was heard in the land; and this time the plays, with the exception of "La Tour de Nesle," of which we have spoken, were let off lightly, partly because Dumas's earliest plays were incontestibly his own, partly because he did not dispute the share of Maquet, Bourgeois and the rest, in the later productions. A new charge, therefore, was levelled at the romancer, whose second fame infuriated his enemies. He was represented as a rich, prosperous (!) spider who lured the starving flies into his web, and sucked their brains, "swelling wisibly" thus, whilst they dwelt in darkness, enduring an obscure, not to say empty, existence.
Dumas's reply to this terrible indictment was a challenge, which we need hardly say was never accepted. He informed these unknown but talented authors that he was supplying the feuilleton to one Paris journal only, and that therefore the rest of the press was open to them. This was their opportunity: now they could vindicate themselves, and win a reputation that was their own undisputedly. "Write a 'Monte Cristo' or a 'Trois Mousquetaires,'" he pleaded; "don't wait until I am dead—let me in turn have the pleasure of reading your books!" The answer was—silence.
Dumas was always the man of genius, whoever his co-worker may have been, and this is asserted by all critics of any standing. "That he was the
