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The men and women, youths and maidens, of Thackeray, Dickens, and George Eliot, to say nothing of minor writers, are true enough to nature in other respects, but in all sexual relations they are mere simulacri. George Meredith is our only novelist who triumphs in this region. As Mr. Lowell has noticed, there is a fine natural atmosphere of sex in his books.
It was but eleven years before the first great movement of the Risorgimento swept over Italy in 1848 that he passed away; his poems were indeed songs before sunrise, a sunrise of which he failed to detect the far-off glimmering, so that he could only lament without hope the sad condition of his dismembered country, once the mistress and now the play-thing of the world, and the abject slave of hated Austria: “O patria mia, vedo le mure e gli archi E le colonne e i simulacri e l’ erme Torri degli avi nostri, Ma la gloria non vedo; Non vedo il lauro e’l ferro ond’ eran carchi I nostri padri antichi.”
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