“Strength is the brute form of truth.”  There is a French conciseness in such a sentence and immense mental suggestiveness.  Both his scenic and character phrasing are memorable, as where the dyspeptic philosopher in “Feverel” is described after dinner as “languidly twinkling stomachic contentment.”  And what a scene is that where Master Gammon replies to Mrs. Sumfit’s anxious query concerning his lingering at table with appetite apparently unappeasable: 

     “‘When do you think you will have done, Master Gammon?’

     “‘When I feels my buttons, Ma’am.’”

Or hear John Thrasher in “Harry Richmond” dilate on Language: 

     ’There’s cockney, and there’s country, and there’s school. 
     Mix the three, strain and throw away the sediment.  Now
     yon’s my view.’

Has any philologist said all that could be said, so succinctly?  His lyric outbursts in the face of Nature or better yet, where as in the moonlight meeting of the lovers at Wllming Weir in “Sandra Belloni,” nature is interspersed with human passion in a glorious union of music, picture and impassioned sentiment,—­these await the pleasure of the enthralled seeker in every book.  To encounter such passages (perhaps in a mood of protest over some almost insufferable defect) is to find the reward rich indeed.  Let the cause of obscurity be what it may, we need not doubt that with Meredith style is the man, a perfectly honest way of expressing his personality.  It is not impossible that his unconventional education and the early influence of German upon him, may come into the consideration.  But in the main his peculiarity is congenital.

Meredith lacked self-criticism as a writer.  But it is quite inaccurate to speak of obscure thought:  it is language, the medium, which makes the trouble when there is any.  His thought, allowing for the fantasticality of his humor in certain moods, is never muddled or unorganized:  it is sane, consistent and worthy of attention.  To say this, is still to regret the stylistic vagaries.

One other defect must be mentioned:  the characters talk like Meredith, instead of in their own persons.  This is not true uniformly, of course, but it does mar the truth of his presentation.  Young girls show wit and wisdom quite out of keeping; those in humble life—­a bargeman, perhaps, or a prize-fighter—­speak as they would not in reality.  Illusion is by so much disturbed.  It would appear in such cases that the thinker temporarily dominated the creative artist.

When all is said, pro and con, there remains a towering personality; a writer of unique quality; a man so stimulating and surprising as he is, that we almost prefer him to the perfect artist he never could be.  No English maker of novels can give us a fuller sense of life, a keener realization of the dignity of man.  It is natural to wish for more than we have—­to desire that Meredith had possessed the power of complete control of his material and himself, had revised his work to better advantage.  But perhaps it is more commonsensible to be thankful for him as he is.