If you will follow my nose as the sportsman follows that of his pointer, you will observe that these remarks are excited by the presence of my beloved “Richard Feverel,” which lurks in yonder corner.  What a great book it is, how wise and how witty!  Others of the master’s novels may be more characteristic or more profound, but for my own part it is the one which I would always present to the new-comer who had not yet come under the influence.  I think that I should put it third after “Vanity Fair” and “The Cloister and the Hearth” if I had to name the three novels which I admire most in the Victorian era.  The book was published, I believe, in 1859, and it is almost incredible, and says little for the discrimination of critics or public, that it was nearly twenty years before a second edition was needed.

But there are never effects without causes, however inadequate the cause may be.  What was it that stood in the way of the book’s success?  Undoubtedly it was the style.  And yet it is subdued and tempered here with little of the luxuriance and exuberance which it attained in the later works.  But it was an innovation, and it stalled off both the public and the critics.  They regarded it, no doubt, as an affectation, as Carlyle’s had been considered twenty years before, forgetting that in the case of an original genius style is an organic thing, part of the man as much as the colour of his eyes.  It is not, to quote Carlyle, a shirt to be taken on and off at pleasure, but a skin, eternally fixed.  And this strange, powerful style, how is it to be described?  Best, perhaps, in his own strong words, when he spoke of Carlyle with perhaps the arriere pensee that the words would apply as strongly to himself.

“His favourite author,” says he, “was one writing on heroes in a style resembling either early architecture or utter dilapidation, so loose and rough it seemed.  A wind-in-the-orchard style that tumbled down here and there an appreciable fruit with uncouth bluster, sentences without commencements running to abrupt endings and smoke, like waves against a sea-wall, learned dictionary words giving a hand to street slang, and accents falling on them haphazard, like slant rays from driving clouds; all the pages in a breeze, the whole book producing a kind of electrical agitation in the mind and joints.”

What a wonderful description and example of style!  And how vivid is the impression left by such expressions as “all the pages in a breeze.”  As a comment on Carlyle, and as a sample of Meredith, the passage is equally perfect.

Well, “Richard Feverel” has come into its own at last.  I confess to having a strong belief in the critical discernment of the public.  I do not think good work is often overlooked.  Literature, like water, finds its true level.  Opinion is slow to form, but it sets true at last.  I am sure that if the critics were to unite to praise a bad book or to damn a good one they could (and continually do) have a five-year influence, but it would in no wise affect the final result.  Sheridan said that if all the fleas in his bed had been unanimous, they could have pushed him out of it.  I do not think that any unanimity of critics has ever pushed a good book out of literature.