Goldsmith's hero, and apply it here. As for "charmed circles" there is
uncommonly good company outside them, where, as Beatrice says, we may
"be as merry as the day is long," so that the Comic Spirit cannot
entirely disdain us. And as for art--the present writer will fight for
its claims as long as he has breath. But the proof of the art of the
novelist is that--at first hand or very shortly--he "enfists,"
absorbs, delights you. You may discover secrets of his art afterwards
with much pleasure and profit: but the actual first-hand delight is the
criterion. There ought to be no need of sitting down before the thing
with tools and dynamite like burglars at a safe; of mustering crucibles
and reagents like assayers at some doubtful and recalcitrant piece of
ore. Now these not very adept defenders of Mr. Meredith seem to assert
that these processes are desirable in any case, and necessary in his. As
a matter of fact the necessity is not omnipresent: but it is present far
too frequently. It is the first duty of the novelist to "let himself be
read"--anything else that he gives you is a _bonus_, a trimming, a
dessert.

It is not unamusing to those who regarded Mr. Meredith during almost his
whole career with those mingled feelings of the highest admiration and
of critical reserve which this notice has endeavoured to express, to
note a new phase which seems to be coming over the youngest criticism.
The original want of appreciation has passed, never, one may hope, to
return; and the middle _engouement_, which was mainly engineered by
those doughty partisans, Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Henley, is passing
likewise. But the most competent and generous juniors seem to be a
little uncomfortable, to have to take a good deal on trust, and not
quite to "like the security." To those who know the history of critical
opinion these signs speak pretty clearly, though not so as to authorise
them to anticipate the final judgment absolutely. Genius, all but of the