that a great writer and a willing reader
should be held apart by any avoidable hindrances. It is quite true that
an immediate popularity is no test of high merit. But the real man of
genius is, after all, he who permanently appeals to the widest public.

To the middle-aged and the elderly fiction is a luxury. A story-book
is like a pipe. It soothes and gratifies, and it helps an idle hour to
pass. But younger people find actual food or actual poison where their
elders find mere amusement. There are hundreds of thousands of young
men and women who feel that they would like to have a clear outlook
on things, who are searching more or less in earnest for a mental
standing-place and point of view. If I had my way they should all be
made to read Meredith, and the book at which I would start them should
be 'The Shaving of Shagpat.' It is in the nature of a handbook or guide
to a young person of genius, it is true, and we can't all be persons of
genius; but there is enough human nature in it to make it serviceable to
all but the stupid. In the midst of its fantastic phantasmagoria
there is a view of life so sane, so lofty, so feminine-tender, so
masculine-strong, so piercing, keen and clear, that it is not easy to
find an expression for admiration which shall be at once adequate and
sober. On the mere surface it is almost as good as the 'Arabian Nights,'
and at the first flush of it you think that fancy is running riot. But
when once the intention is grasped you find beneath that playful foam of
seeming fun and frolic a very astonishing and deep philosophy, and
the whole wild masquerade is filled with meaning. Read 'The Shaving
of Shagpat,' earnest young men and maidens. There is not much that is
better for mere amusement in all the libraries, and if you care for the
ripe conclusions of a scholar and a gentleman who knows the whole game
of life better than any other man now living, you may find them there.

I learn, on very good authority, that Meredith has but a poor
comparative opinion of his earlier work, and that he would dissent
rather strongly from the critic who pronounced 'The Ordeal of Richard
Feverel' his masterpiece. Yet it seems to me to be so, and in one
particular it takes high rank indeed. It is remarkable that whilst
love-making is so essential a part of the general human business, and
whilst no novel or play which ignores it stands much chance of success,
there are only two or three really virile presentations