A recent reading of this first book showed more clearly than ever the unequalness of merit in the three stories, their strong didactic bent, and the charmingly faithful observation which for the present-day reader is their greatest attraction.  The first and simplest, “The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton,” is by far the best.  The poorest is the second, “Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story,” which has touches of conventional melodrama in a framework reminiscent of earlier fictionists like Disraeli.  “Janet’s Repentance,” with its fine central character of the unhappy wedded wife, is strong, sincere, appealing; and much of the local color admirable.  But—­perhaps because there is more attempt at story-telling, more plot—­the narrative falls below the beautiful, quiet chronicle of the days of Amos:  an exquisite portrayal of an average man who yet stands for humanity’s best.  The tale is significant as a prelude to Eliot’s coming work, containing, in the seed, those qualities which were to make her noteworthy.  Perusing the volume to-day, we can hardly say that it appears an epoch-making production in fiction, the declaration of a new talent in modern literature.  But much has happened in fiction during the half century since 1857, and we are not in a position to judge the feeling of those who then began to follow the fortunes of the Reverend Amos.

But it is not difficult for the twentieth century reader, even if blase, to understand that “Adam Bede,” published when its author was forty, aroused a furore of admiration:  it still holds general attention, and many whose opinion is worth having, regard it with respect, affection, even enthusiasm.

The broader canvas was exactly what the novelist needed to show her power of characterization, her ability to build up her picture by countless little touches guided by the most unflinching faith in detail and given vibrancy by the sympathy which in all George Eliot’s fiction is like the air you breathe.  Then, too, as an appeal to the general, there is more of story interest, although neither here nor in any story to follow, does plot come first with a writer whose chief interest is always character, and its development.  The autobiographic note deepens and gives at once verity and intensity to the novel; here, as in “The Mill on the Floss” which was to follow the next year, Eliot first gave free play to that emotional seizure of her own past to which reference has been made.  The homely material of the first novel was but part of its strength.  Readers who had been offered the flash-romantic fiction of Disraeli and Bulwer, turned with refreshment to the placid annals of a village where, none the less, the human heart in its follies and frailties and nobilities, is laid bare.  The skill with which the leisurely moving story rises to its vivid moments of climactic interest—­the duel in the wood, Hetty’s flight, the death of Adam’s father—­is marked and points plainly to the advance, through