e sham-semblances
of books, I possess, because honoured friends have given them to
me; even so, I would value the gift more in the decency of a single
volume. The dear little duodecimos of the last century, of course, are
welcome in a library. That was a happy day, when by the discovery of
a _Ferdinand Count Fathom_, I completed my set of Smollett in the
original fifteen volumes. But after the first generation of novelists,
the sham system began to creep in. With Fanny Burney, novels grow too
bulky, and it is a question whether even Scott or Jane Austen should
be possessed in the original form. Of the moderns, only Thackeray
is bibliographically desirable. Hence even of Mr. George Meredith's
fiction I make no effort to possess first editions; yet _The Shaving
of Shagpat_ is an exception. I toiled long to secure it, and, now that
I hold it, may its modest vermilion cover shine always like a lamp
upon my shelves! It is not fiction to a bibliophile; it is worthy of
all the honour done to verse.

Within the last ten years of his life we had the great pleasure of
seeing tardy justice done at length to the genius of Mr. George
Meredith. I like to think that, after a long and noble struggle
against the inattention of the public, after the pouring of high music
for two generations into ears whose owners seemed to have wilfully
sealed them with wax, so that only the most staccato and least happy
notes ever reached their dulness, George Meredith did, before the age
of seventy, reap a little of his reward. I am told that the movement
in favour of him began in America; if so, more praise to American
readers, who had to teach us to appreciate De Quincey and Praed before
we knew the value of those men. Yet is there much to do. Had George
Meredith been a Frenchman, what monographs had ere this been called
forth by his work; in Germany, or Italy, or Denmark even, such gifts
as his would long ago have found their classic place above further
discussion. But England is a Gallio, and in defiance of Mr. Le
Gallienne, cares little for the things of literature.

If a final criticism of George Meredith existed, where in it would
_The Shaving of Shagpat_ find its place? There is fear that in
competition with the series of analytical studies of modern life
that stretches from _The Ordeal of Richard Feverel_ to _One of our
Conquerors_, it might chance to be pushed away with a few lines of
praise. Now, I would not seem so paradoxical as to say t