In another volume he is describing the humorist's idea of it:[1]
"I conceive him to indicate that the realistic method of a conscientious
transcription of all the visible, and a repetition of all
the audible, is mainly accountable for our present branfulness,
and for that prolongation of the vasty and the noisy, out of
which, as from an undrained fen, steams the malady of sameness,
our modern malady."
It might seem that a romanticism so prevalent and
avowed would not be the best medium for satire, which is
supposed to be realistic in the sense that it deals with the
actual. But since satire is directed against persons rather
than circumstances, it is in no danger so long as the romancing
is confined to the situations, and the characters
are kept to the plane of reality,—as is the case, with a few
easily recognizable exceptions, in the Victorian novel.
That the difficulty of truthfulness is one excuse for indulgence
in the easier romantic method, is admitted by Eliot:[2]
"The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a
griffin—the longer the claws and the larger the wings, the better;
but that marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt
to forsake us when we want to draw a real, unexaggerated lion."
But in Victorian fiction neither griffins nor lions are in
much evidence. The total personnel is fairly well symbolized
(with the addition of a few more of the nobler
brutes than are admitted by Thackeray) in the Overture
to The Newcomes, wherein the "farrago of old fables"
pictures a crow, a frog, an ox, a wolf, a fox, an owl, and a
few lambs, but only the skin of a lion,—and that serving
as cloak for a donkey. The romantico-realistic solution,
therefore, forms probably the most satisfactory base for the
