Do not expect “criticism” from me.  I hate “sitting in the seat of judgment,” and I would rather try to impress the public generally with the sense that they may get the best result from a book without necessarily forming an “opinion” about it, than I would rush into stating opinions of my own.  The floods of nonsense printed in the form of critical opinions seem to me a chief curse of our times—­a chief obstacle to true culture.

It is not to be forgotten, however, that George Eliot had done much critical work before she became a novelist, and that much of it was of a keen and cutting nature.  Severely as she was handled by the critics, no one of them was more vigorous than was her treatment of Young and Cumming.  Even in later years, when she took up the critical pen, the effect was felt.  Mr. Lecky did not pass gently through her hands when she reviewed his Rationalism in Europe.  Her criticisms in Theophrastus Such were penetrating and severe.

For the same reason, she read few works of contemporary fiction, that her mind might not be biassed and that she might not be discouraged in her own work.  Always busy with some special subject which absorbed all her time and strength, she could give little attention to contemporary literature.  To one correspondent she wrote,—­

    My constant groan is, that I must leave so much of the greatest writing
    which the centuries have sifted for me, unread for want of time.

The style adopted by George Eliot is for the most part fresh, vital and energetic.  It is pure in form, rich in illustrations, strong and expressive in manner.  There are exceptions to this statement, it is true, and she is sometimes turgid and dry, again gaudy and verbose.  Sententious in her didactic passages, she is pure and noble in her sentiment, poetical and impressive in her descriptions of nature.  Her diction is choice, her range of expression large, and she admirably suits her words to the thought she would present.  There is a rich, teeming fulness of life in her books, the canvas is crowded, there is movement and action.  An abundance of passion, delicate feeling and fine sensibility is expressed.

The critics have almost universally condemned the plots of George Eliot’s novels for their want of unity.  They tell us that the flow of events is often not orderly, while improbable scenes are introduced, superfluous incidents are common, the number of characters is too great, and the analysis of character impedes the unity of events.  These objections are not always vital, and sometimes they are mere objections rather than genuine criticisms.  Instances of failure to follow the best methods may be cited in abundance, one of which is seen in the first two chapters in Daniel Deronda being placed out of their natural order.  The opening scenes in The Spanish Gypsy seem quite unnecessary to the development of the plot, while the last two