"Adam Bede", Eliot's first novel, reminds me of something Rossini once said of Wagner's music: "Lovely moments followed by awful quarters-of-an-hour." Indeed, the awful bits of this work drag on for much longer than quarters of an hour, for even Wagner's longest opera ("Gotterdammerung" can clock in at a hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing five or six hours) doesn't demand quite so much of a time investment of its audience.
Henry James's 1866 criticisms of the work (which even include proposed alternate resolutions for the various characters) are spot-on. In the first place, James takes Eliot's work to task for the highly intrusive narrator, constantly inserting himself (herself?) and offering all sorts of nudges and helpful guides to reader sympathy. James's objection to this sort of thing should come as no surprise, insofar as James himself was the master of non-intrusive narration (and was even not above a bit of misleading of his readers for artistic purposes). As for his suggested plot revisions, particularly that one about the novel's hopelessly Pollyanna-ish linking up of Adam and Dinah, are spot-on. He also correctly points out that Adam's misery at Hetty's end is not a good enough reason to engage our own sympathy.
Furthermore, James's assessment of the character of Hetty, for which he praises Eliot, is correct. Most of the dramatic tension of the novel is supplied by the contrast between Hetty's fantasy-life of carriages and ball-gowns, and the quiet farm life of Hall Farm (which she despises). Some of the novel's other finer moments have to do with the young squire Donnithorne, who finds his own fantasies crushed (but rather more by his own doing).
As for the titular character, at every page I kept waiting for the "other foot to drop," as it were, for Eliot to pull back the stolid curtain of Adam's wholesomeness (as James would have, for instance). The moment never came, and for this reason, Adam remains but "half made-up" (as Shakespeare put in), only unlike Richard III, there is no "deformity" for us descant upon. For this reason, his lovelife remains weirdly static and unconvincing, and unlike that of any male ever to walk this earth. By contrast, Donnithorne's on-again, off-again pursuit of Hetty, with all of its nervous, guilty sexuality, is far more true to life, and absorbing as a result.
In sum, this book suffers from a bad case of bloat, as though Eliot were being paid by the word, particularly in those additional chapters following Hetty's imprisonment. Frankly, the last fifteen chapters of this novel were a pretty hard slog.