The fiery torch lit by the Brontes has not
been passed on to other hands; Dickens has influenced only journalism;
Thackeray's delightful superficial philosophy, superb narrative power,
and clever social satire have found no echoes; nor has Trollope left any
direct successors behind him--a fact which is not much to be regretted,
however, as, admirable though Trollope undoubtedly is for rainy
afternoons and tedious railway journeys, from the point of view of
literature he is merely the perpetual curate of Pudlington Parva. As for
George Meredith, who could hope to reproduce him? His style is chaos
illumined by brilliant flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered
everything, except language; as a novelist he can do everything, except
tell a story; as an artist he is everything, except articulate. Too
strange to be popular, too individual to have imitators, the author of
Richard Feverel stands absolutely alone. It is easy to disarm criticism,
but he has disarmed the disciple. He gives us his philosophy through the
medium of wit, and is never so pathetic as when he is humorous. To turn
truth into a paradox is not difficult, but George Meredith makes all his
paradoxes truths, and no Theseus can thread his labyrinth, no OEdipus
solve his secret.

However, it is only fair to acknowledge that there are some signs of a
school springing up amongst us. This school is not native, nor does it
seek to reproduce any English master. It may be described as the result
of the realism of Paris filtered through the refining influence of
Boston. Analysis, not action, is its aim; it has more psychology than
passion, and it plays very cleverly upon one string, and this is the
commonplace.

* * * * *

As a reaction against this school, it is pleasant to come across a novel
like Lady Augusta Noel's Hithersea Mere. If this story has any definite
defect, it comes from its delicacy and lightness of treatment. An
industrious Bostonian would have made half a dozen novels out of it, and
have had enough left for a serial. Lady Augusta Noel is content to
vivify her characters, and does not care about vivisection; she suggests
rather than explains; and she does not seek to make life too obviously
rational. Romance, picturesqueness, charm--these are the qualities of
her book. As for its plot, it has so many plots that it is difficult to
describe them. We have the story of Rhona Somerville, the daughter of a
great popular preacher, who tries to write her father's life, and, on
looking over his papers and early diaries, finds struggle where she
expected calm, and doubt where she looked for faith, and is afraid to
keep back the truth, and yet dares not publish it. Rhona is quite
charming; she is like a little flower that takes itself very seriously,
and she shows us how thoroughly nice and natural a narrow-minded girl may
be. Then we have the two brothers, John and Adrian Mowbray. John is the
hard-working, vigorous clergyman, who is impatient of all theories,
brings his faith to the test of action, not of intellect, lives what he
believes, and has no sympathy for those who waver or question--a
thoroughly admirable, practical, and extremely irritating man. Adrian is
the fascinating dilettante, the philosophic doubter, a sort of romantic
rationalist with a taste for art.