ls his own
interests, because it _is_ the right; he _can_ set his back on the wrong
which would advantage himself, because it _is_ the wrong. That he does
this coolly, temperately, without enthusiasm, with full, clear
forecasting of all the consequences, is only saying that he is Harold
Transome still. That he does so choose when the forecast probabilities
are all against those objects which the mere man of the world most
desires, proves that under that hard external crust dwells as essential a
nobleness as any we recognise in Felix Holt. There is an inherent
strength and manliness in Harold Transome to which Arthur Donnithorne or
Godfrey Cass can never attain.

Few things in the literary history of the age are more puzzling than the
reception given to 'Romola' by a novel-devouring public. That the lovers
of mere sensationalism should not have appreciated it, was to be fully
expected. But to probably the majority of readers, even of average
intelligence and capability, it was, and still is, nothing but a
weariness. With the more thoughtful, on the other hand, it took at once
its rightful place, not merely as by far the finest and highest of all
the author's works, but as perhaps the greatest and most perfect work of
fiction of its class ever till then produced.

Of its artistic merits we do not propose to speak in detail. But as a
historical reproduction of an epoch and a life peculiarly difficult of
reproduction, we do not for a moment hesitate to say that it has no
rival, except, perhaps,--and even that at a distance,--Victor Hugo's
incomparably greatest work, 'Notre Dame de Paris.' It is not that we
_see_ as in a panorama the Florence of the Medicis and Savonarola,--we
live, we move, we feel as if actors in it. Its turbulence, its struggles
for freedom and independence, its factions with their complicated
transitions and changes, its conspiracies and treasons, its classical
jealousies and triumphs,--we feel ourselves mixed up with them all. Names
historically immortal are made to us familiar presences and voices. Its
nobles and its craftsmen alike become to us as friends or foes. Its very
buildings--the Duomo and the Campanile, and many another--rise in their
stateliness and their grace before those who have never been privileged
to see them, clear and vivid as the rude northern houses that daily
obtrude on our gaze.

So distinct and all-pervading, in this great work, is what we are
maintaining to be t