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There is a judicial review of GEORGE MEREDITH's work in the
_Quarterly_ for October--masterly, too, quoth the Baron, as striking
a balance between effect and defect, and finding so much to be duly
said in high praise of the diffuse and picturesquely-circumnavigating
Novelist through whose labyrinthine pages the simple Baron finds it
hard to thread his way, and yet keep the clue. When the unskippingly
conscientious peruser of GEORGE M.'s novels is most desirous that the
author shall go ahead, GEORGE, like an Irish cardriver, will stop to
"discoorse us," and at such length, and so diffusely, and with such a
wealth of eccentric word-coming and grammar-dodging, that at last the
Baron gasps, choked by the rolling billows of sonorously booming or
boomingly sonorous words, battles with the waves, ducks, and comes
up again breathlessly, wondering where he may be, and what it was
all about. "Story! God bless you, I haven't much to tell, Sir!" says
the luxuriantly fanciful novel-grinder. And he hasn't much, it must
be owned, for essenced it would go into half a volume, or less, and
all over and above is pot-fuls of rich colour, spilt about almost at
haphazard, permutations and combinations, giving the effect of genius.
Which--genius it is; but a little of it goes a great way, in fact, a
very great way, wandering and straying until at length the Baron calls
for his _Richard Feverel_, and says, "This is the best that GEORGE
MEREDITH has written, as sure as my name is
"THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS."
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