Such he walks the book, a stout and resolute old gentleman, with words of sense upon his lips, capable of manly tenderness and dignified concessions, and the embodiment of all virile virtues as well as those belonging to his class. While the charming French girl and the sweet English maiden hold our senses thrilled, it is this mediæval baron that soundly raps our nodding judgment, and keeps our wits awake. Sometimes, as in the case of Edward Blancove, Mr. Meredith wheels us round from cold dislike into sympathy and admiration. But not often. His unpleasant young men are not more susceptible of conversion than they are usually to be found in real life, and he is not fond of playing such tricks as this one, wherein we get from the lips of a coldly argumentative and sharply legal young gentleman, who has, hitherto, conducted himself as something of a well-bred knave, such honest words as these: ‘Plainly, sir, in God’s name, hear me out. She’s--what shall I call her? my mistress, my sweetheart, if you like--let the name be anything--“wife” it should have been and shall be--I left her, and have left her, and have not looked on her for many months. I thought I was tired of her--I was under odd influences--witchcraft, it seems. I could believe in witchcraft now. Brutal selfishness is the phrase for my conduct. I have found out my villainy. I have not done a day’s sensible work, nor had a single clear thought, since I parted from her. She has had brain-fever. She has been in the hospital. She is now prostrate with misery. While she suffered, I--I can’t look back on myself. If I had to plead before you for more than manly consideration, I could touch you. I am my own master, and am ready to subsist by my own efforts; there is no necessity for me to do more than say I abide by the choice I make, and my own actions. In deciding to marry her, I do a good thing, I do a just thing. I will prove to you that I have done a wise thing.’ Such words as these would redeem a stormier and a shabbier youth than Edward Blancove’s; they toss him up from the brink of common rascality upon the verge of quiet heroism. We are forced by them, not into condonation only, but into respect and admiring amazement, and we are almost glad of a fault that has been so nobly redeemed.