ond, a
psychologist, by the continual analysis and explanation of motives; third,
a moralist, by showing in each individual the action and reaction of
universal moral forces, and especially by making every evil act bring
inevitable punishment to the man who does it. Tragedy, therefore, plays a
large part in the story; for, according to George Eliot, tragedy and
suffering walk close behind us, or lurk at every turn in the road of life.
Like all her novels, _Silas Marner_ is depressing. We turn away from even
the wedding of Eppie--which is just as it should be--with a sense of
sadness and incompleteness. Finally, as we close the book, we are conscious
of a powerful and enduring impression of reality. Silas, the poor weaver;
Godfrey Cass, the well-meaning, selfish man; Mr. Macey, the garrulous, and
observant parish clerk; Dolly Winthrop, the kind-hearted countrywoman who
cannot understand the mysteries of religion and so interprets God in terms
of human love,--these are real people, whom having once met we can never
forget.

_Romola_ has the same general moral theme as the English novels; but the
scenes are entirely different, and opinion is divided as to the comparative
merit of the work. It is a study, a very profound study of moral
development in one character and of moral degeneracy in another. Its
characters and its scenes are both Italian, and the action takes place
during a critical period of the Renaissance movement, when Savonarola was
at the height of his power in Florence. Here is a magnificent theme and a
superb background for a great novel, and George Eliot read and studied till
she felt sure that she understood the place, the time, and the people of
her story. _Romola_ is therefore interesting reading, in many respects the
most interesting of her works. It has been called one of our greatest
historical novels; but as such it has one grievous fault. It is not quite
true to the people or even to the locality which it endeavors to represent.
One who reads it here, in a new and different land, thinks only of the
story and of the novelist's power; but one who reads it on the spot which
it describes, and amidst the life which it pictures, is continually haunted
by the suggestion that George Eliot understood neither Italy nor the
Italians. It is this lack of harmony with Italian life itself which caused
Morris and Rossetti and even Browning, with all his admiration for the
author, to lay aside the book, unable to rea