apologise in case I should not be able

to pay my debt to all of you; for Monsieur Athos has the right to

kill me the first, which greatly diminishes the value of my debt

to you, Monsieur Porthos, and renders that to Monsieur Aramis

nearly worthless. And now, gentlemen, I say again, accept my

apologies, but on that account only--and to work!'

"And so saying, he drew his sword with the most fearless and

gallant mien possible to be seen. His blood was up, and at that

moment he would have fought not only Athos, Porthos, and Aramis,

but the whole regiment of mousquetaires.

"'When you please, sir,' said Athos, putting himself on guard.

"'I was waiting your orders,' returned D'Artagnan.

"But the two rapiers had scarcely clashed together, when five of

the Cardinal's guards, commanded by Monsieur de Jussac, appeared

from behind a corner of the convent.

"'The Cardinal's guards!' exclaimed Porthos and Aramis. 'Sheath

your swords, gentlemen!'

"But it was too late. The combatants had been seen in an attitude

that left no doubt as to their pugnacious intentions.

"'Hola!' cried Jussac advancing towards them, followed by his

men. 'Hola, mousquetaires! fighting here? And the edicts. We have

forgotten them, eh?'

"'Your generosity is really remarkable, gentlemen of the

guards,' said Athos bitterly, for Jussac had been one of the

aggressors in the recent affray. 'I promise you that if we saw

you fighting we would not interrupt you. Leave us alone, then,

and you will have your amusement for nothing.'

"'Gentlemen,' said Jussac, 'I am grieved to tell you that the

thing is impossible. Duty before every thing. Be pleased to

sheath your swords, and follow us.'

"'Sir,' replied Aramis, parodying Jussac's manner, 'we should

have the greatest pleasure in accepting your polite invitation,

if it depended upon us so to do, but unfortunately the thing is

impossible; Monsieur de Treville has forbidden it. Move on,

therefore; it is the best thing you can do.'

"This bantering exasperated Jussac. 'We will charge you,' said

he, 'if you disobey.'

"'They are five,' said Athos in a low voice, 'and we are but

three; we shall be beaten again, and we must die here; for I

swear not to reappear before the captain if conquered.'

"Athos, Porthos, and Aramis drew closer to each other. Jussac was

arranging his men in line. This single moment of delay was

sufficient for D'Artagnan to make up his mind; it was one of

those moments that decide a man's whole life. The choice was to

be made between King and Cardinal, and, once made, it must be

persevered in. If he fought, he disobeyed the law, risked his

head, and made an enemy of a minister more powerful than the king

himself. All these considerations passed like lightning through

the mind of the young Gascon; but, be it said to his honour, he

did not hesitate an instant. Turning towards Athos and his

friends.

"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'allow me to amend the words last spoken.

You said you were only three, but to my thinking we are four.'

"'But you are not one of us,' said Porthos.

"'True,' replied D'Artagnan, 'I have not the coat; but I have the

spirit. In my heart I am a mousquetaire--I feel it, and that

leads me on.'

"'You may retire, young man,' cried Jussac, who doubtless guessed

D'Artagnan's intentions by his gestures and the expression of his

face. 'You may retire, we permit it. Be-gone, then, and quickly.'

"D'Artagnan did not stir.

"'Decidedly you are a fine fellow,' said Athos, pressing the

young man's hand.

"But the three mousquetaires thought of D'Artagnan's youth, and

distrusted his inexperience.

"'We should only be three, of whom one wounded, and a child,'

said Athos; 'but they will say all the same, that there were four

of us.'

"'Gentlemen,' said D'Artagnan, 'only try me, and I swear by my

honour that if we are conquered I will not leave the ground

alive.'

"'What is your name, my brave fellow?' said Athos.

"'D'Artagnan, sir.'

"'Well, then, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan, forwards!'

cried Athos.

"'What do you decide to do?' cried Jussac.

"'We are going to have the honour of charging you,' said Aramis,

raising his hat with one hand and drawing his sword with the

other.

"And the nine combatants precipitated themselves on each other

with a fury that did not exclude a certain degree of method.

Athos took one Cahusac, a favourite of the Cardinal's; Porthos

had Bicarat; and Aramis found himself opposed to two adversaries.

As to D'Artagnan, he encountered Jussac himself.

"The heart of the young Gascon beat high, not with fear, there

was no shadow of it, but with emulation; he fought like an

enraged tiger, turning about his enemy, changing each moment his

ground and his guard. Jussac was one of the good blades of the

day, and had had much practice; but he had, nevertheless, all the

difficulty in the world to defend himself against a supple and

active antagonist, who was constantly deviating from the received

rules of fencing, attacking him on all sides at once, and

parrying, at the same time, like a man who had the greatest

regard for his epidermis. At last Jussac lost patience. Furious

at being thus kept at bay by one whom he looked upon as a child,

his _sang-froid_ abandoned him, and he began to commit blunders.

D'Artagnan, who, although lacking practice, was perfect in

theory, redoubled his agility. Jussac, with the design of

finishing him at once, delivered a terrible thrust, which

D'Artagnan parried adroitly, and, before his opponent could raise

himself, he glided like a serpent under his guard, and passed his

sword through his body. Jussac fell heavily to the earth.

"D'Artagnan now cast an uneasy and rapid glance over the field of

battle. Aramis had already killed one of his adversaries. The

other gave him plenty to do, but Aramis was able to take care of

himself. Bicarat and Porthos were wounded; Porthos in the arm,

and Bicarat in the thigh. But neither wound was serious, and the

sight of their blood made them fight all the better. There was no

need to interfere there. Athos, wounded again by Cahusac, was

growing each moment paler, but he did not give way an inch. He

had changed his sword to his left hand. D'Artagnan caught his eye

as he was looking to see who most required his aid. The look of

the wounded mousquetaire was most eloquent; he would have died

sooner than call for assistance, but his glance said how much he

stood in need of it. With a single bound, D'Artagnan was upon

Cahusac's flank.

"'Have a care, sir guardsman,' cried he, 'or I slay you on the

spot.'

"Cahusac turned to face his new opponent. It was high time, for

Athos, who had only been sustained by his extreme courage, sank

upon one knee.

"'_Sangdieu!_' cried he to D'Artagnan, 'do not kill him, young

man, I beg of you; I have an old quarrel to terminate with him

when my wound is healed. Disarm him only--So--Well done!'

"This last exclamation was caused by Cahusac's sword, which flew

from his hand to a distance of twenty paces. D'Artagnan and

Cahusac rushed to pick it up, but D'Artagnan reached it first,

and put his foot upon it. Cahusac ran to the guardsman whom

Aramis had killed, took his rapier, and was returning to

D'Artagnan; but on his road he met Athos, who had taken breath

during the moment's respite which the latter had procured him,

and now recommenced the fight, fearing that the Gascon would kill

his enemy. D'Artagnan saw that he should disoblige him by again

interfering. A few seconds later, Cahusac fell with a wound

through the throat. At the same moment Aramis placed his sword's

point on the breast of his prostrate adversary, and forced him to

sue for mercy.

"Porthos and Bicarat alone remained. Porthos, while fighting,

indulged in all sorts of fanfarronades, asking Bicarat what time

of day it was, and complimenting him on the company which his

brother had just attained in the regiment of Navarre. In spite of

his jests, however, he did not gain ground. Bicarat was a

stubborn and skilful opponent. It was time to bring matters to a

conclusion before some patrol should arrive, and take both

royalists and cardinalists into custody. Athos, Aramis, and

D'Artagnan, surrounded Bicarat, and summoned him to surrender.

Although alone against four, and with a wound through the thigh,

he would not give in, though Jussac, who had raised himself on

his elbow, called out to him to yield. Bicarat was a Gascon, like

D'Artagnan; he only laughed, and pretended not to hear, at the

same time pointing to the ground at his feet. 'Here will die

Bicarat,' said he, 'the last of those who are with him.'

"'But they are four against you,' cried Jussac; 'I order you to

desist.'

"'Ah, if you order me, it is another affair!' said Bicarat; 'you

are my superior, and I must obey.'

"And giving a spring backwards, he broke his sword across his

knee, in order not to yield it up, threw the pieces over the

convent wall, and, crossing his arms, whistled a Cardinalist air.

"Courage is always respected even in an enemy. The mousquetaires

saluted Bicarat with their swords, and returned them to their

scabbards. D'Artagnan did the same, and, assisted by Bicarat, he

carried under the convent porch Jussac, Cahusac, and that one of

Aramis's adversaries who was only wounded. The other, as already

observed, was dead. They then rang the bell, and left the ground;

the mousquetaires and D'Artagnan, intoxicated with joy, carrying

away four swords out of five, and taking the direction of

Monsieur de Treville's hotel. Every mousquetaire whom they met,

and informed of what had happened, turned back and accompanied

them; so that at last their march was like a triumphal

procession. D'Artagnan was beside himself with delight; he walked

between Athos and Porthos, holding an arm of each.

"'If I am not yet a mousquetaire,' said he to his new friends, as

they crossed the threshold of the Hotel Treville, 'I may at least

say that I am received apprentice.'"

The result of this affair is to procure D'Artagnan the favour of

Monsieur de Treville and the King--the latter of whom dislikes the

Cardinal in secret nearly as much as he fears him. The young Gascon

has an audience of Louis the Just, who recruits his finances by the

present of a handful of pistoles; and a few days later he is appointed

to a cadetship in the company of guards of the Chevalier des Essarts,

a brother-in-law of Treville. According to the singular ideas of those

days, there was nothing degrading to a gentleman in receiving money

from the king's hand. D'Artagnan, therefore, pockets the pistoles with

many thanks, and takes an early opportunity of dividing them with his

friends with the mythological names, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and

Aramis, who, according to the custom of mousquetaires, have more gold

upon their coats than in their purses. The courage and good qualities

of the Gascon have won the hearts of the three guardsmen, and he is

admitted to make a fourth in their brotherhood, of which the motto is,

"_Un pour tous, et tous pour un_." All is in common amongst

them--pleasures, perils, pistoles.

The characters of the three mousquetaires are well sketched and

sustained, and illustrate admirably the vices, virtues, and

propensities of their time and station. Aramis, who was originally

intended for the church, has relinquished the black coat of an abbe in

order to fight a nobleman who had insulted him. He still, however,

persists in considering himself as a guardsman only _pro tempore_; and

whenever fortune or his mistress frowns upon him, he declares his

intention of abandoning his sinful mode of life, and throwing himself

into the arms of mother church. Vanity is the failing of Porthos, who

shines more by his imposing appearance, brilliant attire, and bull-dog

courage, than by any qualities of the head. To Athos, who is the most

interesting of the three, a certain mystery is attached, which,

however, is seen through early in the book. He is a man of high birth,

princely manners, and chivalrous feeling, but whose stormy life has

cast a strong tinge of melancholy over his character, and who now

finds his sole consolation in the wine-cup. It must not be therefore

supposed that Athos is a sot, a wallower in wine, or a haunter of

tavern orgies. He drinks, it is true, enough to prostrate any three

ordinary men; but he takes his liquor, as he does every thing else, so

much like a gentleman, and, moreover, there is so much self-devotion

and generosity in his character, such dignity of manner and rectitude

of feeling--his temper so even and kindly--his courage so heroic--that

he is unquestionably the most amiable and interesting of the _dramatis

personae_, preferable to D'Artagnan, to whom premature worldly wisdom

gives a hardness bordering upon egotism. While Aramis is sighing

sonnets to his mistress, and Porthos parading on the crown of the

causeway in all the glory of gold lace and embroidery, Athos sits

tranquilly at home, and says, like Gregory in the Deserter--

"J'aime mieux boire."

His real name--for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are merely assumed

ones--is known only to the King and to Monsieur de Treville.

It would be difficult within the limits of this paper to give an idea

of the entire plot of the _Three Mousquetaires_, which is, in fact,

less a tale with a regular intrigue and _denouement_, than a narrative

of adventures and incidents, extending over a period of nearly three

years. D'Artagnan, whose enterprising character and Gascon acuteness

qualify him admirably to take a part in the court intrigues of the

time, soon finds himself almost at open war with the Cardinal, and

engaged in serving the interests of Louis the Thirteenth's unhappy

queen, Anne of Austria, who, by rejecting the suit of the scarlet

duke--as the mousquetaires irreverently style the Cardinal Duke of

Richelieu--has drawn upon herself the deadly hatred of that omnipotent

personage. The Duke of Buckingham, who is madly in love with the

queen, visits Paris in disguise, and obtains an interview with her. At

parting, he implores her to give him some trifle, which he may

preserve as a _souvenir_ of their attachment; and Anne of Austria

gives him the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be a

jewel-case, containing twelve diamond clasps or _ferrets_ that she has

lately received from the King. The Cardinal, omnipresent by his spies,

learns this; manages adroitly to rouse the king's jealousy; and

prevails on him to give a ball, at which the queen is desired to

appear, wearing the ferrets in question. Anne of Austria is in

despair. To obtain the restitution of the jewels within the eight days

that have to elapse before the one fixed for the ball, appears

impossible. Buckingham is in England; if she writes, her letter will

be intercepted by the Cardinal; if she sends, her messenger will be

stopped. Nothing could at that time be done in France without coming

to the knowledge of Richelieu. In her extremity she is induced to

confide in one of her attendants, with whom D'Artagnan is in love; and

a few hours later, the intrepid Gascon and his three inseparable

friends set out for England, provided with a leave of absence from

Monsieur de Treville, and attended by their four lackeys. D'Artagnan

alone knows the object of their journey; but the others, confiding

implicitly in his judgment, and bound, moreover, by the rules of their

association, ask no questions, and willingly brave the dangers that

the Cardinal strews in their path. It is agreed that, in case of

rencontres by the way, the dead or wounded are to be left to their

fate, and the others are to push on without an instant's delay. Should

D'Artagnan fall, the survivors are to take from his pocket the queen's

letter to Buckingham, and continue their route.

The adventurers are not allowed to proceed far without molestation.

They stop to breakfast, and a stranger picks a quarrel with Porthos,

who stays behind to fight him, and does not rejoin them. Near Beauvais

they receive a volley from some pretended labourers; D'Artagnan's hat

is knocked off by a ball; a lackey is left in the road, and Aramis is

badly wounded, and obliged to remain at the next town. D'Artagnan,

Athos, and their two attendants, reach Amiens at midnight, and stop to

sleep at the sign of the Golden Lily. Here various suspicious

incidents occur, and in the morning their horses are found to be

dead-lame, and unable to proceed. One that might still have gone on

has been bled by mistake.

"All these accidents succeeding each other began to alarm our

travellers; they might be the result of chance, but they were

more probably that of an organized plot. Athos and D'Artagnan

left their room, while Planchet (D'Artagnan's groom) went to

enquire whether there were any horses to be bought in the

neighbourhood. At the door were standing two vigorous animals,

saddled and bridled, and which would have suited the guardsmen

well. Planchet asked to whom they belonged, and was told that

their masters had passed the night at the inn, and were then

paying their score previous to departure. Athos went to do the

same, while D'Artagnan and Planchet remained at the street door.

"The host was in a small back room, which Athos was requested to

enter. He did so without suspicion, and took out some pistoles to

pay. The innkeeper, who was seated at a desk, of which one of the

drawers was half-open, took the money, turned it about, and

examined it on all sides, and suddenly exclaiming that it was

false, declared that he would have Athos and his companion

arrested as coiners.

"'Scoundrel!' cried Athos, advancing towards him; 'I will cut

your ears off for your insolence.'

"But the man stooped down, took a brace of pistols out of the

open drawer, and pointing them at Athos, called loudly for help.

On the instant four armed men entered by a side-door, and

attacked Athos.

"'I am taken!' cried the mousquetaire, with all the power of his

lungs. 'To horse, D'Artagnan! Spur! spur!'

"And he fired both his pistols. D'Artagnan and Planchet untied

the two horses that were waiting at the door, sprang upon their

backs, and set off full gallop.

"By dint of spurring and precaution, D'Artagnan and his follower

reach Calais without further accident; the horse of the former

falling dead within a hundred yards of the town. They hasten to

the port, and find themselves close to a gentleman and his

servant, dusty and travel-stained, who are enquiring for a vessel

to take them to England. The master of a sloop that is ready to

sail informs them, that an order had arrived that very morning to

prevent any ship from leaving the harbour without an express

permission from the Cardinal.

"'I have that permission,' said the gentleman, taking a paper

from his pocket.

"'Very good!' said the sailor. 'Get it countersigned by the

governor of the port, and give me the preference.'

"'Where shall I find the governor?'

"'At his country-house, a quarter of a league from the town. You

see it yonder. A slated roof at the foot of a little hill.'"

The gentleman and his attendant take the direction of the governor's

house. D'Artagnan follows them; picks a quarrel with the stranger, who

is a certain Count de Wardes, an adherent of the Cardinal's, wounds

him desperately, himself receiving a scratch, takes the pass, gets it

countersigned, and proceeds to England. The Duke of Buckingham is

hunting at Windsor with the king; but the indefatigable Gascon follows

him thither, and delivers his letter. The duke hurries with him to

London to give him the ferrets; but, to his unspeakable consternation,

finds that two out of the twelve are missing. They had been cut from

his dress by an emissary of the Cardinal's at a ball at Windsor

Castle, at which he had worn the queen's present. The ferrets are of

immense value, and difficult workmanship. Buckingham sends for his

jeweller, who demands eight days and three thousand pistoles to

replace the missing ornaments. The duke locks him up in a room, with

his tools and a workman, and allows him six thousand pistoles, and

thirty-six hours to complete then. The ferrets are ready within the

prescribed period. Furnished with a password from the duke, who has

trusty agents in France, D'Artagnan reaches Paris by a different road

and without impediment, arriving in time to save the queen, who

appears at the ball with her twelve ferrets, to the vast discomfiture

of the Cardinal. Meanwhile D'Artagnan's mistress had been spirited

away by Richelieu, and the young Gascon is in despair. He confides his

misfortunes to Monsieur de Treville, who promises to do what he can to

find the lady, and advises D'Artagnan to leave Paris till the

Cardinal's wrath is a little blown over. D'Artagnan takes his advice;

bethinks him of the three mousquetaires, and sets out to look for

them. He finds Porthos and Aramis where he left them, nearly recovered

from their wounds; and proceeding to Amiens, enters the hotel of the

Golden Lily, and confronts the host--his whip in his right hand, his

left on his sword-hilt, and evidently meaning mischief.

The innkeeper, however, turns out to be more an object of pity than

blame. Previously to the arrival of D'Artagnan and Athos on their way

to England, he had received information from the authorities, that a

party of coiners, disguised as guardsmen, would arrive at his inn, and

that he was to take measures to arrest them. The six men who brought

him these orders disguised themselves as servants and stable-boys, and

remained to assist in the capture. In the skirmish, Athos shot two of

them, wounded a third, cut the host across the face with the flat of

his sword, and retreated fighting to the cellar stairs. Entering the

cellar, he pulled the door to and barricaded it. His assailants left

the house, carrying off their killed and wounded; and when the

innkeeper, recovering a little from his alarm, went to inform the

governor of what had occurred, the latter declared himself totally

ignorant of the whole business, denied that he had given orders to

arrest any coiners, and threatened to hang the unlucky host if he

mixed up his name in the affair.

"'But, Athos!' cried D'Artagnan, losing all patience at the

innkeeper's prolixity,--'Athos, what is become of him?'

"'I was eager to repair my wrongs towards the gentleman,' replied

the innkeeper, 'and hurried to the cellar to set him at liberty.

But on my declaring what I came for, he swore it was only a snare

laid for him, and insisted upon making his conditions before he

came out. I told him very humbly--for I was aware of the scrape

into which I had got myself by my violence towards one of the

King's mousquetaires--that I was ready to submit to them.'

"'In the first place,' said he, 'I must have my servant delivered

to me, fully armed.'

"His order was obeyed, and Monsieur Grimaud was taken down to the

cellar, wounded as he was. His master received him, barricaded

the door again, and bid us go to the devil.

"'But where is he?' cried D'Artagnan. 'Where is Athos?'

"'In the cellar, sir.'

"'Scoundrel! you have kept him all this time in the cellar?'

"'Good heavens, sir! _I_ keep him in the cellar! You do not know

what he is doing there, or you would not suppose it. If you can

prevail upon him to come out, I shall be grateful to you to the

last day of my life; I will adore you as my guardian angel.'

"'I shall find him there, then?'

"'Certainly you will, sir--he won't come out. Every day we are

obliged to hand him down bread at the end of a hay-fork, and meat

too, when he asks for it. But, alas! it is not of bread and meat

that he makes the largest consumption. I tried once to enter the

cellar with two of my servants, and he put himself in a most

terrible passion. I heard him and his lackey cocking their

pistols and carbine; and when we asked what their intentions

were, your friend said that they had forty shots to fire, and

that they would fire every one before allowing us to enter the

cellar. I then went to complain to the governor, and he told me

that I had only got what I deserved, and that it would teach me

to maltreat honourable gentlemen who used my house.'

"'So that, since that time....' said D'Artagnan, who could not

help laughing at the pitiable countenance of the host.

"'Since that time, sir,' continued the latter, 'we lead the most

wretched life imaginable; for you must know that all our

provisions are in the cellar, our wine in bottle and our wine in

cask, beer, oil, and spices, hams and sausages; and as we cannot

get at them, we are unable to give food or drink to the

travellers who alight here, and our inn is losing all its custom.

If your friend stops one week longer in my cellar, I am a ruined

man.'

"'And quite right that you should be, scoundrel! It was easy to

see by our appearance, that we were men of quality and not

coiners.'

"'Yes, sir, you are right,' replied poor Boniface. 'But only

listen to him, he is getting into a passion.'

"'Doubtless somebody has disturbed him,' said D'Artagnan.

"'We are obliged to disturb him,' cried the host; 'two English

gentlemen have just arrived. The English, as you know, love good

wine, and these have asked for the best. My wife is gone to beg

Monsieur Athos to let her in, and he has no doubt refused as

usual. Holy Virgin! What a racket he is making.'

"D'Artagnan rose from his seat, and followed by the host and by

Planchet with his cocked carbine, took the direction of the

cellar, whence a tremendous noise was proceeding. The Englishmen

were exasperated; they had just come off a long journey, and were

dying of hunger and thirst.

"'It is perfect tyranny,' cried they in very good French, 'that

this madman will not allow these good people the use of their

wine. But we will break open the door, and if he is too furious,

we will kill him.'

"'Not so fast, gentlemen,' said D'Artagnan, drawing his pistols

from his belt. 'You will kill nobody, if you please.'

"'Let them come,' said Athos, in his usual calm voice, from the

other side of the door, 'let them come in, and we shall see.'

"Brave as they appeared to be, the two Englishmen hesitated and

looked at one another. One might almost have supposed that the

cellar was garrisoned by one of those hungry ogres of the fairy

tale, whose cavern no one could enter with impunity. There was a

moment's silence; but the Englishmen were ashamed to retreat, and

one of them, descending the five or six steps leading to the

cellar, gave the door a kick that made it rattle on its hinges.

"'Planchet,' said D'Artagnan, cocking his pistols, 'you take the

one at the bottom of the stairs; I will take the other. Since you

are for a fight, gentlemen, you shall have a bellyfull.'

"'Is that D'Artagnan's voice?' cried Athos.

"'It is,' replied the Gascon.

"'Very good,' said Athos, 'we will work them a little, these

door-breakers.'

"'A moment's patience, Athos,' said D'Artagnan. 'Gentlemen,' he

continued, turning to the Englishmen, 'you are between two fires.

My servant and myself have three shots to fire, you will receive

as many from the cellar, besides which we have got our swords,

with the use of which, I can assure you, my friend and myself are

tolerably well acquainted. Allow me to arrange matters. I give

you my word that you shall have some wine just now.'

"'If there is any left,' growled Athos in a tone of raillery.

"'What does he mean--if there is any left?' cried the host, who

felt a cold perspiration break out all over him.

"'Nonsense, there will be some left,' replied D'Artagnan; 'two

men cannot have drunk the whole cellar out.'

"The Englishmen sheathed their swords, and D'Artagnan related to

them the history of the imprisonment of Athos, upon hearing which

they greatly blamed the innkeeper.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said D'Artagnan, 'if you will be pleased to

return to your apartment, in ten minutes you shall have what you

require.'

"The Englishmen bowed and retired.

"'I am alone, my dear Athos,' said D'Artagnan.--'Open the door.'

"There was a great noise of fagots and beams falling down; the

besieged was demolishing his counter-scarps and bastions. The

next moment the door opened, and the pale face of the

mousquetaire appeared. D'Artagnan sprang forward and embraced

him, but when he tried to lead him out of the cellar, he

perceived that Athos staggered.

"'You are wounded?' cried he.

"'I! not the least,' was the reply. 'I am dead drunk, that is

all, and never did any man better deserve to be so. Fore God!

mine host, I have drunk for my share, at least one hundred and

fifty bottles.'

"'Heaven have mercy on me!' cried the host. 'If the servant has

drunk half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.'

"'Grimaud knows his place too well to drink the same wine as his

master; he has drunk from the cask. By-the-by, I think he must

have forgotten to put in the spigot--I hear a running.'

"D'Artagnan burst into a fit of laughter. The innkeeper was in a

high fever. Just then Grimaud showed himself behind his master,

his carbine on his shoulder, and his head shaking like that of

the drunken satyr in some of Rubens' pictures. His clothes were

smeared with an unctuous liquid, which the host immediately

recognized as his best olive oil.

"D'Artagnan and Athos now crossed the common room, and installed

themselves in the best apartment of the hotel; while the

innkeeper and his wife lighted lamps, and rushed into the cellar,

where a frightful spectacle awaited them. In rear of the

fortifications, in which Athos had made a breach for his exit,

and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks,

arranged according to all the rules of strategy, were numerous

pools of oil and wine, in which the bones of the hams that had

been eaten were lying. In one corner was a pile of broken

bottles, and in another a huge cask of wine was just yielding up

the last drops of its blood. Out of fifty large sausages that had

been suspended to the beams of the roof, ten only were remaining.

The image of devastation and death, as the ancient poet said,

reigned there as upon a field of battle."

With characteristic generosity and _insouciance_, Athos forgives the

host, and compensates him for the damage done to his property. The two

guardsmen then sit down to drink, and D'Artagnan tells his friend of

the misfortune he has had in the loss of his mistress.

"'Your misfortune makes me laugh,' said Athos, shrugging his

shoulders. 'I wonder what you would say to a love story that I

could tell you.'

"'Something that happened to yourself?'

"'Or to one of my friends; no matter.'

"'Tell it me.'

"'I would rather drink.'

"'You can do both.'

"'True,' said Athos, filling his glass; 'the two things go well

together.'

"The mousquetaire paused, and seemed to be collecting his

thoughts; and as he did so, D'Artagnan observed that he grew each

moment paler. He had reached that stage of intoxication at which

ordinary drinkers fall under the table and sleep. Athos, however,

did not do that; he dreamed aloud without sleeping. There was

something frightful in this somnambulism of drunkenness.

"'One of my friends,' he began--'one of my friends, mind you, not

myself,' interrupted he with a gloomy smile; 'a count of my

province, that is to say of Berri, noble as a Dandolo or a

Montmorency, fell in love when twenty-five years of age, with a

young girl of seventeen, beautiful as painters have depicted

Venus. Joined to the _naivete_ of her age, she possessed the soul

and feeling of a poet; she could not be said to please--she

intoxicated all who approached her. She lived in a little village

with her brother, who was a priest. None knew who they were, nor

whence they came; but she was so beautiful, and her brother so

pious, that none thought of asking. It was rumoured and believed

that they were of good family. My friend, who was lord of that

country, might have seduced the young girl or taken her by force,

as he chose; he was the master; who would have come to the

assistance of two friendless strangers? Unfortunately he was an

honest man, and he married her. The fool-the idiot!'

"'Why a fool, since he loved her?' asked D'Artagnan.

"'Patience,' said Athos. 'He conducted her to his castle, and

made her the first lady of the province; and, to do her justice,

she knew perfectly how to support her rank.'

"'Well?' said D'Artagnan.

"'Well! one day she was out hunting with her husband,' continued

Athos, speaking in a low tone and very fast, 'she was overcome by

the heat, and fell from her horse in a swoon; the count sprang to

her assistance, and as her clothes seemed to prevent her

breathing, he cut them open with his dagger, and her shoulder was

uncovered. Guess what she had upon her shoulder, D'Artagnan?'

said Athos with a strange wild laugh.

"'How can I tell?' said D'Artagnan.

"'A _fleur-de-lis_. She was branded!'

"And Athos emptied at a draught the cup that stood before him.

"'Horror!' exclaimed D'Artagnan. 'What do you tell me?'

"'The truth--the angel was a devil--the innocent young girl was a

convict.'

"'And what did the count do?'

"'The count was a powerful nobleman; he had right of pit and

halter upon his lands; he bared the shoulder of the countess,

tied her hands behind her back, and hung her to a tree.'

"'Heavens! Athos! a murder!' cried D'Artagnan.

"'Yes, a murder, nothing more,' said Athos, pale as death. 'But

there is no wine--we are drinking nothing.'

"And Athos seized the last bottle by the neck, put it to his

mouth, and emptied it as though it had been an ordinary glass."

This strange story, that could hardly have proceeded from any but a

French imagination, is nevertheless very effective, far more so in

Monsieur Dumas' terse and pointed diction than in our imperfect

translation. The dame with the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder is not

dead, but on the contrary married again, and proves to be no other

than an emissary of the Cardinal, a certain Lady de Winter, or Milady,

as M. Dumas persists in calling her. She it was who cut the diamonds

off Buckingham's dress, and informed the Cardinal of the same.

Throughout the whole book she plays the part of a sort of

Mephistopheles in petticoats, doing evil for evil's sake; and finally,

when in prison in England, gains over a fanatical young officer named

Felton, who is set to guard her, and working on him by the power of

her charms and an artfully devised story, instigates him to the murder

of Buckingham, who is at Portsmouth fitting out an armament for the

relief of La Rochelle, then besieged by Richelieu. She escapes to

France, but there falls into the hands of her deadly enemy,

D'Artagnan, and of her first husband, Athos, otherwise Count de la

Fere. Her punishment is one of the last and most striking scenes in

the book, which concludes with the capture of La Rochelle, leaving

D'Artagnan a lieutenant of mousquetaires, and, to all appearance, on

the high-road to further preferment. Some account of his future

fortune is promised us by Monsieur Dumas; and, however alarming a

continuation to a book in eight volumes may sound, we cannot help

wishing he may keep his promise. There is less occasion to be alarmed

at the length of a six or eight volume book from his hands, than at

that of a three volume one from those of many other writers; and

moreover one must take into account the ingenuity of French

publishers, who manage to have the type spread out over the largest

possible amount of white paper. The system of putting little in a

page, and diminishing that little by the interpolation of huge and

apparently objectless blank spaces, has reached its height in Paris;

and, although an imposition on the public, it perhaps renders a book

lighter and pleasanter to read. Light reading and pleasant reading

Monsieur Dumas' romance assuredly is; and we can wish our readers no

better pastime, during the long evenings of this wintry season, than

the perusal of the feats and fortunes of the _Trois Mousquetaires_.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.