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LEXANDRE DUMAS, père, to whose works we are indebted for a striking story in our last number, and for another in the present issue, was, if we except Sir Walter Scott, the greatest writer of romance who ever lived. And his life was as romantic as his books. His grandmother was a negress, and his father, General Dumas—a dashing officer whom Napoleon left to die in prison—had the appearance of a negro. Alexandre was born at Villers-Cotterets, but at twenty came to Paris to seek his fortune, and began life as a copying-clerk; but in 1828 his play, "Henry III.," took the town by storm. He threw himself with ardour into the Revolution of July, made an expedition to Soissons, and captured, almost single-handed, a powder-magazine, a general, and several officers. In 1844 "Monte Cristo" appeared in the columns of a newspaper, and caused more universal interest than any romance since "Robinson Crusoe" or "Waverley." Then followed "The Three Mousqueteers," which, with its sequels, contained his best work, except "La Reine Margot," the finest of them all. With the help of assistants, Dumas then began to put forth novels at the rate of fifty or sixty in one year—his works are said to reach 2,000 volumes—and he made large sums of money, which he spent as fast as he earned them; so that in his old age he was reduced to the strangest devices to maintain himself, writing puffs for tradesmen, and even exhibiting himself in shop-windows. Even in the little stories which we have adapted there are manifested many of the characteristics in which Dumas never had a superior—the never-flagging spirit of the narrative, the dramatic situations, the air of nature, and the colour of romance.