Mr. Buxton Forman says, that “in the charming headings to the chapters of Felix Holt it seemed as though the strong hand which had, up to that point, exercised masterly control over the restive tendency of high prose to rear up into verse, had relaxed itself just for the sake of a holiday, and no more.  These headings did not bear the stamp of original poetry upon them.  Forcible as were some, admirable in thought and applicability to the respective chapters as were all, none bore traces of that clearly defined individuality of style betrayed by all great and accomplished practitioners of verse, in even so small a compass as these headings.  Some of them possess the great distinctive technical mark of poetry,—­condensation; but this very condensation is compassed not in an original and individual method, but in the method of some pre-existent model; and it is hardly necessary to enforce that power of assimilation or reproduction, however large, is no infallible index of self-existent poetical faculty.”  This critic finds traces of Shakspere, Wordsworth and Mrs. Browning in these mottoes, and thinks they are all imitative, even when they are best.  It is too easy, however, to dispose of a piece of literary work in this manner, and such criticism is very apt to have little meaning in it.  George Eliot has proven herself far too original, both in prose and poetry, to make such a criticism of much value.  Even if the charge of imitation is a valid one, it is far more probable that it was conscious and purposed, than that George Eliot’s poetic gifts could only be exercised when impelled by the genius of some other.  To give the impression of quotation may have been a part of George Eliot’s purpose in writing these mottoes, which are original enough, and thoughtful enough, to have been attributed to any of the great poets.  The real defects of her poetry lie in quite another direction than that of a lack of originality.  She has enough to say that is fresh and interesting, she has no need to consult others for what she is to utter; but she has not the fervor of expression, the impressive touch, which separates poetry from prose.  There is intellectual power enough, thought even in excess, but she does not soar and sing.  She walks steadily, majestically along on the ground, she has no wings for the clear ether.  Indeed, she is too much a realist to breathe in that upper air of pure song; it is too fine and delicate for one who loves the solid facts of earth so well as she.

If George Eliot often wrote prose which is almost poetry, she also wrote poetry which is almost prose.  The concentrated, image-bearing phrases of poetry are wanting oftentimes in her verse.  There is meter but no other quality of poetry, and not a few passages could be printed as prose with scarce a suspicion to the reader that they were intended for poetry.  Mr. Buxton Forman has given a passage from The Spanish Gypsy in this way, adding only six insignificant words, and restoring i to is in two instances.  He rightly says that the passage printed in prose “would surely be read by any one who saw it for the first time, without any suspicion that it merely required the excision of six little words and two letters to transform it to verse; no single expression betraying the secret that the passage is from a poem.”