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 that when
an extravaganza is held up to me in one hand, and a masterpiece of
morality like _The Egoist_ in the other, I can doubt which is the
greater book; but there are moods in which I am jealous of the novels,
and wish to be left alone with my _Arabian Entertainment_. Delicious
in this harsh world of reality to fold a mist around us, and out of it
to evolve the yellow domes and black cypresses, the silver fountains
and marble pillars, of the fabulous city of Shagpat.
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