Of the greater novelists mentioned in the last chapter Charlotte Bronte and Mrs.Gaskell were indeed dead, and if Kingsley had not wholly ceased writing novels, he had, before ceasing, given signs that he had better do so.

Yet, at least to the admirers of "George Eliot," she was at her most admirable; some of the very best stuff of Trollope was but just past, and some of all but his best was still to appear; Charles Reade was writing busily with that curious unsatisfactory genius of his; others were well at work.
There was also no lack of newer comers.

Mr.Meredith had been writing for some dozen years: and though he had achieved no general popularity, though even critics might make reserves as to points in his procedure, there could be no competent doubt of his great powers.

Mr.Blackmore had made his late beginning some time before: and had just caught the public ear unmistakably with _Lorna Doone_ (1869).

Mr.Hardy was on the eve of catching it with the new and powerful attractions of _Under the Greenwood Tree_ (1872).