heaven. It gives a clue to the inner and seldomsounded depths of the soul, to the possibilities that are latent in the character, the powers hid beneath the surface, it supports the reason that follows, the soul that aspires towards the intellectual, the spiritual view of things. It fortifies, amid much that disheartens in modern life, the divine spirit in man.

THE NOVELS OF GEORGE MEREDITH

CRITICISM, it is complained, moves but haltingly after the pioneer of genius, and the boundaries of art are enlarged in its despite. We have, therefore, in criticism a somewhat discredited science. The judgment indisputably takes a colour, consciously or unconsciously, from the kind of excellence with which it is familiar; in excellence of an unfamiliar type there lurks a bewildering and baffling element. We are on the whole right in thinking that the laws of art are written in the practices of the great artists; we are right too in conceiving the grammar of criticism as in large measure a system derived from these practices; we fail when we assume that the book of practices is closed and that the grammar as it exists is final. One may thus account for the great historical mistakes of criticism, for its inefficiency in dealing with an original writer who indulges in novel and unfamiliar practices, and justifies them only by his results. Criticism like that of Dr. Johnson, a criticism of fixed and external standards we may

call it, can never, even when supported by sound learning and robust good sense, be altogether trustworthy. It is never free of the danger that it may be discredited by the event. The search for a definitive, a final canon of criticism must therefore be futile; the closing chapter of the history of art, like the history of language, cannot be written. But despair of finding such a final canon need not drive us into the wilderness of private tastes and individual opinions. We may perhaps, in the end, attain to an apparatus criticus which, while it formulates a general demand, will leave art practically unfettered in its choice of methods; we may yet lay down a system of criticism which shall be possessed of a touchstone universally applicable, but free to enlarge its grammar of practices. Out of the chaos produced by the flamboyant individualism of latter-day criticism we may in time see an order emerge, though no prophet has proclaimed the day of its coming as at hand. In the present state of criticism it is plain that no view taken of an author possesses any authority beyond that of the individual who presents it; there exists no final court of appeal in matters of art. Yet when a writer has gained the attention of a considerable body of cultivated opinion, one is desirous, and naturally desirous, to test his performance by some deep-lying and permanent principles, to determine if possible

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whether his eminence is real, or an apparent eminence due to our proximity to the object; in a word, to anticipate the verdict of posterity. By an imperious intellectual necessity we are driven to compare the achievements of our own day and generation with those of the past. And because no other body of principles exists which formulates a consistent demand, it is perhaps best, even when dealing with an author who disregards conventions, to make an appeal to the broad principles of ancient art, or to take these at least as the most fitting point of departure in any attempted critical estimate. They at any rate knew what they wanted in art, and we do not.' For this reason Matthew Arnold in his search for what was sound and true in poetical art found the only sure guidance among the ancients. They at any rate knew what they wanted in art, and we do not.' We do not know what we want in art, nor is it a matter of any importance, we seem now to be told; we do not greatly need to know. The writer will write as he pleases, and the business of the critic will be merely to note characteristics, as a chemist notes some natural element.' The author and his work stand to the critic as Nature and her phenomena stand to the man of science. There is no room left for the expression of dissatisfaction, there can be no inequalities in art. Like nature,

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art too is perfect. 'Perfection is equal,' writes one of Mr. Meredith's disciples, and all art stands on the equality of perfection.' How luminous a saying! What insight, what sagacity! Here is the only and the true simplification of criticism, henceforth to consist in the selection of superlatives, since the praise of perfection cannot be adequately conducted save in superlatives. But a writer of Mr. Meredith's calibre is not served by criticism such as this suited to the ceremonial which accompanies the canonisation of the minor poet or the decadent. He is not served by this inability to perceive distinctions, to discriminate, to appraise with justice; he is not served by a gracious readiness to accept all art as on the equality of perfection. A writer of Mr. Meredith's genius is better served by principles of criticism which narrow the circle than by these sweeping circuits of magnificent inclusiveness. Though his worth and influence are yet uncalculated, the curve of his orbit yet undetermined, there is that about Mr. Meredith which distinguishes his from the lesser writers. He is very evidently not of their company, though he has yet to attain a secure niche in the national imagination. Mr. Meredith is not the people's favourite, and no extravagances of critical appreciation will ever make him their favourite, but he is a figure of sufficient importance