right which imperils his own interests, because it is the right; he can set his back on the wrong which would advantage himself, because it is the wrong.  That he does this coolly, temperately, without enthusiasm, with full, clear forecasting of all the consequences, is only saying that he is Harold Transome still.  That he does so choose when the forecast probabilities are all against those objects which the mere man of the world most desires, proves that under that hard external crust dwells as essential a nobleness as any we recognise in Felix Holt.  There is an inherent strength and manliness in Harold Transome to which Arthur Donnithorne or Godfrey Cass can never attain.

Few things in the literary history of the age are more puzzling than the reception given to ‘Romola’ by a novel-devouring public.  That the lovers of mere sensationalism should not have appreciated it, was to be fully expected.  But to probably the majority of readers, even of average intelligence and capability, it was, and still is, nothing but a weariness.  With the more thoughtful, on the other hand, it took at once its rightful place, not merely as by far the finest and highest of all the author’s works, but as perhaps the greatest and most perfect work of fiction of its class ever till then produced.

Of its artistic merits we do not propose to speak in detail.  But as a historical reproduction of an epoch and a life peculiarly difficult of reproduction, we do not for a moment hesitate to say that it has no rival, except, perhaps,—­and even that at a distance,—­Victor Hugo’s incomparably greatest work, ‘Notre Dame de Paris.’  It is not that we see as in a panorama the Florence of the Medicis and Savonarola,—­we live, we move, we feel as if actors in it.  Its turbulence, its struggles for freedom and independence, its factions with their complicated transitions and changes, its conspiracies and treasons, its classical jealousies and triumphs,—­we feel ourselves mixed up with them all.  Names historically immortal are made to us familiar presences and voices.  Its nobles and its craftsmen alike become to us as friends or foes.  Its very buildings—­the Duomo and the Campanile, and many another—­rise in their stateliness and their grace before those who have never been privileged to see them, clear and vivid as the rude northern houses that daily obtrude on our gaze.

So distinct and all-pervading, in this great work, is what we are maintaining to be the central moral purpose of all the author’s works, that it can scarcely escape the notice of the most superficial reader.  Affirmatively and negatively, in Romola and Tito—­the two forms of illustration to some extent combined in Savonarola—­the constant, persistent, unfaltering utterance of the book is, that the only true worth and greatness of humanity lies in its pursuit of the highest truth, purity, and right, irrespective of every issue, and in exclusion of every meaner aim; and that the true