What is remarkable in this story is that the plot is exactly similar to that of “Jermola the Potter,” the masterpiece of a famous Polish novelist,—­a marvellous coincidence, or plagiarism, difficult to be explained.  But Shakspeare, the most original of men, borrowed some of his plots from Italian writers; and Mirabeau appropriated the knowledge of men more learned than he, which by felicity of genius he made his own; and Webster, too, did the same thing.  There is nothing new under the sun, except in the way of “putting things.”

After the publication of the various novels pertaining to the rural and humble life of England, with which George Eliot was so well acquainted, into which she entered with so much sympathy, and which she so marvellously portrayed, she took a new departure, entering a field with which she was not so well acquainted, and of which she could only learn through books.  The result was “Romola,” the most ambitious, and in some respects the most remarkable, of all her works.  It certainly is the most learned and elaborate.  It is a philosophico-historical novel, the scene of which is laid in Florence at the time of Savonarola,—­the period called the Renaissance, when art and literature were revived with great enthusiasm; a very interesting period, the glorious morning, as it were, of modern civilization.

This novel, the result of reading and reflection, necessarily called into exercise other faculties besides accurate observation,—­even imagination and invention, for which she is not pre-eminently distinguished.  In this novel, though interesting and instructive, we miss the humor and simplicity of the earlier works.  It is overloaded with learning.  Not one intelligent reader in a hundred has ever heard even the names of many of the eminent men to whom she alludes.  It is full of digressions, and of reflections on scientific theories.  Many of the chapters are dry and pedantic.  It is too philosophical to be popular, too learned to be appreciated.  As in some of her other stories, highly improbable events take place.  The plot is not felicitous, and the ending is unsatisfactory.  The Italian critics of the book are not, on the whole, complimentary.  George Eliot essayed to do, with prodigious labor, what she had no special aptitude for.  Carlyle in ten sentences would have made a more graphic picture of Savonarola.  None of her historical characters stand out with the vividness with which Scott represented Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, or with which even Bulwer painted Rienzi and the last of the Barons.

Critics do not admire historical novels, because they are neither history nor fiction.  They mislead readers on important issues, and they are not so interesting as the masterpieces of Macaulay and Froude.  Yet they have their uses.  They give a superficial knowledge of great characters to those who will not read history.  The field of history is too vast for ordinary people, who have no time for extensive reading even if they have the inclination.