of unthinking readers, and
the corresponding increase in our printed output, have brought about
some singular conditions, and, amongst them, this: that it is possible
to sustain a reputation by the mere act of being absurd.

In attempting anything like a just review of the influence of the
critical press in recent years, one has to admit that in its treatment
of George Meredith it has performed a very considerable and praiseworthy
public service. For many years Meredith worked in obscurity so far as
the general public were concerned. Here and there he won an impassioned
admirer, and from his beginning it may be said that he found audience
fit though few; but he owes much of the present extent of his reputation
to the efforts of generous and enlightened critics, who would not let
the public rest until they had at least given his genius a hearing. He
is now, and has for some time been, a fashionable cult. It is not likely
that in the broad sense he will ever be a popular writer, for the mass
of novel-readers are an idle and pleasure-loving folk, and no mere idler
and pleasure-seeker will read Meredith often or read him long at a time.
The little book which the angel gave to John of Patmos, commanding that
he should eat it, was like honey in the mouth, but in the belly it was
bitter. To the reader who first approaches him, a book of Meredith's
offers an accurate contrast to the roll presented by the angel. It is
tough chewing, but in digestion most suave and fortifying. The people
who instantly enjoy him, who relish him at first bite, are rare. Fine
intelligences are always rare. Personally, I am not one of the happy
few. I am at my third reading of any one of Meredith's later books
before I am wholly at my ease with it. I can find a most satisfying
simile (to myself). A new book of Meredith's comes to me like a hamper
of noble wines. I know the vintages, and I rejoice. I set to work to
open the hamper. It is corded and wired in the most exasperating way,
but at last I get it open. That is my first reading. Then I range my
bottles in the cellar--port, burgundy, hock, champagne, imperial tokay;
subtle and inspiring beverages, not grown in common vineyards, and
demanding to be labelled. That is my second reading. Then I sit down to
my wine, and that is my third; and in any book of Meredith's I have a
cellarful for a lifetime.

In view of a benefaction like this it becomes a man to be grateful,
but for all that it is a pity