ll who knew
George Eliot and loved her work, if for no other reason, for its
autobiographic and personal touches and its revelation of yearnings and
misgivings hardly suspected in life. There are scenes and minor
characters in it which hold their own against _Adam Bede_, but as a
whole it is not so strong or so rich in colour, and it can hardly be
said to occupy new ground. It has not the pathos of _Amos Barton_, nor
the exquisite style of _Silas Marner_, nor the breadth and constructive
merit of _Adam Bede_. And except to the chosen band of Eliotists, it
is not likely to retain any permanent popularity. It is a book to
study for those who have special interest in George Eliot as woman, as
teacher, and as artist--but for my own part I find it rather a book to
reflect upon than a book to read and to re-read.

With respect to _Romola_, though we must all agree with Mr. Oscar
Browning that it is "replete with learning," "weighed with knowledge in
every page," exquisite in art, and so forth, it is really impossible to
call it with him "the best historical novel ever written." Even in
exact reproduction of another age, it cannot compare with _Esmond_, and
how immeasurably as romance is it beneath the fire and movement of a
dozen historical romances that one could name! The beauty of the
Florentine pictures, the enormous care, thought, and reading, lavished
on the story, the variety of literary resource--all make it a most
memorable work, a work almost _sui generis_, a book which every student
of Italy, every lover of Florence must mark, learn, and inwardly
digest. But to call it a complete success is to go too far. The task
was too great. To frame in a complex background of historical
erudition an ethical problem of even greater complexity and
subtlety--this was a task which might have sorely tried even greater
powers than hers--a task in which Goethe and Scott might have
succeeded, but which Goethe and Scott were too truly the born artists
to attempt without ample care, and too busy with many things to devote
to it the required labour.

_Romola_ is certainly a wonderful monument of literary accomplishments;
but it remains a _tour de force_, too elaborate, too laboured, too
intricate, too erudite. As the French say, it has _trop de choses_, it
is too long, too full, over-costumed, too studiously mounted on the
stage. We sometimes see nowadays "a Shakespearean revival," with
scenery studied by eminent artists on