ABSTRACT
Middlemarch is at once one of the strongest and one of the weakest of English novels. Its predecessors as they appeared might have been described in the same terms; Romola, is especially a rare masterpiece, but the least entrainant of masterpieces. Middlemarch is a treasure-house of details, but it is an indifferent whole. Middlemarch has a definite subject—the subject indicated in the eloquent preface. The error in Middlemarch is not precisely of a similar kind, but it is equally detrimental to the total aspect of the work. With its abundant and massive ingredients Middlemarch ought somehow to have depicted a weightier drama. Dorothea was altogether too superb a heroine to be wasted; yet she plays a narrower part than the imagination of the reader demands. Many of the discursive portions of Middlemarch are too clever by half. Fielding was didactic—the author of Middlemarch is really philosophic. These great qualities imply corresponding perils.
