old, the strong to the imbecile. He stretches out the arm of Mezentius and fetters the dead to the living."
The novelist most admittedly generous to women is
Meredith, and we have him to thank for Margaret Lovell,
Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, Diana Warwick, and Clara
Middleton, with Mrs. Berry as a sort of compromise between
Mrs. Poyser and Mrs. Tulliver. Yet they do not
any more than live up to their boasted reputations, as
dainty rogues in porcelain, famous epigrammatists, the
quoted astonishment of drawing-rooms.[1]
The real Victorian Shakespeare in the matter of women is Trollope. Not entirely unworthy of the sisterhood of Beatrice, Viola, and Portia, are Miss Dunstable, Lily Dale, Lucy Robarts, and Violet Effingham; Madeline Stanhope might be added as a village Cleopatra.
- ↑ It is not in a novel but the shortest of his Short Stories that Meredith has presented to us his truly wittiest character, shown with the brief but startling distinctness of a flash-light. Nowhere is there a more perfect embodiment of the satiric spirit than Lady Camper. It required a malicious imagination to produce the cartoons of the City of Wilsonople, and to use them with such wicked effectiveness. Yet this Limb of Satan was maleficent only to bless, ultimately. The fine military figure upon which she turned the shaft of illumination is equally perfect as the incarnate satirizible; not a sinner, not a villain, but a complacent, fatuous, selfish gentleman, "open to exposure in his little whims, foibles, tricks, incompetencies," but capable of an improvement that amounted to regeneration. "Well, General," his teleological tormentor finally explains, "you were fond of thinking of yourself, and I thought I would assist you. I gave you plenty of subject-matter. I will not say I meant to work a homœopathic cure." She further admonishes him that the triumph is his rather than hers, if he cares to make the most of it. "Your fault has been to quit active service, General, and love your ease too well * * * You are ten times the man in exercise. Why, do you mean to tell me that you would have cared for those drawings of mine when marching?" Idleness, moreover, is a first aid to vanity. "You would not have cared one bit for a caricature," Lady Camper continues, "if you had not nursed the absurd idea of being one of our conquerors." His final salvation, she concludes, was his sensitiveness to ridicule.
