Nevertheless, human nature is weak and erring, and the pitfalls dug for us by wily critics are baited with the most ensnaring devices. It is not the great writers of the world who have the largest following of sham admirers, but rather that handful of choice spirits who, we are given to understand, appeal only to a small and chosen band. Few of us find it worth our while to pretend a passionate devotion for Shakespeare, or Milton, or Dante. On the contrary, nothing is more common than to hear people complain that the “Inferno” is unpleasant, and “Paradise Lost” dreadfully long, neither of which charges is easily refutable in terms. But when we read in a high-class review that “just as Spenser is the poet’s poet, so Peacock is the delight of critics and of wits;” or that “George Meredith, writing as he does for an essentially cultivated and esoteric audience, has won but a limited recognition for his brilliant group of novels;” or that “the subtle and far-reaching excellence of Ibsen’s dramatic work is a quality absolutely undecipherable to the groundlings,” who can resist tendering his allegiance on the spot? It is not in the heart of man to harden itself against the allurements of that magic word “esoteric,” nor to be indifferent to the distinction it conveys. Mr. Payn, indeed, in a robust spirit of contradiction, has left it on record that he found “Headlong Hall” and “Crotchet Castle” intolerably dull; but this I believe to have been an unblushing falsehood, in the case of the latter story, at least. It is hardly within the bounds of possibility that a man blessed with so keen a sense of humor could have found the Rev. Dr. Folliott dull; but it is quite possible that the average reader, whose humorous perceptions are of a somewhat restricted nature, should find Mr. Peacock enigmatic, and the oppressive brilliancy of Mr. Meredith’s novels a heavy load to bear. There is such a thing as being intolerably clever, and “Evan Harrington” and “The Egoist” are fruitful examples of the fact. The mind is kept on a perpetual strain, lest some fine play of words, some elusive witticism, should be disregarded; the sense of continued effort paralyzes enjoyment; fatigue provokes in us an ignoble spirit of contrariety, and we sigh perversely for that serene atmosphere of dullness which in happier moments we affected to despise.