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GEORGE ELIOT

It will be the duty of the more serious criticism of another generation in some degree to revive the reputation of George Eliot as an abiding literary force—­a reputation which the taste of the hour is rather disposed to reduce.  Five-and-twenty years ago the tendency was towards excessive praise:  many judges, of trained literary insight, proclaimed her as the greatest genius of the age, one of the brightest stars of English literature, nay, said some of them, quite losing control of their speech—­a modern Shakespeare, and so forth.  Some cooler heads looked grave, but none save the inveterate cynics ventured to mock; and the great public, as usual, thought it best to follow the lead of so many men and so many women of the higher culture.  The inevitable reaction ensued:  when, not only were the grave shortcomings of George Eliot ruthlessly condemned, but her noble aim and superb qualities were blindly ignored.

The taste in popular romance sways hither and thither in sudden revulsion, like the taste in hats or in frocks, or the verdict of manhood suffrage.  This or that type becomes suddenly the rage, this or that mannerism is voted an offence, as quickly as fashion runs after a new tint, or boycotts an obsolete sleeve.  Journalism and all the other forces of the hour stimulate these caprices and carry away the masses by their volubility and noise.  It is the business of serious criticism, keeping a cooler head, to correct these fervid impulses of the day—­whilst excited audiences in the amphitheatre raise or depress the fatal thumb, awarding life or death to the combatants in the great arena.

The business of criticism is to judge—­to judge upon the whole evidence, after hearing counsel on both sides with equal attention, after weighing every shred of argument and every word that any witness has to offer, and after patient study of every aspect of the case, to deliver a complete and reasoned estimate of the whole matter at issue.  The true critic is not a mere juryman, who has nothing to do but to pronounce a bare verdict of “guilty” or “not guilty.”  He is a judge of the supreme court of equity, who may find, in some intricate story unravelled at his bar, a dozen errors in law and as many mistakes of fact, and yet may give substantial relief or may decree onerous penalties.  It is easy enough to detect faulty, easy enough to insist on merits:  the thing wanted to guide the public is the cool, compensated, equitable judgment that is not seduced by any conspicuous charm, and is not irritated by any incorrigible defect, but which, missing no point of merit and none of failure, finally and resolutely strikes the just balance.