GEORGE ELIOT: A CRITICAL STUDY OF HER LIFE, WRITINGS AND PHILOSOPHY. 

BY

GEORGE WILLIS COOKE

AUTHOR OF "RALPH WALDO EMERSON: HIS LIFE, WRITINGS AND PHILOSOPHY. "

1884

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 

The publication of a new edition of this work permits me to say that theessay on "The Lady Novelists, " quoted in the seventh chapter, was writtenby George Henry Lewes. Its opinions, however, are substantially those ofGeorge Eliot, and they will be found in harmony with her own words. Confessing to the error, I yet venture to let the quotations, and thecomments on them, stand as at first made. The three poems mentioned on page75, were among the latest of the productions of George Eliot's pen. 

It has been suggested to me that I have not done perfect justice to GeorgeHenry Lewes, especially in what I say of his books on the Spanish drama andthe life of Goethe. I have carefully reconsidered what I wrote of him, andfind no occasion for any change of judgment, though two or three wordsmight properly give place to others of a more appreciative meaning. 

My book has met with much greater praise than I could have expected. Itserrors, I have no doubt, are quite numerous enough; and yet I venture tothink the main thought of the book is correct. 

MARCH, 1884. 

CONTENTS. 

PREFACE

 I. EARLY LIFE

 II. TRANSLATOR AND EDITOR

 III. MARRIAGE

 IV. CAREER AS AN AUTHOR

 V. PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS

 VI. LITERARY TRAITS AND TENDENCIES

 VII. THEORY OF THE NOVEL

 VIII. POETIC METHODS

 IX. PHILOSOPHIC ATTITUDE

 X. DISTINCTIVE TEACHINGS

 XI. RELIGIOUS TENDENCIES

 XII. ETHICAL SPIRIT

 XIII. EARLIER NOVELS

 XIV. ROMOLA

 XV. FELIX HOLT AND MIDDLEMARCH

 XVI. DANIEL DERONDA

 XVII. THE SPANISH GYPSY AND OTHER POEMS

XVIII. LATER ESSAYS

 XIX. THE ANALYTIC METHOD

 XX. THE LIMITATIONS OF HER THOUGHT

 XXI. BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. 

EARLY LIFE. 

The poet and the novelist write largely out of personal experience, andmust give expression to the effects of their own history. What they haveseen and felt, gives shape and tone to what they write; that which isnearest their own hearts is poured forth in their books. To ignore theseinfluences is to overlook a better part of what they write, and is often tolose the explanation of many features of their work. Shakspere is one ofthose who are of no time or place, whose words gain no added meaning inview of what he was and how he lived; but it is not so with a great numberof the best and most inspiring writers. The era in which they lived, theintellectual surroundings afforded them by their country and generation, the subtle phases of sentiment and aspiration of their immediate time andplace, are all essential to a true appreciation of their books. It is so ofGoethe, Byron, Shelley, Hugo, Wordsworth, Emerson, and how many more!

As we must know the eighteenth century in its social spirit, literarytendencies, revolutionary aims, romantic aspirations, philosophy andscience, to know Goethe, so must we know the nineteenth century in itsscientific attainments, agnostic philosophy, realistic spirit andhumanitarian aims, in order to know George Eliot. She is a product of hertime, as Lessing, Goethe, Wordsworth and Byron were of theirs; a voice toutter its purpose and meaning, as well as a trumpet-call to lead it on. AsGoethe came after Lessing, Herder and Kant, so George Eliot came afterComte, Mill and Spencer. Her books are to be read in the light of theirspeculations, and she embodied in literary forms what they uttered asscience or philosophy. 

Not only is a poet's mind affected by the tone of thought about him, buthis personal experiences and surroundings are likely to have a largeinfluence on what he writes. Scott was deeply affected by the romanticatmosphere of his native land. Her birthplace and youthful surroundings hada like effect on George Eliot. The Midland home, the plain village life, the humble, toiling country folk, shaped for her the scenes and charactersabout which she was to write. Some knowledge of her early home and theinfluences amidst which her mind was formed, help largely to anappreciation of her books and the views of life which she presents in them. 

The Midland region of England she has pictured with something of thataccuracy with which Scott described the Border. It is a country of historicmemories. Near by her childhood home was the forest of Arden and AstlyCastle, the home of Sir John Grey, whose widow, Elizabeth Woodville, becamethe queen of Edward IV. This was also one of the homes of Henry Grey, Dukeof Suffolk, who was found in a hollow tree near by after his rebellion; andthe home, likewise, of his daughter, Lady Jane Grey. In another directionwas Bosworth Field; and within twenty miles was Stratford-upon-Avon. Theancient city of Coventry was not far distant. It was not these historicregions which attracted her, however, so much as the pleasant country, thecommon people, the quiet villages. With observant eyes she saw the worldabout her as it was and she entered into the heart of its life, and haspainted it for us in a most sympathetic, appreciative spirit. The simple, homely, unromantic life of middle England she has made immortal with herwit, her satire, her fine description, and her keen love of all that ishuman. She herself recognized the importance of her early surroundings. Inone of her letters she used these words:

 It is interesting, I think, to know whether a writer was born in a central or border district--a condition which always has a strongly determining influence. I was born in Warwickshire, but certain family traditions connected with more northerly districts made these districts a region of poetry to me in my early childhood. I was brought up in the Church of England, and have never joined any other religious society, but I have had close acquaintance with many Dissenters of various sects, from Calvinistic Anabaptists to Unitarians. 

The influence of the surroundings of childhood upon character she has morethan once touched upon in her books. In the second chapter of _TheophrastusSuch_, she says, --

 I cherish my childish loves--the memory of that warm little nest where my affections were fledged. 

In the same essay she says, --

 Our Midland plains have never lost their familiar expression and conservative spirit for me. 

In _Daniel Deronda_ she most tenderly expresses the same deep convictionconcerning the soul's need of anchorage in some familiar and inspiringscene, with which the memories of childhood may be delightfully associated. Her own fond recollections lent force to whatever philosophicalsignificance such a theory may have had for her. 

 A human life should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kinship for the face of the earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that home a familiar, unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge; a spot where the definiteness of early knowledge may be inwrought with affection, and kindly acquaintance with all neighbors, even to the dogs and monkeys, may spread, not by sentimental effort and reflection, but as a sweet habit of the blood. 

Mary Ann Evans was born at South Farm, a mile from Griff, in the parish ofColton, Warwickshire, England, November 22, 1819. In after years sheadopted the abbreviated form of her name, and was known by her friends asMarian. When she was six months old the family moved to Griff House, whichwas situated half-way between Bedworth, a mining village, and themanufacturing town of Nuneaton. In approaching Griff from Nuneaton, alittle valley, known as Griff Hollows, is passed, much resembling the "RedDeeps" of _The Mill on the Floss_. On the right, a little beyond, is GriffHouse, a comfortable and substantial dwelling surrounded by pleasantgardens and lawns. 

Robert Evans, her father, was born at Ellaston, Staffordshire, of asubstantial family of mechanics and craftsmen. He was of massive build, tall, wide-shouldered and strong, and his features were of a marked, emphatic cast. He began life as a master carpenter, then became a forester, and finally a land agent. He was induced to settle in Warwickshire by SirRoger Newdigate, his principal employer, and for the remainder of his lifehe had charge of five large estates in the neighborhood. In this employmenthe was successful, being respected and trusted to the fullest extent by hisemployers, his name becoming a synonym for trustworthiness. Marian manytimes sketched the main traits of her father's character, as in the love ofperfect work in "Stradivarius. " He had Adam Bede's stalwart figure androbust manhood. Caleb Garth, in _Middlemarch_, is in many ways a fineportrait of him as to the nature of his employment, his delight in thesoil, and his honest, rugged character. 

Caleb was wont to say that "it's a fine thing to have the chance of gettinga bit of the country into good fettle, and putting men into the right waywith their farming, and getting a bit of good contriving and solid buildingdone--that those who are living and those who come after will be the betterfor. I'd sooner have it than a fortune. I hold it the most honorable workthat is. " Robert Evans, like Caleb Garth, "while faithfully serving hisemployers enjoyed great popularity among their tenants. He was gentle butof indomitable firmness; and while stern to the idle and unthrifty, he didnot press heavily on those who might be behindhand with their rent, owingto ill luck or misfortune, on quarter days. "

While still living in Staffordshire, Robert Evans lost his first wife, bywhom he had a son and a daughter. His second wife, the mother of Marian, was a Miss Pearson, a gentle, loving woman, and a notable housewife. She isdescribed in the Mrs. Hackit of "Amos Barton, " whose industry, sharptongue, epigrammatic speech and marked character were taken from life. Something of Mrs. Poyser also entered into her nature. She had threechildren, Christiana, Isaac and Mary Ann. The house at Griff was situatedin a rich landscape, and was a large, commodious farm-house of red brick, ivy-covered, and of two stories' height. At the back was a large garden, and a farm-yard with barns and sheds. 

In the series of sonnets entitled "Brother and Sister, " Marian has givensome account of her early life. She had the attachment there described forher brother Isaac, and followed him about with the same persistence andaffection. The whole of that poem is autobiographical. The account of themother gives a delightful glimpse into Marian's child-life:

 Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still Across the homestead to the rookery elms, Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, So rich for us, we counted them as realms With varied products. 

The early life of Marian Evans has, in many features of it, been very fullydescribed in the story of Maggie Tulliver. How far her own life is that ofMaggie may be seen by comparing the earlier chapters in _The Mill on theFloss_ with the "Brother and Sister. " The incident described in the poem, of her brother leaving her in charge of the fishing-rod, is repeated in allits main features in the experiences of Maggie. In the poem she describesan encounter with a gipsy, which again recalls Maggie's encounter with somepersons of that race. The whole account of her childhood life with herbrother, her trust in him, their delight in the common pleasures ofchildhood, and the impression made on her by the beauties of nature, reappears in striking similarity in the description of the child-life ofMaggie and Tom. These elements of her early experience and observation oflife have been well described by one who knew her personally. This personsays that "Maggie Tulliver's childhood is clearly full of the most accuratepersonal recollections. "

Marian Evans very early became an enthusiastic reader of the best books. Inan almanac she found a portion of one of the essays of Charles Lamb, andremembered reading it with great delight. In her seventh year a copyof _Waverley_ was loaned to her older sister. She became herself intenselyfascinated by it, and when it was returned before she had completed it shewas thrown into much distress. The story so possessed her that she began tocomplete it in writing, according to her own conception. When this wasdiscovered, the book was again secured for her perusal. This incident shehas described in a sonnet, which appears as the motto to the fifty-seventhchapter of _Middlemarch_. 

 They numbered scarce eight summers when a name Rose on their souls and stirred such motions there As thrill the buds and shape their hidden frame At penetration of the quickening air: His name who told of loyal Evan Dhu, Of quaint Bradwardine, and Vich Ian Vor, Making the little world their childhood knew Large with a land of mountain, lake and scaur, And larger yet with wonder, love, belief, Toward Walter Scott, who living far away Sent them this wealth of joy and noble grief. The book and they must part, but day by day, In lines that thwart like portly spiders ran, They wrote the tale, from Tully Veolan. 

Not only was she a great reader, but she was also a diligent and even aprecocious student, learning easily and rapidly whatever she undertook toacquire in the way of knowledge. 

She was first sent, with her brother Isaac, to a free school in the villageof Griff. Among her mates was William Jacques, the original of Bob Jakinsin _The Mill on the Floss_. When seven years old she went to a girls'school at Nuneaton. Her schoolmates describe her as being then a "quiet, reserved girl, with strongly lined, almost masculine features, and aprofusion of light hair worn in curls round her head. " The abundance ofher curling hair caused her much trouble, and she once cut it off, asMaggie Tulliver did, because it would not "lie straight. " "One of herschool-fellows, " we are told, "recalls that the first time she sat down tothe piano she astonished her companions by the knowledge of music she hadalready acquired. She mastered her lessons with an ease which excitedwonder. She read with avidity. She joined very rarely in the sports of hercompanions, and her diffidence and shrinking sensibility prevented her fromforming any close friendship among her school-fellows. When she stood up inthe class, her features, heavy in repose, were lighted by eager excitement, which found further vent in nervous movements of her hands. At this schoolMarian was well taught in English, with drawing, music, and some littleFrench. "

Leaving this school at the age of twelve, she went to that of the MissesFranklin in Coventry, a large town a few miles distant. To the carefultraining received there she was much indebted, and in after years oftenspoke of it with the heartiest appreciation. One of her friends, EdithSimcox, has given an account of this school and of Marian's studiesthere. "Almost on the outskirts of the old town of Coventry, towards therailway station, the house may still be seen, itself an old-fashionedfive-windowed, Queen Anne sort of dwelling, with a shell-shaped corniceover the door, with an old timbered cottage facing it, and near adjoininga quaint brick and timber building, with an oriel window thrown out uponoak pillars. Between forty and fifty years ago, Methodist ladies kept theschool, and the name of 'little mamma, ' given by her school-fellows, isa proof that already something was to be seen of the maternal air whichcharacterized her in later years, and perhaps more especially inintercourse with her own sex. Prayer meetings were in vogue among thegirls, following the example of their elders; and while taking, no doubt, a leading part in them, she used to suffer much self-reproach about hercoldness and inability to be carried away with the same enthusiasm asothers. At the same time, nothing was farther from her nature than anysceptical inclination, and she used to pounce with avidity upon anyapproach to argumentative theology within her reach, carrying Paley's_Evidences_ up to her bedroom, and devouring it as she lay upon the flooralone. "

During the three years Marian attended this school she held aloof from theother pupils, was grave and womanly in her deportment. She acquired MissRebecca Franklin's slow and precise method of speaking, and to her diligenttraining owed her life-long habit of giving a finished completeness to allher sentences. It seems that her imagination was alive at this time, andbeing slowly cultivated. She was in the habit of scribbling verses in herbooks and elsewhere. 

A fellow-pupil during the time she was a member of this boarding-school hasgiven these reminiscences of Marian's life there: "She learned everythingwith ease, " says this person, "but was passionately devoted to music, andbecame thoroughly accomplished as a pianist. Her masters always brought themost difficult solos for her to play in public, and everywhere said shemight make a performer equal to any then upon the concert stage. She waskeenly susceptible to what she thought her lack of personal beauty, frequently saying that she was not pleased with a single feature of herface or figure. She was not especially noted as a writer, but so uncommonwas her intellectual power that we all thought her capable of any effort;and so great was the charm of her conversation, that there was continualstrife among the girls as to which of them should walk with her. Theteachers had to settle it by making it depend upon alphabeticalsuccession. "

Leaving the school in Coventry at the age of fifteen, Marian continued herstudies at home. The year following, her mother died; and this event, asshe afterwards said, first made her acquainted with "the unspeakable griefof a last parting. " Soon after, her older sister and her brother weremarried and left home. She alone remained with her father, and was forseveral years his housekeeper. "He offered to get a housekeeper, " says MissBlind, "as not the house only, but farm matters had to be looked after, andhe was always tenderly considerate of 'the little wench, ' as he called her. But his daughter preferred taking the whole management of the place intoher own hands, and she was as conscientious and diligent in the dischargeof her domestic duties as in the prosecution of the studies she carried onat the same time. " Her experiences at this period have been made use of inmore than one of her characters. The dairy scenes in _Adam Bede_ are soperfectly realistic because she was familiar with all the processes ofbutter and cheese making. 

In 1841 her father gave up his business to his son and moved to Foleshill, one mile from Coventry. A pleasant house and surroundings made the newhome, and her habits of thought and life became more exact and fastidious. The frequent absence of her father gave her much time for reading, whichshe eagerly improved. Books were more accessible, though her own librarywas a good one. 

She zealously began and carried on a systematic course of studies, such asgave her the most thorough results of culture. She took up Latin and Greekwith the head master of the Coventry grammar-school, and became familiarwith the classic literatures. French, German and Italian were read in allthe master-pieces of those languages. The Old Testament was also studiedin the original; at the same time she became a proficient player on thepiano, and obtained a thorough knowledge of music. During several years ofquiet and continuous study she laid the foundations of that accurate andwide-reaching knowledge which was so notable a feature of her life andwork. It was a careful, systematic knowledge she acquired, such as entitledher to rank as an educated person in the fullest sense. Her painstakingthoroughness, and her energetic application, were as remarkable at thistime as in later years. Her knowledge was mainly self-acquired, but it wasin no sense superficial. It is difficult to see in what way it could havebeen improved, even if the universities had been open to her. 

Her life and her studies at Coventry have been well described by one whoknew her. We are told that "in this somewhat more populous neighborhood shesoon became known as a person of more than common interest, and, moreover, as a most devoted daughter and the excellent manager of her father'shousehold. There was perhaps little at first sight which betokened geniusin that quiet gentle-mannered girl, with pale grave face, naturally pensivein expression: and ordinary acquaintances regarded her chiefly for thekindness and sympathy that were never wanting to any. But to those withwhom, by some unspoken affinity, her soul could expand, her expressive grayeyes would light up with intense meaning and humor, and the low, sweetvoice, with its peculiar mannerism of speaking--which by the way wore offin after years--would give utterance to thoughts so rich and singular thatconverse with Miss Evans, even in those days, made speech with other peopleseem flat and common. Miss Evans was an exemplification of the fact that agreat genius is not an exceptional, capricious product of nature, but athing of slow, laborious growth, the fruit of industry and the generalculture of the faculties. At Foleshill, with ample means and leisure, herreal education began. She acquired French, German and Italian from SignorBrezzi. An acquaintance with Hebrew was the result of her own unaidedefforts. From Mr. Simms, the veteran organist of St. Michaels, Coventry, she received lessons in music, although it was her own fine musical sensewhich made her in after years an admirable pianoforte player. Nothing oncelearned escaped her marvellous memory; and her keen sympathy with all humanfeelings, in which lay the secret of her power of discriminating character, caused a constant fund of knowledge to flow into her treasure-house fromthe social world about her. "

Marian Evans early showed an unusual interest in religious subjects. Herparents belonged to the Established Church, while other members of thefamily were zealous Methodists. Religion was a subject which occupied muchof their attention, and several of them were engaged in one way and anotherin its inculcation. Marian was an attentive listener to the sermonspreached in the parish church, and at the age of twelve was teaching in aSunday school held in a cottage near her father's house. Up to the age ofeighteen she was a most devoted believer in Christianity, and her zeal wasso great that Evangelicalism came to represent her mode of thought andfeeling. She was a somewhat rigid Calvinist and full of pious enthusiasm. After her removal to Coventry, where her reading was of a wider range andher circle of friends increased, doubts gradually sprang up in her mind. Ina letter written to Miss Sara Hennell she gave a brief account of herreligious experiences at this period. In it she described an aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Evans, who was a Methodist preacher, and the original of DinahMorris in _Adam Bede_. 

 There was hardly any intercourse between my father's family, resident in Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and our family--few and far-between visits of (to my childish feeling) strange uncles and aunts and cousins from my father's far-off native country, and once a journey of my own, as a little child, with my father and mother, to see my uncle William (a rich builder) in Staffordshire--but _not_ my uncle and aunt Samuel, so far as I can recall the dim outline of things--are what I remember of northerly relatives in my childhood. 

 But when I was seventeen or more--after my sister was married and I was mistress of the house--my father took a journey into Derbyshire, in which, visiting my uncle and aunt Samuel, who were very poor, and lived in a humble cottage at Wirksworth, he found my aunt in a very delicate state of health after a serious illness, and, to do her bodily good, he persuaded her to return with him, telling her that _I_ should be very, very happy to have her with me for a few weeks. I was then strongly under the influence of Evangelical belief, and earnestly endeavoring to shape this anomalous English-Christian life of ours into some consistency with the spirit and simple verbal tenor of the New Testament. I _was_ delighted to see my aunt. Although I had only heard her spoken of as a strange person, given to a fanatical vehemence of exhortation in private as well as public, I believed that I should find sympathy between us. She was then an old woman--about sixty--and, I believe, had for a good many years given up preaching. A tiny little woman, with bright, small, dark eyes, and hair that had been black, I imagine, but was now gray--a pretty woman in her youth, but of a totally different physical type from Dinah. The difference--as you will believe--was not _simply_ physical; no difference is. She was a woman of strong natural excitability, which I know, from the description I have heard my father and half-sister give, prevented her from the exercise of discretion under the promptings of her zeal. But this vehemence was now subdued by age and sickness; she was very gentle and quiet in her manners--very loving--and (what she must have been from the very first) a truly religious soul, in whom the love of God and the love of man were fused together. There was nothing highly distinctive in her religious conversation. I had had much intercourse with pious Dissenters before; the only freshness I found, in our talk, came from the fact that she had been the greater part of her life a Wesleyan, and though _she left the society when women were no longer allowed to preach_, and joined the New Wesleyans, she retained the character of thought that belongs to the genuine old Wesleyan. I had never talked with a Wesleyan before, and we used to have little debates about predestination, for I was then a strong Calvinist. Here her superiority came out, and I remember now, with loving admiration, one thing which at the time I disapproved; it was not strictly a consequence of her Arminian belief, and at first sight might seem opposed to it, yet it came from the spirit of love which clings to the bad logic of Arminianism. When my uncle came to fetch her, after she had been with us a fortnight or three weeks, he was speaking of a deceased minister, once greatly respected, who from the action of trouble upon him had taken to small tippling, though otherwise not culpable. "But I hope the good man's in heaven, for all that, " said my uncle. "Oh, yes, " said my aunt, with a deep inward groan of joyful conviction, "Mr. A's in heaven--that's sure. " This was at the time an offence to my stern, ascetic, hard views--how beautiful it is to me now!

One who has been permitted to read the letters of Marian Evans written tothis aunt, has given the following account of them, which throws much lighton her religious attitude at this period: "Most of the epistles areaddressed to my 'dear uncle and aunt, ' and all reveal George Eliot's greattalents. The style is elegant and graceful, and the letters abound inbeautiful metaphor; but their most striking characteristic is the religioustinge that pervades them all. Nearly every line denotes that George Eliotwas an earnest biblical student, and that she was, especially in the years1839 and 1840, very anxious about her spiritual condition. In one of theseletters, written from Griff to Elizabeth Evans, in 1839, she says she isliving in a dry and thirsty land, and that she is looking forward withpleasure to a visit to Wirksworth, and likens her aunt's companionship andcounsel to a spring of pure water, acceptable to her as is the well dug forthe traveller in the desert. That the most affectionate and lovingrelationship existed between the eminent author and Mrs. Elizabeth Evans, is apparent from this correspondence. The inmost secrets of George Eliot'sheart are laid bare in these letters to the famous Methodist preacher, whowas at that time her dearest friend. She is ever asking for advice andspiritual guidance, and confesses her faults with a candor that is renderedadditionally attractive by reason of the polished language in which it isclothed. When quite a girl, George Eliot was known as pious and clever; andin the letters she wrote in 1839, when she was twenty years old, thecleverness has grown and expanded, although she is not so sure about herpiety. She says that 'unstable as water thou shalt not excel, ' seems to bea description of her character, instead of the progress from strength tostrength that should be experienced by those who wish to stand in thepresence of God. In another letter she admits that she cannot give a goodaccount of her spiritual state, says that she has been surrounded byworldly persons, and that love of human praise is one of her greatstumbling-blocks. But in a letter written in 1840 the uncertainty has gonefrom her mind, and she writes that she has resolved in the strength of theLord to serve him evermore. In a later communication, however, she does notappear so confident, and admits that she is obliged to strive against theambition that fills her heart, and that her fondness of worldly praise is agreat bar and hindrance to spiritual advancement. Still she thinks it is nouse sitting inactive with folded hands; and believing that the love of Godis the only thing to give real satisfaction to human beings, she hopes, with his help, to obtain it. One of the letters is chiefly devoted to theconcern felt by Marian Evans at Elizabeth Evans' illness; and another, written at Foleshill, betrays some humor amid the trouble that afflicts herabout her own future. Their outward circumstances, she writes, are all shecan desire; but she is not so certain about her spiritual state, althoughshe feels that it is the grace of God alone that can give the greatestsatisfaction. Then she goes on to speak of the preacher at Foleshill, withwhom she is not greatly pleased: 'We get the truth, but it is notrecommended by the mode of its delivery, ' is how she writes of this divine;yet she is charitable withal, and removes the sting by adding that moregood may sometimes be obtained from humble instruments than from thehighest privileges, and that she must examine her own heart rather thanspeak unkindly of the preacher. Up to this period it is evident that MarianEvans' views upon religion were orthodox, and that her life was passed inceaseless striving for the 'peace that passeth understanding;' but in 1843a letter was written to Elizabeth Evans by a relative in Griff, in whichMarian Evans is spoken of, and the change in her religious opinionsindicated. She writes that they are in great pain about Mary Ann; but thelast portion of the letter, dealing more fully with the subject, hasunfortunately got lost or destroyed. The close association of George Eliotwith Derbyshire, as well as her love for the quaint village of Wirksworth, and its upright, honest, God-fearing people, breaks forth in more than oneof these communications. "

Partly as the result of her studies and partly as the result of contactwith other minds, Marian began to grow sceptical about the religiousbeliefs she had entertained. This took place probably during hertwenty-third year, but the growth of the new ideas was slow at first. Asone of her friends has suggested, it was her eagerness for positiveknowledge which made her an unbeliever. She had no love of mere doubt, nodesire to disagree with accepted doctrines, but she was not content unlessshe could get at the facts and reach what was just and reasonable. "It isseldom, " says this person, "that a mind of so much power is so free fromthe impulse to dissent, and that not from too ready credulousness, butrather because the consideration of doubtful points was habitually crowdedout, one may say, by the more ready and delighted acceptance of whateveraccredited facts and doctrines might be received unquestioningly. We canimagine George Eliot in youth, burning to master all the wisdom andlearning of the world; we cannot imagine her failing to acquire any kind ofknowledge on the pretext that her teacher was in error about something elsethan the matter in hand; and it is undoubtedly to this natural preferencefor the positive side of things that we are indebted for the singularbreadth and completeness of her knowledge and culture. A mind like hersmust have preyed disastrously upon itself during the years of comparativesolitude in which she lived at Foleshill, had it not been for thatinexhaustible source of delight in every kind of intellectual acquisition. Languages, music, literature, science and philosophy interested her alike;it was early in this period that in the course of a walk with a friend shepaused and clasped her hands with a wild aspiration that she might live 'toreconcile the philosophy of Locke and Kant!' Years afterward she rememberedthe very turn of the road where she had spoken it. "

The spiritual struggles of Maggie Tulliver give a good picture of MarianEvans' mental and spiritual experiences at this time. Her friends andrelatives were scandalized by her scepticism. Her father could not at allsympathize with her changed religious attitude, and treated her harshly. She refused to attend church, and this made the separation so wide that itwas proposed to break up the home. By the advice of friends she at lastconsented to outwardly conform to her father's wishes, and a partialreconciliation was effected. This alienation, however, had a profoundeffect upon her mind. She slowly grew away from the intellectual basisof her old beliefs, but, with Maggie, she found peace and strength inself-renunciation, and in the cultivation of that inward trust which makesthe chief anchorage of strong natures. She bore this experience patiently, and without any diminution of her affection; but she also found variousfriends among the more cultivated people of Coventry, who could sympathizewith her in her studies and with her radical views in religion. Thesepersons gave her the encouragement she needed, the contact with other andmore matured minds which was so necessary to her mental development, andthat social contact with life which was so conducive to her health of mind. In one family especially, that of Mr. Charles Bray, did she find the true, and cordial, and appreciative friendship she desired. These friendssoftened the growing discord with her own family, and gave her that devotedregard and aid that would be of most service to her. "In Mr. Bray'sfamily, " we are told by one who has written of this trying period of hercareer, "she found sympathy with her ardent love of knowledge and with themore enlightened views that had begun to supplant those under which (as shedescribed it) her spirit had been grievously burdened. Emerson, Froude, George Combe, Robert Mackay, and many other men of mark, were at varioustimes guests at Mr. Bray's house at Rosehill while Miss Evans was thereeither as inmate or occasional visitor; and many a time might have beenseen, pacing up and down the lawn or grouped under an old acacia, men ofthought and research, discussing all things in heaven and earth, andlistening with marked attention when one gentle woman's voice was heard toutter what they were quite sure had been well matured before the lipsopened. Few, if any, could feel themselves her superior in generalintelligence; and it was amusing one day to see the amazement of a certaindoctor, who, venturing on a quotation from Epictetus to an unassuming younglady, was, with modest politeness, corrected in his Greek by his feminineauditor. One rare characteristic belonged to her which gave a peculiarcharm to her conversation. She had no petty egotism, no spirit ofcontradiction; she never talked for effect. A happy thought well expressedfilled her with delight; in a moment she would seize the thought andimprove upon it--so that common people began to feel themselves wise in herpresence; and perhaps years after she would remind them, to their pride andsurprise, of the good things they had said. "

She was an ardent reader of Emerson and other thinkers of his cast ofthought, and some traces of this early sympathy are to be seen in herbooks. On his second visit to England Emerson spent a day or two at thehouse of Charles Bray, with whose writings he had previously becomeacquainted. Emerson was much impressed with the personality of MarianEvans, and more than once said to Bray, "That young lady has a calm, serious soul. " When Emerson asked her somewhat suddenly, "What one book doyou like best?" she at once replied, "Rousseau's _Confessions_. " Shecherished this acquaintance with Emerson, and held him in gratefulremembrance through life. 

The painful experiences of this period are undoubtedly reflected in anotherof her autobiographic poems, that entitled "Self and Life. " She speaks ofthe profound influence the past had over her mind, and that her hands andfeet were still tiny when she began to know the historic thrill of contactwith other ages. She also makes Life say to Self, in regard to her pain andsorrow:

 But all thy anguish and thy discontent Was growth of mine, the elemental strife Towards feeling manifold with vision blent To wider thought: I was no vulgar life That like the water-mirrored ape, Not discerns the thing it sees, Nor knows its own in others' shape, Railing, scorning, at its ease. Half man's truth must hidden lie If unlit by sorrow's eye. I by sorrow wrought in thee Willing pain of ministry. 

The intellectual surroundings of Marian Evans at this time gave shape toher whole after-life. There were now laid the foundations of her mode ofthinking, and her philosophic theories began to be formed. It was in thehome of one of her friends she learned to think for herself, and it wasthere her positivist doctrines first appeared. Charles Bray was affected bythe transcendental movement, and was an ardent admirer of Newman, Emersonand others among its leaders. This interest prepared him, as it has so manyother minds, for the acceptance of those speculative views which were builtup on the foundation of science when the transcendental movement began towane. The transcendental doctrines of unity, the oneness of mind andmatter, the evolution of all forms of life and being from the lowest, theuniversal dominion of law and necessity, and the profound significance ofnature in its influence on man, as they were developed by Goethe, Schelling, Carlyle and Emerson, gave direction to a new order ofspeculation, which had its foundations in modern science. 

Bray was an ardent phrenologist, and in 1832 published a work on _TheEducation of the Feelings_, based on phrenological principles. In 1841appeared his main work, _The Philosophy of Necessity_; this was followedseveral years later by a somewhat similar work, _On Force, its Mental andMoral Correlates_. His philosophy was summarized in a volume published in1871, which was entitled _A Manual of Anthropology_. He also wrotepamphlets on "Illusion and Delusion, " "The Reign of Law, " "Toleration, " and"Christianity. " In his work on necessity he promulgated very many of thoseideas which have formed so prominent a part of the philosophy of GeorgeEliot. The dominion of law, the reign of necessity, experience as thefoundation of knowledge, humanity as an organism that develops a largerlife for man by the aid of experience and tradition, --these are among thedoctrines of the book. There is every reason for believing that in theteachings of Charles Bray, Marian Evans found many of the main elements ofher philosophy, and with his aid her opinions were largely shaped. 

Mrs. Bray was also a woman of large intelligence, and of a mind freelyopen to new theories. She wrote a _Physiology for Schools_ and aschool-book on _Duties to Animals_, which have been well received by thepublic and used as text books in the schools of the Midland counties. In1882 she published a little book on the _Elements of Morality_, consistingof a series of easy lessons for Unitarian Sunday schools and for hometeaching. To the Brays, Marian Evans owed much in the way of sympathy, culture and direct influence. Perhaps more than any other persons they gavetone and direction to her mind. One who knew them has said, "Besides beinga practical as well as theoretical philanthropist, Mr. Bray was also acourageous impugner of the dogmas which form the basis of the populartheology. Mrs. Bray shared in this general largeness of thought, whileperhaps more in sympathy with the fairer aspects of Christianity. "

A brother and a sister of Mrs. Bray's, Charles C. Hennell and Sara S. Hennell, also had a large influence on Marian Evans during this period. Itwas Charles Hennell who induced her to translate Strauss, and it was SaraHennell to whom she wrote about her aunt after the publication of _AdamBede_. Hennell's _Inquiry concerning the origin of Christianity_ waspublished in 1838, and appeared in a second edition in 1841. In the latteryear the book was read by Marian Evans, after a faithful perusal of theBible as a preparation for it, and quickly re-read, and with great interestand delight. She then pronounced it "the most interesting book she had everread, " dating from it a new birth to her mind. The book was translated intoGerman, Strauss writing a preface for it, and that interpreter ofChristianity praised it highly. Hennell rejected all supernaturalism andthe miraculous, regarding Christianity as a slow and natural developmentout of Judaism, aided by Platonism and other outside influences. He findsthe sources of Jesus' teachings in the Jewish tendencies of the time, whilethe cause of the supremacy of the man Jesus was laid in a long course ofevents which had swelled to a crisis at the time of his appearance, andbore him aloft to a height whence his personal qualities told with a powerderived from the accumulated force of many generations. Jesus was anenthusiast who believed himself the predicted king of the Jews, and he wasa revolutionist expecting to establish an earthly kingdom for the supremacyof Judaism. Jesus was largely influenced by the Essenes, but he rejectedtheir austerity. Hennell found a mixture of truth and error in the Gospels, and believed that many mythical elements entered into the accounts given ofJesus. A thorough rationalist, he claimed to accept the spiritual essenceof Christianity, and to value highly the moral teachings of Jesus. In alater work on _Christian Theism_ he finds an argument for belief in Godmainly in nature. In his conclusions he is not far from F. W. Newman andTheodore Parker; but he does not give the credit to intuition and thereligious faculty they do, though he is an earnest believer in God, andinclined to accept Christianity as the highest expression of religion. 

Sara S. Hennell early published _An Essay on the Skeptical Tendency ofButler's Analogy_, and a Baillie prize essay on _Christianity andInfidelity: An Exposition of the Arguments on Both Sides_. A work of muchmerit and thought appeared from her pen in 1860, under the title of_Thoughts in Aid of Faith_. In this work she follows her brother, Strauss, Feuerbach and Spencer in an interpretation of religion, which constantlyrecalls the theories of George Eliot. In a series of more recent books shehas continued the same line of thought. The early and intimate friendshipof Marian Evans and Miss Hennell may explain this similarity of opinion, and the beliefs they held in common were doubtless developed to a greateror less extent even when the former lived in Coventry. 

Another friend of this period was a German scholar by the name of Brabant, resident in England, a friend of Strauss, Paulus, Coleridge and Grote. Grote described him as "a vigorous self-thinking intellect. " A daughter ofDr. Brabant first undertook the translation of Strauss, and she it was whomarried Charles Hennell. After this marriage Miss Evans offered to take toDr. Brabant the place of his daughter, and did act as his housekeeper forsome months. 

Marian Evans was surrounded at the most impressible period of her life bythis group of intellectual, free-thinking people, who seem to have fullyindoctrinated her with their own opinions. None of them had rejectedChristianity or theism, but they were rationalists in spirit, and eagerstudents of philosophy and science. Here were laid the foundations of thedoctrines she afterwards held so strongly, and even during this period verymany of the theories presented in her books were fully developed. Here hermind was thoroughly prepared for the teachings of Comte, Spencer and Lewes;and her early instructors had gone so far in their lessons that the laterteachers had little to do more than to give system to her thoughts. 

It was essential to George Eliot's novel-writing that she was educatedamidst religious influences, and that she earnestly accepted the religiousteaching of her childhood. Not less important was her humble home and herassociation with the common life of the people. Through all her work theseinfluences appear, coloring her thought, shaping her views of life, andincreasing her sympathies and affections. Her tender, enthusiastic love ofhumble life never lost any of its quickening power. The faith of childhoodwas lost, but its memory was left in a warm appreciation of all phases ofreligious life and a heartfelt sympathy with all the sorrows andaspirations of men. 

Her father's health becoming very poor, Marian spent the next two or threeyears in the care of him. She read to him most of Scott's novels, devotingseveral hours each day to this task. During this period she made a visit tothe Isle of Wight, and there read the novels of Richardson. Her father diedin 1849, and she was very much affected by this event. She grieved for himovermuch, and could find no consolation. Her friends, the Brays, to divertand relieve her mind, invited her to take a continental tour with them. They travelled extensively in Belgium, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. Hergrief, however, was so excessive as to receive little relief, and herfriends began to fear the results. On their return to England they left herat Geneva, where she remained for nearly a year. After some months in aboarding-house near Geneva she became an inmate of the family of M. D'Albert Durade, a Swiss water-color painter of some reputation, whoafterwards became the translator of her works into French. She devoted thewinter of 1849-50 to the study of French and its literature, to mathematicsand to reading. Her teacher in mathematics soon told her that she was ableto proceed without his aid. She read Rousseau and studied the Frenchsocialists. M. Durade painted her portrait, making a remarkable picture. The softness of the clear blue eyes, in which is expressed a profound depthof thought, is one of its characteristics. M. Durade accompanied her toEngland in the spring of 1850, and she went to live with her brother, whereshe remained for a few months. The old family differences about religionhad alienated the brother and sister so far intellectually that sheaccepted an invitation from the Brays to find a home with them. Her sadnessand grief continued, and her health was not good. Her fits of nervousnessand of tears were frequent, but her studies continued to occupy her mind. She delighted to converse with Mr. Bray, and other persons of earnestthought had their influence on her mind. Among these was George Dawson, thefamous preacher who cut himself loose from all denominations. 

II. 

TRANSLATOR AND EDITOR. 

It was while living at Foleshill, and amidst the intellectual influences ofawakening radicalism, that Marian Evans undertook her first literary labor. This was the translation of the _Leben Jesu_ of David Strauss. A book sodaring in its interpretations of the origin of Christianity excited muchattention, and especially among those who had broken away from the oldreligious beliefs. The work of translation was at first undertaken by MissBrabant, who soon married Charles Hennell. Then the task was taken up byMarian Evans, who gave three years to it, renewing her Hebrew studies forthe purpose, and the book was published in 1846. The work was thoroughlydone, so much so that Strauss complimented the translator on its accuracyand correctness of spirit. Concerning the translation the _WestminsterReview_ had this word of praise to offer: "We can testify that thetranslator has achieved a very tough work with remarkable spirit andfidelity. The author, though indeed a good writer, could hardly have spokenbetter had his country and language been English. The work has evidentlyfallen into the hands of one who has not only effective command of bothlanguages, but a familiarity with the subject-matter of theologicalcriticism, and an initiation into its technical phraseology. " Anothercritic said that "whoever reads these volumes without any reference to theGerman, must be pleased with the easy, perspicuous, idiomatic force of theEnglish style. But he will be still more satisfied when, on turning to theoriginal, he finds that the rendering is word for word, thought for thoughtand sentence for sentence. In preparing so beautiful a rendering as thepresent, the difficulties can have been neither few nor small in the way ofpreserving, in various parts of the work, the exactness of the translation, combined with that uniform harmony and clearness of style which impart tothe volumes before us the air and the spirit of an original. A modest andkindly care for his reader's convenience has induced the translator oftento supply the rendering into English of a Greek quotation when there was nocorresponding rendering into German in the original. Indeed, Strauss maywell say, as he does in the notice which he writes for this Englishedition, that, as far as he has examined it, the translation is _etaccurata et perspicua_. "

The book had a successful sale, but Marian Evans received only twentypounds, and twenty-five copies of the book, for her share of thetranslation. A little later she translated Feuerbach's _Essence ofChristianity_, receiving fifty pounds for this labor. It was published in1854, but the sale was small, and it proved a heavy loss to the publisher. While translating Strauss she aided a friend interested in philosophicalstudies (probably Charles Bray) by the translation, for his reading, of the_De Deo_ of Spinoza. Some years later she completed a translation of themore famous _Ethica_ of the same thinker. It was not published, probablybecause there was at that time so little interest in Spinoza. 

The execution of such work as this, and all of it done in the mostcreditable and accurate manner, indicates the thoroughness of Marian Evans'scholarship. Though she doubtless was somewhat inclined to accept theopinions she thus helped to diffuse, yet Miss Simcox tells us that "thetranslation of Strauss and the translation of Spinoza were undertaken, notby her own choice but at the call of friendship; in the first place tocomplete what some one else was unable to continue, and in the second tomake the philosopher she admired accessible to a friendly phrenologistwho did not read Latin. At all times she regarded translation as a workthat should be undertaken as a duty, to make accessible any book thatrequired to be read; and though undoubtedly she was satisfied that the_Leben Jesu_ required to be read in England, it would be difficult toimagine a temper more naturally antipathetic to her than that of itsauthor; and critics who talk about the 'Strauss and Feuerbach period'should be careful to explain that the phrase covers no implication thatshe was at anytime an admirer or a disciple of Strauss. There are extremesnot only too remote but too disparate to be included in the same life. "

Marian Evans did not become an admirer or disciple of Strauss, probablybecause she preferred Charles Hennell's interpretation of Christianity, Itis certain, however, that she was greatly affected by Feuerbach, and thathis influence was ever after strongly marked in her thinking. The teachingsof Charles Bray and Charles Hennell had prepared her for the reception ofthose of Feuerbach, and he in turn made her mind responsive to the moresystematic philosophy of Comte. Bray had taught her, along with Kant, toregard all knowledge as subjective, while Hennell and her other friends hadshown her the objective falsity of Christianity. Thus her mind was madeready for Feuerbach's leading principle, that all religion is a product ofthe mind and has no outward reality corresponding to its doctrines. According to Feuerbach, the mind creates for itself objective imagescorresponding to its subjective states, reproduces its feelings in theoutward world. In reality there is no objective fact corresponding to thesesubjective ideas, but what the mind conceives to exist is a necessaryproduct of its own activity. The mind necessarily believes in God, which isman's way of conceiving his species and realizing to himself the perfecttype of his own nature. God does not exist, and yet he is a true picture ofman's soul, a necessary product of his feeling and consciousness. Allreligious ideas are true subjectively, and Christianity especiallycorresponds to the inward wants and aspirations of the soul. To Feuerbachit is true as a poetic interpretation of feeling and sentiment, and to himit gives the noblest and truest conception of what the soul needs for itsinward satisfaction. 

The influence of Feuerbach is to be seen in the profound interest whichMarian Evans ever took in the subject of religion. That influence aloneexplains how it was possible for one who did not accept any religiousdoctrines as true, who did not believe in God or immortality, and whorejected Christianity as a historic or dogmatic faith, to accept so much asshe did of the better spirit of religion and to be so keenly in sympathywith it. It was from the general scepticism and rationalism of the timesshe learned to reject all religion as false to truth and as not giving ajust interpretation of life and its facts. It was from Feuerbach shelearned how great is the influence of religion, how necessary it is toman's welfare, and how profoundly it answers to the wants of the soul. Likeso many keen minds of the century, she rejected, with a sweepingscepticism, all on which a spiritual religion rests, all its facts, arguments and reasons. She knew only nature and man; inspiration, revelation, a spiritual world, had no existence for her. Yet she believedmost thoroughly in religion, accepted its phenomena, was deeply moved byits spiritual aims, yearned after its perfect self-renunciation. Religionwas to her, however, a purely subjective experience; it gave her a largerrealization of the wants of humanity, it revealed to her the true nature offeeling. To Feuerbach she owed this capacity to appreciate Christianity, torejoice in its spiritual aims, and even to accept it as a trueinterpretation of the soul's wants, at the same time that she totallyrejected it as fact and dogma. 

In the spring of 1851 she was invited to London by John Chapman, to assisthim in the editorship of the _Westminster Review_, Chapman had been thepublisher of her translations, and she had met him in London when on theway to the continent the year before. He was the publisher of a largenumber of idealistic and positivist works, representing the outspoken andradical sentiment of the time. The names of Fichte, Emerson, Parker, Francis Newnian, Cousin, Ewald, H. Martineau, and others of equal note, appeared on his list. The _Westminster Review_ was devoted to scientificand positivist views, and was the organ of such writers as Mill, Spencer, Lewes and Miss Martineau. It was carefully edited, had an able list ofcontributors, but its advanced philosophical position did not give it awide circle of readers. It gave careful reviews of books, and had abledepartments devoted to the literature of each of the leading countries. Marian Evans did much of the labor in preparing these departments and inwriting special book reviews. Her work was thoroughly done, and shows widereading and patient effort. Her position brought her the acquaintance ofa distinguished and brilliant company of men and women. Under thisinfluence her powers widened, and she quickly showed herself the peer ofthe ablest among them. Herbert Spencer has said that at this time she was"distinguished by that breadth of culture and universality of power whichhave since made her known to all the world. " We are told by another that"her strength of intellect, her scholarship and varied accomplishments, andthe personal charm of her manner and conversation, made a deep impressionon all who wore thrown into her society. "

Dr. Chapman then lived in the Strand, and Marian Evans became a member ofhis family, sharing in its interests as well as in its labors. She wasextremely simple in her habits, went but very little into society, and gaveherself almost exclusively to her duties and to metaphysical studies. Afortnightly gathering of the contributors to the _Review_ was held in Mr. Chapman's house, and on these occasions she came to know most of thescientific and positivist thinkers of England at that time. HarrietMartineau invited her to Ambleside, and she was a frequent guest at theLondon residence of Sir James and Lady Clarke. She visited George Combe andhis wife at Edinburgh in October, 1852, going to Ambleside on her return. 

While assisting Mr. Chapman, Marian Evans contributed only one article, beyond her editorial work, to the pages of the _Westminster Review_. Thework she did, almost wholly that of digesting and reviewing new books, could have been little to her taste. It must have been a drudgery, exceptin so far as it aided her in the pursuit of her studies. Occasionally, however, she must have found a task to her mind, as when, in the summary ofcurrent English literature for January, 1852. She had Carlyle's _Life ofSterling_ in hand. Her notice of the book is highly appreciative ofCarlyle's genius, and full of cordial praise. This passage gives her ideaof a true biography:

 We have often wished that genius would incline itself more frequently to the task of the biographer, --that when some great or good personage dies, instead of the dreary three or five volumed compilations of letter, and diary, and detail, little to the purpose, which two-thirds of the reading public have not the chance, nor the other third the inclination, to read, we could have a real "Life, " setting forth briefly and vividly the man's inward and outward struggles, aims and achievements, so as to make clear the meaning which his experience has for his fellows. A few such lives (chiefly, indeed, autobiographies) the world possesses, and they have, perhaps, been more influential on the formation of character than any other kind of reading. But the conditions required for the perfection of life writing, --personal intimacy, a loving and poetic nature which sees the beauty and the depth of familiar things, and the artistic power which seizes characteristic points and renders them with life-like effect, --are seldom found in combination. _The Life of Sterling_ is an instance of this rare conjunction. Its comparatively tame scenes and incidents gather picturesqueness and interest under the rich lights of Carlyle's mind. We are told neither too little nor too much; the facts noted, the letters selected, are all such as serve to give the liveliest conception of what Sterling was and what he did; and though the book speaks much of other persons, this collateral matter is all a kind of scene-painting, and is accessory to the main purpose. 

The earliest of the regular articles, and the only one printed while shewas the associate editor of the _Review_, is on "The Lady Novelists. " Itappeared in the number for July, 1852, and contained a striking discussionof woman's place in literature, a defence of woman's right to occupy thatfield she can best cultivate, with a clear and just criticism of several ofthe most prominent among lady novelists. She was quite full in hertreatment of Jane Austen and George Sand, praising as well as criticisingwith insight and fine discrimination. At the outset she defines literatureas an expression of the emotions, and gives a remarkably clear and originaldescription of its functions. 

Her editorial connection with the _Westminster Review_ continued for abouttwo years, until the end of 1853. For the next three years she was acontributor to its pages, where there appeared "Woman in France: Madame deSablé, " in October, 1854; "Evangelical Teaching: Dr. Cumming, " October, 1855; "German Wit: Heinrich Heine, " January, 1856; "The Natural History ofGerman Life, " July, 1856; "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists, " October, 1856;and "Worldliness and other-Worldliness: the Poet Young, " January, 1857. Twoother articles have been attributed to her pen, but they are of littlevalue. These are "George Forster, " October, 1856, and "Weimar and itsCelebrities, " April, 1859. The interest and value of nearly all thesearticles are still as great as when they were first published. This willjustify the publication here of numerous extracts from their most salientand important paragraphs. As indicating her literary judgment, and hercapacity for incisive characterization and clear, trenchant criticism, reference may be made to the essay on Heine, which is one of the finestpieces of critical writing the century has produced. 

 Heine is one of the most remarkable men of this age; no echo, but a real voice, and therefore, like all genuine things in this world, worth studying; a surpassing lyric poet, who has uttered our feelings for us in delicious song; a humorist, who touches leaden folly with the magic wand of his fancy, and transmutes it into the fine gold of art--who sheds his sunny smile on human tears, and makes them a beauteous rainbow on the cloudy background of life; a wit, who holds in his mighty hand the most scorching lightnings of satire; an artist in prose literature, who has shown even more completely than Goethe the possibilities of German prose; and--in spite of all charges against him, true as well as false--a lover of freedom, who has spoken wise and brave words on behalf of his fellow-men. He is, moreover, a suffering man, who, with all the highly wrought sensibility of genius, has to endure terrible physical ills; and as such he calls forth more than an intellectual interest. It is true, alas! that there is a heavy weight in the other scale--that Heine's magnificent powers have often served only to give electric force to the expression of debased feeling, so that his works are no Phidian statue of gold, and ivory, and gems, but have not a little brass, and iron, and miry clay mingled with the precious metal. The audacity of his occasional coarseness and personality is unparalleled in contemporary literature, and has hardly been exceeded by the license of former days. Yet, when all coarseness, all scurrility, all Mephistophelean contempt for the reverent feelings of other men, is removed, there will be a plenteous remainder of exquisite poetry, of wit, humor and just thought. It is apparently too often a congenial task to write severe words about the transgressions committed by men of genius, especially when the censor has the advantage of being himself a man of _no_ genius, so that those transgressions seem to him quite gratuitous; _he_, forsooth, never lacerated any one by his wit, or gave irresistible piquancy to a coarse allusion, and his indignation is not mitigated by any knowledge of the temptation that lies in transcendent power.... 

 In Heine's hands German prose, usually so heavy, so clumsy, so dull, becomes, like clay in the hands of the chemist, compact, metallic, brilliant; it is German in an _allotropic_ condition. No dreary, labyrinthine sentences in which you find "no end in wandering mazes lost;" no chains of adjectives in linked harshness long drawn out; no digressions thrown in as parentheses; but crystalline definiteness and clearness, fine and varied rhythm, and all that delicate precision, all those felicities of word and cadence, which belong to the highest order of prose. And Heine has proved that it is possible to be witty in German; indeed, in reading him, you might imagine that German was pre-eminently the language of wit, so flexible, so subtle, so piquant does it become under his management. He is far more an artist in prose than Goethe. He has not the breadth and repose, and the calm development which belongs to Goethe's style, for they are foreign to his mental character; but he excels Goethe in susceptibility to the manifold qualities of prose, and in mastery over its effects. Heine is full of variety, of light and shadow: he alternates between epigrammatic pith, imaginative grace, sly allusion, and daring piquancy; and athwart all those there runs a vein of sadness, tenderness and grandeur which reveals the poet. 

The introduction to this article contains a wise comparison of wit andhumor, and makes a subtle discrimination between them. German wit she findsis heavy and lacking in nicety of perception; and the German is the onlynation that "had contributed nothing classic to the common stock ofEuropean wit and humor" previous to the present century. In Heine she foundboth in a marked degree, so that he is unlike the other writers of Germany, having a flavor and a spirit quite his own. 

Her essays on Dr. Cumming and the poet Young were largely of a theologicalcharacter. They are keen in their thrusts at dogmatic religion, sparklingwith witty hits at a make-believe piety, and full of biting sarcasm. Herentire want of sympathy with the men she dissects, makes her sometimesunjust to them, and she makes them worse than they really were. Theterrible vigor of her criticism may be seen in her description of Dr. Cumming and his teaching. She brings three charges against him, and defendseach with ample quotation, wit, sarcasm, argument and eloquence. She findsin his books unscrupulosity of statement, absence of genuine charity, and aperverted moral judgment. These essays much resemble Thackeray's dissectionof Swift for their terrible sarcasm, their unmerciful criticism, and theirminute unveiling of human weakness and hypocrisy. It is possible thatThackeray was her model, as his lecture was first delivered in 1851 or1852; but, at least, she is not at all his inferior in power to lay barethe character and tendencies of the men she selected for analysis. Her keenpsychological insight was shown here in a manner as brilliant and asaccurate as in any of her novels. She may have done injustice to thecircumstances under which these men were placed, their religious education, the social conditions which aided them in the pursuit of the lives theylived; and she may not have been quite ready enough to deal charitably withthose who were blinded, as these men were, by all their surroundings and bywhatever of culture they received; but she did see into the secret placesof their lives, and laid bare the inner motives of their conduct. It wasbecause these men came before the world as its teachers, holding up beforeit a special ideal and motive for its guidance, that she criticised them. In reality they were selfish, narrow, worldly; their teaching came from nodeep convictions, nor from a high moral purpose; and hence her criticism. She laid bare the shallowness of their thoughts, the selfishness of theirpurposes, and the spiritual unfruitfulness of their teachings. Criticism sounsparing and so just, because based on the most searching insight intocharacter and conduct, it would be difficult to find elsewhere. 

 Dr. Cumming's mind is evidently not of the pietistic order. There is not the slightest leaning towards mysticism in his Christianity--no indication of religious raptures, of delight in God, of spiritual communion with the Father. He is most at home in the forensic view of justification, and dwells on salvation as a scheme rather than as an experience. He insists on good works as the sign of justifying faith, as labors to be achieved to the glory of God, but he rarely represents them as the spontaneous, necessary outflow of a soul filled with divine love. He is at home in the external, the polemical, the historical, the circumstantial, and is only episodically devout and practical. The great majority of his published sermons are occupied with argument or philippic against Romanists and unbelievers, with vindications of the Bible, with the political interpretation of prophecy, or the criticism of public events; and the devout aspiration, or the spiritual and practical exhortation, is tacked to them as a sort of fringe in a hurried sentence or two at the end. He revels in the demonstration that the Pope is the Man of Sin; he is copious on the downfall of the Ottoman empire; he appears to glow with satisfaction in turning a story which tends to show how he abashed an "infidel;" it is a favorite exercise with him to form conjectures of the process by which the earth is to be burned up, and to picture Dr. Chalmers and Mr. Wilberforce being caught up to meet Christ in the air, while Romanists, Puseyites and infidels are given over to gnashing of teeth. But of really spiritual joys and sorrows, of the life and death of Christ as a manifestation of love that constrains the soul, of sympathy with that yearning over the lost and erring which made Jesus weep over Jerusalem, and prompted the sublime prayer, "Father, forgive them, " of the gentler fruits of the Spirit, and the peace of God which passeth understanding--of all this, we find little trace in Dr. Cumming's discourses. 

Even more severe is her account of the poet Young. She speaks of him as "aremarkable individual of the species _divine_. " This is her account of hislife:

 He is on the verge of fifty, and has recently undergone his metamorphosis into the clerical form. Rather a paradoxical specimen, if you observe him narrowly: a sort of cross between a sycophant and a psalmist, a poet whose imagination is alternately fired by the "Last Day" and by a creation of peers, who fluctuate between rhapsodic applause of King George and rhapsodic applause of Jehovah. After spending "a foolish youth, the sport of peers and poets, " after being a hanger-on of the profligate Duke of Wharton, after aiming in vain at a parliamentary career, and angling for pensions and preferment with fulsome dedications and fustian odes, he is a little disgusted with his imperfect success, and has determined to retire from the general mendicancy business to a particular branch; in other words, he has determined on that renunciation of the world implied in "taking orders, " with the prospect of a good living and an advantageous matrimonial connection. And no man can be better fitted for an Established Church. He personifies completely her nice balance of temporalities and spiritualities. He is equally impressed with the momentousness of death and of burial fees; he languishes at once for immortal life and for "livings;" he has a vivid attachment to patrons in general, but on the whole prefers the Almighty. He will teach, with something more than official conviction, the nothingness of earthly things; and he will feel something more than private disgust if his meritorious efforts in directing man's attention to another world are not rewarded by substantial preferment in this. His secular man believes in cambric bands and silk stockings as characteristic attire for "an ornament of religion and virtue;" hopes courtiers will never forgot to copy Sir Robert Walpole; and writes begging letters to the King's mistress. His spiritual man recognizes no motives more familiar than Golgotha and the skies; it walks in graveyards, or it soars among the stars. His religion exhausts itself in ejaculations and rebukes, and knows no medium between the ecstatic and the sententious. If it were not for the prospect of immortality, he considers it would be wise and agreeable to be indecent or to murder one's father; and, heaven apart, it would be extremely irrational in any man not to be a knave. Man, he thinks, is a compound of the angel and the brute; the brute is to be humbled by being reminded of its "relation to the stalls, " and frightened into moderation by the contemplation of death-beds and skulls; the angel is to be developed by vituperating this world and exalting the next; and by this double process you get the Christian--"the highest style of man. " With all this, our new-made divine is an unmistakable poet. To a clay compounded chiefly of the worldling and the rhetorician, there is added a real spark of Promethean fire. He will one day clothe his apostrophes and objurgations, his astronomical religion and his charnel-house morality, in lasting verse, which will stand, like a Juggernaut made of gold and jewels, at once magnificent and repulsive; for this divine is Edward Young, the future author of _Night Thoughts_. 

She says, "One of the most striking characteristics of Young is his_radical insincerity as a poetic artist_. "

 Indeed, we remember no mind in poetic literature that seems to have absorbed less of the beauty and the healthy breath of the common landscape than Young's. His images, often grand and finely presented, lie almost entirely within that circle of observation which would be familiar to a man who lived in town, hung about the theatres, read the newspaper, and went home often by moon and star light. There is no natural object nearer than the moon that seems to have any strong attraction for him, and even to the moon he chiefly appeals for patronage, and "pays his court" to her.... He describes nothing so well as a comet, and is tempted to linger with fond detail over nothing more familiar than the day of judgment and an imaginary journey among the stars.... The adherence to abstractions, or to the personification of abstractions, is closely allied in Young to the _want of genuine emotion_. He sees Virtue sitting on a mount serene, far above the mists and storms of earth: he sees Religion coming down from the skies, with this world in her left hand and the other world in her right; but we never find him dwelling on virtue or religion as it really exists--in the emotions of a man dressed in an ordinary coat, and seated by his fireside of an evening, with his hand resting on the head of his little daughter, in courageous effort for unselfish ends, in the internal triumph of justice and pity over personal resentment, in all the sublime self-renunciation and sweet charities which are found in the details of ordinary life. 

In these essays there are various indications of her religious opinions, and those of a decided character. In that on Dr. Cumming, she has this wordto say of the rationalistic conception of the Bible:

 He seems to be ignorant, or he chooses to ignore the fact, that there is a large body of eminently instructed and earnest men who regard the Hebrew and Christian scriptures as a series of historical documents, to be dealt with according to the rules of historical criticism, and that an equally large number of men, who are not historical critics, find the dogmatic scheme built on the letter of the scriptures, opposed to their profoundest moral convictions. 

This statement is suggestive of her position on religious subjects:

 The best minds that accept Christianity as a divinely inspired system, believe that the great end of the Gospel is not merely the saving but the educating of men's souls, the creating within them of holy dispositions, the subduing of egoistical pretensions, and the perpetual enhancing of the desire that the will of God--a will synonymous with goodness and truth--may be done on earth. But what relation to all this has a system of interpretation which keeps the mind of the Christian in the position of a spectator at a gladiatorial show, of which Satan is the wild beast in the shape of a great red dragon, and two thirds of mankind the victims--the whole provided and got up by God for the edification of the saints?

She calls Dr. Cumming's teachings "the natural crop of a human mind wherethe soil is chiefly made up of egoistic passions and dogmatic beliefs. "Then she deals with that belief in this trenchant fashion:

 Happily, the constitution of human nature forbids the complete prevalence of such a theory. Fatally powerful as religious systems have been, human nature is stronger and wider than religious systems, and though dogmas may hamper, they cannot absolutely repress its growth: build walls around the living tree as you will, the bricks and mortar have by and by to give way before the slow and sure operation of the sap. But next to the hatred of the enemies of God which is the principle of persecution, there perhaps has been no perversion more obstructive of true moral development than this substitution of a reference to the glory of God for the direct promptings of the sympathetic feelings. Benevolence and justice are strong only in proportion as they are directly and inevitably called into activity by their proper objects; pity is strong only because we are strongly impressed by suffering; and only in proportion as it is compassion that speaks through the eyes when we soothe, and moves the arm when we succor, is a deed strictly benevolent. If the soothing or the succor be given because another being wishes or approves it, the deed ceases to be one of benevolence, and becomes one of deference, of obedience, of self-interest, or vanity. Accessory motives may aid in producing an action, but they presuppose the weakness of the direct motive; and conversely, when the direct motive is strong, the actions of accessory motives will be excluded. 

In writing of Young she says, --

 The God of the _Night Thoughts_ is simply Young himself "writ large"--a didactic poet, who "lectures" mankind in the antithetic hyperbole of mortal and immortal joys, earth and the stars, hell and heaven, and expects the tribute of inexhaustible applause. Young has no conception of religion as anything else than egoism turned heavenward; and he does not merely imply this, he insists on it. 

She contrasts Young with Cowper, preferring the latter because he dwellsmore on the things of a common and simple life. 

 In Young we have the type of that deficient human sympathy, that impiety toward the present and the visible, which flies for its motives, its sanctities, and its religion, to the remote, the vague and unknown: in Cowper we have the type of that genuine love which cherishes things in proportion to their nearness, and feels its reverence grow in proportion to the intimacy of its knowledge. 

This warm human sympathy is all she cares for in religion. 

 See how a lovely, sympathetic nature manifests itself in spite of creed and circumstance! Where is the poem that surpasses the _Task_ in the genuine love it breathes, at once toward inanimate and animate existence--in truthfulness of perception and sincerity of presentation--in the calm gladness that springs from a delight in objects for their own sake, without self-reference--in divine sympathy with the lowliest pleasures, with the most shortlived capacity for pain? Here is no railing at the earth's "melancholy map, " but the happiest lingering over her simplest scenes with all the fond minuteness that belongs to love; no pompous rhetoric about the inferiority of the brutes, but a warm plea on their behalf against man's inconsiderateness and cruelty, and a sense of enlarged happiness from their companionship in enjoyment; no vague rant about human misery and human virtue, but that close and vivid presentation of particular deeds and misdeeds, which is the direct road to the emotions. How Cowper's exquisite mind falls with the mild warmth of morning sunlight on the commonest objects, at once disclosing every detail and investing every detail with beauty! No object is too small to prompt his song-- not the sooty film on the bars, or the spoutless teapot holding a bit of mignonette that serves to cheer the dingy town lodging with a "hint that nature lives;" and yet his song is never trivial, for he is alive to small objects, not because his mind is narrow, but because his glance is clear and his heart is large. 

Her contributions to the _Westminster Review_ indicate that Marian Evanshad read much and well, and that she was possessed of a thoroughlycultivated mind and much learning. To their preparation she gave herselfdiligently, writing slowly, after a careful study of her subject and muchthought devoted to a faithful thinking out of all its parts. It has beenmany times suggested that these articles gave indication only of learningand studious effort. They certainly give strong hint of these, but also ofmuch more. That on human life shows how much she had thought, and howthoroughly and philosophically, on one of the largest problems; while theone on Heine indicates her penetrating literary judgment and her capacityfor analysis and interpretation. These essays are not mere compilations, mere digests of learned information; they are studies of large subjectsdone in a large and inspiring manner. Her essays on the poet Young and Dr. Cumming, and the two on lady novelists, as well as that on Heine, show manyindications of that subtle power and that true genius which were displayedin her later work. There was genius displayed in these articles, withoutdoubt, and genius of a high order. It was genius not as yet aware ofitself, and not yet at the height of its power and capable of its truestexpression, but genius nevertheless. Many of the most strikingcharacteristics of her novel-writing were shown in these essays. Here wasthe same love of common human life; the same interest in its humbler formsand expressions; the like penetrating analysis and subtle portrayal ofcharacter; a psychological method of the same probing and comprehensivenature. Her main philosophical ideas were indicated here, though not giventhat clear and incisive expression they afterwards received. When she wroteof the natural history of German life she indicated in the very title ofher essay one of her main theories, and her conception of man as a socialbeing was brought out in it. These essays fully indicate that her opinionswere already formed, that the leading ideas she was to give expression toin her novels had been arrived at by diligent study and thought, and thatshe had equipped herself with ample reasons for the acceptance of theopinions she held. Their chief defect is in their occasional arrogance ofexpression, as if the writer had not yet wholly escaped the superior airsof the young woman elated with the greatness of her knowledge, and acertain rudeness and vehemence of statement not seen later. It is a defectthat is not very prominent, but one that is apparent enough to mar some ofthe best of these pages. It was one she never wholly outgrew, though in hernovels her large information was usually so managed and subordinated as togive little annoyance to the intelligent reader. 

It must be quite evident to any reader of her _Westminster Review_contributions, that Marian Evans would never have attained to any such highliterary eminence as an essayist as that which she has secured as anovelist. Readable as are her essays, --and the five just named arecertainly worthy of a place in her complete works, --yet they are not of thehighest order. She could attain the highest range of her power only whensomething far more subtile and intrinsic was concerned. That this is truemay be seen in these essays; for even here she writes the best only whenshe has human motives, feelings and aspirations to weigh and explain. Thatshe could dissect and explain the inner man they made apparent enough; buther genius demanded also the opportunity to create, to build up a life ofhigh beauty and purpose from materials of its own construction. Her_Review_ articles gave her a high place in the eyes of her friends, andtheir chief value seems to have been, that they caused these friends to seethat she could do other and better work, and led them to induce her toapply her genius in a direction more congenial to its capacity. 

III. 

MARRIAGE. 

In 1853 Marian Evans became the wife of George Henry Lewes. He had marriedat an early ago a woman possessed of many charms of person. They went tolive in a large house at Kensington with five other young couples, keepinghouse on a co-operative arrangement, with many attractions of socialentertainment therewith. One result was the desertion of her home by Mrs. Lewes in connection with one of the men into whose company she wasconstantly thrown by this manner of life. She soon repented, and Lewesforgave her, receiving her back to his home. A second time, however, sheleft him. His having condoned her fault made it impossible for him tosecure a divorce according to the laws of England at that time. He seems tohave done what he could to retain her faithful devotion to her marriagerelations, so long as that seemed possible. 

When Lewes and Marian Evans met, on her going to live in London, and afterhis wife had deserted him, there sprang up a strong attachment betweenthem, As they could not be legally married, she agreed to live with himwithout that formality. 

It is to be said of this affair that George Eliot was very far from lookingat such a problem as Goethe or, George Sand would have looked at it, fromthe position of personal inclination. Yet we are told by Miss Blind thatshe early entertained liberal views in regard to divorce, believing thatgreater freedom in this respect is desirable. There could have been nopassionate individualistic defiance of law in her case, however. No one hasinsisted more strongly than she on the importance and the sanctity of thesocial regulations in regard to the union of the sexes. That her marriagewas a true one in all but the legal form, that she was faithful to itsevery social obligation, has been abundantly shown. She was a most faithfulwife to Lewes, and the devoted mother of his three children by the previousmarriage, while she found in him that strong, self-reliant helpmate sheneeded. 

Her marriage under these circumstances required no little individualism ofpurpose, and some defiance of social obligations. Her intimate friends wereunable to comprehend her conduct, and she was alienated from most of them. Especially her friends in Coventry were annoyed at such a marriage, andwere not reconciled with her for a long time, and not until they saw thatshe had acted with a conscientious purpose. She was excluded from societyby this act, and her marriage was interpreted as a gross violation ofsocial morality. To a sensitive nature, as hers assuredly was, and to onewho so much valued the confidence of her friends as she did, such exclusionmust have been a serious cross. She freely elected her own course in life, however, and she never seems to have complained at the results it broughther. That it saddened her mind seems probable, but there is no outwardevidence that she accepted her lot in a bitter or complaining spirit. Noone could have written of love and marriage in so high and pure a spirit aseverywhere appears in her books with whom passion was in any degree acontrolling influence. In _Adam Bede_ her own conception of wedded love isexpressed out of the innermost convictions and impulses of her own heart, when she exclaims, --

 What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting. 

In _Felix Holt_ there is a passage on this subject which must have comedirectly from her own experience, and it gives us a true insight into thespirit in which she accepted the distrust of friends and the coldness ofthe world which her marriage brought her. 

 A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest needs, is not to be had when and how she will: to know that high initiation, she must often tread where it is hard to tread, and feel the chill air, and watch through darkness. It is not true that love makes all things easy; it makes us choose what is difficult. 

Throughout her novels she exalts marriage, never casts any slur upon it, treats it as one of the most sacred of all human relations. She makes itappear as a sacrament, not of the Church, but of the sublime fellowship ofhumanity. It is pure, holy, a binding tie, a sacred obligation, as itappears in her books. When Romola is leaving Florence and her husband, herlove dead and all that made her life seem worthy gone with it, she meetsSavonarola, who bids her return to her home and its duties. What the greatprophet-priest says on this occasion we have every reason to believeexpressed the true sentiments of George Eliot herself. He proclaims, whatshe doubtless thoroughly believed, that marriage is something far more thanmere affection, more than love; that its obligation holds when all love isgone; that its obligation is so sacred and binding as to call for thefullest measure of renunciation and personal humiliation. As throwing lighton George Eliot's manner of looking at this subject, the whole chapterwhich describes the meeting of Romola and Savonarola deserves to be read. That portion of it in which Savonarola gives his views of marriage may herebe reproduced, not as giving the doctrine of the Church, but as presentingthe positivist conception of marriage as interpreted by George Eliot. 

 His arresting voice had brought a new condition into her life, which made it seem impossible toiler that she could go on her way as if she had not heard it; yet she shrank as one who sees the path she must take, but sees, too, that the hot lava lies there. And the instinctive shrinking from a return to her husband brought doubts. She turned away her eyes from Fra Girolamo, and stood for a minute or two with her hands hanging clasped before her, like a statue. At last she spoke, as if the words were being wrung from her, still looking on the ground. 

 "My husband--he is not--my love is gone!"

 "My daughter, there is the bond of a higher love. Marriage is not carnal only, made for selfish delight. See what that thought leads you to! It leads you to wander away in a false garb from all the obligations of your place and name. That would not have been if you had learned that it is a sacramental vow, from which none but God can release you. My daughter, your life is not as a grain of sand, to be blown by the winds; it is as flesh and blood, that dies if it be sundered. Your husband is not a malefactor?"

 Romola flushed and started. "Heaven forbid! No; I accuse him of nothing. "

 "I did not suppose he was a malefactor. I meant that if he were a malefactor your place would be in the prison beside him. My daughter, if the cross comes to you as a wife, you must carry it as a wife. You may say, 'I will forsake my husband, ' but you cannot cease to be a wife. "

 "Yet if--oh, how could I bear--" Romola had involuntarily begun to say something which she sought to banish from her mind again. 

 "Make your marriage sorrows an offering, too, my daughter: an offering to the great work by which sin and sorrow are being made to cease. The end is sure, and is already beginning. Here in Florence it is beginning, and the eyes of faith behold it. And it may be our blessedness to die for it: to die daily by the crucifixion of our selfish will--to die at last by laying our bodies on the altar. My daughter, you are a child of Florence; fulfil the duties of that great inheritance. Live for Florence--for your own people, whom God is preparing to bless the earth. Bear the anguish and the smart. The iron is sharp--I know, I know--it rends the tender flesh. The draught is bitterness on the lips. But there is rapture in the cup--there is the vision which makes all life below it dross forever. Come, my daughter, come back to your place!" [Footnote: Chapter XL. ]

Again, when Dorothea goes to see Rosamond to intercede in Dr. Lydgate'sbehalf with his wife, we have an expression of the sacredness of marriage, and the renunciation it demands of all that is opposed to its trust andhelpfulness. Dorothea says, --

 "Marriage is so unlike everything else. There is something even awful in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved some one else better than--than those we were married to, it would be of no use"--poor Dorothea, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize her language brokenly--"I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be very dear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with us like a murder--and everything else is gone. And then our husband--if he loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in his life--"

If Marian Evans rejected the sanctions which society has imposed on thelove of man and woman in the legal forms of marriage, it was not in awilful and passionate spirit. There are reasons for believing that she wassomewhat touched in her youth with the individualistic theories of thetime, which made so many men and women of genius reject the restraintsimposed by society, as in the case of Goethe, Heine, George Sand, Shelleyand many another; yet she does not appear to have been to more than a verylimited extent influenced by such considerations in regard to her ownmarriage. The matter for surprise is, that one who regarded all humantraditions, ceremonies and social obligations as sacred, should haveconsented to act in so individualistic a manner. She makes Rufus Lyonsay--and it is her own opinion--that "the right to rebellion is the rightto seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness. " Hermarriage, after the initial act, had in it nothing whatever of lawlessness. She believed there exists a higher rule than that of Parliament, and tothis higher law she submitted. To her this was not a law of self-will andpersonal inclination, but the law of nature and social obligation. That shewas not overcome by the German individualistic and social tendencies may beseen in the article on "Weimar and its Celebrities, " in the _WestminsterReview_, where, in writing of Wieland as an educator, she says that thetone of his books was not "immaculate, " and that it was "strangely atvariance, with that sound and lofty morality which ought to form the basisof every education. " She also speaks of the philosophy of that day as "thedelusive though plausible theory that no license of tone, or warmth ofcoloring, could injure any really healthy and high-toned mind. " In thearticle on "Woman in France, " she touches on similar theories. As thisarticle was written just at the time of her marriage, one passage in it mayhave a personal interest, and shows her conception of a marriage such asher own, based on intellectual interest rather than on passionate love. Sheis speaking of

 the laxity of opinion and practice with regard to the marriage tie. Heaven forbid [she adds] that we should enter on a defence of French morals, most of all in relation to marriage! But it is undeniable that unions formed in the maturity of thought and feeling, grounded only on inherent fitness and mutual attraction, tended to bring women into more intelligent sympathy with men, and to heighten and complicate their share in the political drama. The quiescence and security of the conjugal relation are, doubtless, favorable to the manifestation of the highest qualities by persons who have already attained a high standard of culture, but rarely foster a passion sufficient to rouse all the faculties to aid in winning or retaining its beloved object--to convert indolence into activity, indifference into ardent partisanship, dulness into perspicuity. 

Her conception of marriage may have been affected by that presented byFeuerbach in his _Essence of Christianity_. In words translated intoEnglish by herself, Feuerbach says, "that alone is a religious marriagewhich is a true marriage, which corresponds to the essence ofmarriage--love. " Again, he says that marriage is only sacred when it is aninward attraction confirmed by social and personal obligations; "for amarriage the bond of which is merely an external restriction, not thevoluntary, contented self-restriction of love--in short, a marriage whichis not spontaneously concluded, spontaneously willed, self-sufficing--isnot a true marriage, and therefore not a truly moral marriage. " As a moraland social obligation, marriage is to be held sacred; its sacredness growsout of its profound human elements of helpfulness, nurture and emotionalsatisfaction, while its obligation rises from its primary socialfunctions. It does not consist in any legal form, but in compliance withdeep moral and social responsibilities. Some such conception of marriageas this she seems to have accepted, which found its obligation in thesatisfaction it gives to the inner nature, and in the fulfilment of socialresponsibilities. The influence of Compte may also have been felt in thecase of both Lewes and Marian Evans; they saw in the marriage form afulfilment of human, not of legal, requirements. 

While there is no doubt they would both gladly have accepted the legalform had that been possible, yet they were sufficiently out of sympathywith the conventionalities of society to cause them to disregard that formwhen it could not be complied with. They regarded themselves, however, asmarried, and bound by all the ties and requirements which marriageimposes. They proclaimed themselves to their friends as husband and wife, and they were so accepted by those who knew them. In her letters toliterary correspondents she always mentioned Lewes as "my husband. " Thelaws of most civilized nations recognize these very conditions, andregard the acceptance of the marriage relation before the world as asufficient form. 

Those who have written of this marriage, bear testimony to its devotionand beauty. The author of the account of her life and writings in the_Westminster Review_, an early and intimate friend, says the "union wasfrom the first regarded by themselves as a true marriage, as an allianceof a sacred kind, having a binding and permanent character. When the factof the union was first made known to a few intimate friends, it wasaccompanied with the assurance that its permanence was already irrevocablydecreed. The marriage of true hearts for a quarter of a century hasdemonstrated the sincerity of the intention. 'The social sanction, ' saidMr. Lewes once in our hearing, 'is always desirable. ' There are cases inwhich it is not always to be had. Such a ratification of the sacrament ofaffection was regarded as a sufficient warrant, under the circumstances ofthe case, for entrance on the most sacred engagement of life. There waswith her no misgiving, no hesitation, no looking back, no regret; butalways the unostentatious assertion of quiet, matronly dignity, the mostqueenly expression and unconscious affirmation of the 'divine right' ofthe wedded wife. We have heard her own oral testimony to the enduringhappiness of this union, and can, as privileged witnesses, corroborate it. As a necessary element in this happiness she practically included theenjoyment inseparable from the spontaneous reciprocation of homeaffection, meeting with an almost maternal love the filial devotion of Mr. Lewes's sons, proffering all tender service in illness, giving andreceiving all friendly confidence in her own hour of sorrowfulbereavement, and crowning with a final act of generous love andforethought the acceptance of parental responsibilities in theaffectionate distribution of property, the visible result of years of theintellectual toil whose invisible issues are endless. "

Their marriage helped both to a more perfect work and to a truer life. Shegave poise and purpose to the "versatile, high-strung, somewhat waywardnature" of her husband, and she "restrained, raised, ennobled, andpurified" his life and thought. He stimulated and directed her genius lifeinto its true channel, cared for her business interests with untiringfaithfulness, made it possible for her to pursue her work without burdensand distractions, and gave her the inspiration of a noble affection and acheerful home. Miss Edith Simcox speaks of "the perfect union betweenthese two, " which, she says, "lent half its charm to all the worship paidat the shrine of George Eliot. " She herself, Miss Simcox proceeds to say, "has spoken somewhere of the element of almost natural tenderness in aman's protecting love: this patient, unwearying care for which no triflesare too small, watched over her own life; he stood between her and theworld, her relieved her from all those minor cares which chafe and fretthe artist's soul; he wrote her letters; in a word, he so smoothed thecourse of her outer life as to leave all her powers free to do what shealone could do for the world and for the many who looked to her for helpand guidance. No doubt this devotion brought its own reward; but we areexacting for our idols and do not care to have even a generous error tocondone, and therefore we are glad to know that, great as his reward was, it was no greater than was merited by the most perfect love that evercrowned a woman's life. " Mr. Kegan Paul also writes of the mutualhelpfulness and harmony of purpose which grew out of this marriage. "Mr. Lewes's character attained a stability and pose in which it had beensomewhat lacking, and the quiet of an orderly and beautiful home enabledhim to concentrate himself more and more on works demanding sustainedintellectual effort, while Mrs. Lewes's intensely feminine nature foundthe strong man on whom to lean in the daily business of life, for whichshe was physically and intellectually unfitted. Her own somewhat sombrecast of thought was cheered, enlivened and diversified by the vivacity andversatility which characterized Mr. Lewes, and made him seem less like anEnglishman than a very agreeable foreigner. "

This marriage presents one of the curious ethical problems of literature. In this case approval and condemnation are alike difficult. Her ownteaching condemns it; her own life approves it. We could wish it had notbeen, for the sake of what is purest and best; and yet it is not difficultto see that its effects were in many ways beneficial to her. That it wasethically wrong there is no doubt. That it was condemned by her ownteaching is so plain as to cause doubt about how she could herself approveit. 

Lewes had a brilliant and versatile mind. He was not a profound thinker, but he had keen literary tastes, a vigorous interest in science, and aremarkable alertness of intellect. His gifts were varied rather than deep;literary rather than philosophical. As a companion, he had a wonderfulcharm and magnetism; he was a graceful talker, a marvellous story-teller, and a wit seldom rivalled. His intimate friend, Anthony Trollope, says, "There was never a man so pleasant as he with whom to sit and talk vagueliterary gossip over a cup of coffee and a cigar. " By the same friend weare told that no man related a story as he did. "No one could say that hewas handsome. The long bushy hair, and the thin cheeks, and the heavymustache, joined as they were, alas! almost always to a look of sickness, were not attributes of beauty. But there was a brilliance in his eye whichwas not to be tamed by any sickness, by any suffering, which overcame allother feeling on looking at him. "

George Henry Lewes was born in London, April 18, 1817. His grandfather wasa well-known comedian. His education was received in a very desultorymanner. He was at school for a time in Jersey, and also in Brittany, wherehe acquired a thorough command of French. Later he attended a famous schoolin Greenwich, kept by a Dr. Burney. After leaving school he went into anotary's office, and then he became a clerk to a Russia merchant. His mindwas, however, attracted to scientific and philosophic studies, and hebetrayed little interest either in the law or in commercial pursuits. Thenhe took up the study of medicine, giving thorough attention to anatomy andphysiology. It is said that his horror of the dissecting-room was so greatas to cause him to abandon the purpose to become a physician. All this timehis mind was steadily drawn to philosophy, and he gave as much time to itas he could. The bent, of his mind was early developed, and in 1836, whenonly nineteen, he had projected a treatise on the philosophy of mind, inwhich he proposed to give a physiological interpretation to the doctrinesof Reid, Stewart and Brown. At the age of twenty he gave a course oflectures on this subject; and to this line of thought he held ever after. One of the influences which led to his departure from a strictinterpretation of the Scotch metaphysicians was the influence of Spinoza. As indicating the eagerness with which he pursued his studies in alldirections, and the earnestness of his purpose at so early an age, his ownaccount of a club he attended at this time [Footnote: Fortnightly Review, April 1, 1866, introductory to the article on Spinoza. ] may be mentioned. Inthis account he describes a Jew by the name of Cohen, who first introducedhim to the study of Spinoza, and who has mistakenly been supposed to be theoriginal of Mordecai in _Daniel Deronda_. 

The sixth member of this club, who "studied anatomy and many other things, with vast aspirations, and no very definite career before him, " was Leweshimself, in all probability. His eager desire for knowledge took him toGermany in 1838, where he remained for two years in the same desultorystudy of many subjects. He became thoroughly acquainted with the Germanlanguage and life, and gave much attention to German literature andphilosophy. On his return to England, Lewes entered upon his literarycareer, which was remarkable for its versatility and productiveness. In1841 he wrote "The Noble Heart, " a three-act tragedy, published in 1852. His studies of Spinoza found expression in one of the first essays on thesubject published in England. In 1843, he published in the _WestminsterReview_ his conclusions on that thinker. His essay was reprinted in aseparate form, attracting much attention, and in 1846 was incorporated intoa larger work, the result of his studies in Germany and of his interest inphilosophy. In 1845, at the age of twenty-nine, he published a history ofphilosophy, in which he undertook to criticise all metaphysical systemsfrom the inductive and scientific point of view. This work was his_Biographical History of Philosophy_. It appeared in four small volumes inKnight's weekly series of popular books devoted to the diffusion ofknowledge among the people. Lewes touched a popular demand in this book, reaching the wants of many readers. He continued through many years toelaborate his studies on these subjects and to re-work his materials. Newand enlarged editions, each time making the book substantially a new one, were published in 1857, in 1867 and in 1871. No solid book of the centuryhas sold better; and it has been translated into several continentallanguages. 

Lewes did not confine himself to philosophy. Other and very differentsubjects also attracted his attention. His mind ranged in many directions, and his flexible genius found subjects of interest on all sides. In 1846 hepublished a little book on _The Spanish Drama: Lope de Vega and Calderon_, a slight affair, full of his peculiar prejudices, and devoted mainly to anunsympathetic criticism. The following year he gave to the world anambitious novel, _Ranthorpe_. It seems to have been well read in its day, was translated into German and reprinted on the continent by Tauchnitz. Theplot is well conceived, but the story is rapidly told, full of incident andtragedy, and there is a subtle air of unreality about it. The experiencesof a poet are unfolded in a romantic form, and the attempt is made to showwhat is the true purpose and spirit in which literature can be successfullypursued. To this end there is a discussion running through the book on thevarious phases of the literary life, much in the manner of Fielding. _Ranthorpe_ would now be regarded as a very dull novel, and it is crude, full of the sensational, with little analysis of character and much action. 

It was read, however, by Charlotte Brontë with great interest, and shewrote of it to the author in these words: "In reading _Ranthorpe_ I haveread a new book--not a reprint--not a reflection of any other book, but _anew book_. I did not know such books were written now. It is very differentto any of the popular works of fiction; it fills the mind with freshknowledge. Your experience and your convictions are made the reader's; andto an author, at least, they have a value and an interest quite unusual. "In 1848, Lewes published another novel of a very different kind--_Rose, Blanche and Violet_. This was a society novel, intended to reach the mindsof the ordinary novel-readers, but was not so successful as the first. Ithas little plot or incident, but has much freshness of thought andoriginality of style. 

The same year appeared his _Life of Robespierre_, the result of originalinvestigations, and based largely on unpublished correspondence. Withoutany sympathy of opinion with Robespierre, and without any purpose ofvindicating his character, Lewes told the true story of his life, andshowed wherein he had been grossly misrepresented. The book was one ofmuch interest, though it lacked in true historic insight and was clumsilywritten. While these works were appearing, Lewes was a voluminouscontributor to the periodical literature of the day. He wrote, at thistime and later, for the _Edinburgh Review_, the _Foreign Quarterly_, _British Quarterly_, _Westminster Review_, _Fraser's Magazine_, _Blackwood's Magazine_, _Cornhill Monthly_, _Saturday Review_, in the_Classical Museum_, the _Morning Chronicle_, the _Atlas_ and various otherperiodicals, and on a great variety of subjects. His work of this kind wasincreased when in 1849 he became the literary editor of _The Leader_newspaper, a weekly journal of radical thought and politics. Hisversatility, freshness of thought and vigor of expression made thisdepartment of _The Leader_ of great interest. His reviews of books werealways good, and his literary articles piquant and forcible. In the firstvolume he published a story called _The Apprenticeship of Life_. In April, 1852, he began in its columns a series of eighteen articles on Comte'sPositive Philosophy. In connection with the second article of this serieshe asked for subscriptions in aid of Comte, and in the third reported thatthree workingmen had sent in money. These subscriptions were continuedwhile the articles were in progress, and amounted to a considerable sum. In1854 these essays were republished in Bohn's _Scientific Library_ under thetitle of _Comte's Philosophy of the Sciences_. The _Leader_ was ablyconducted, but it was radical and outspoken, and did not receive thesupport it deserved. In 1854 his connection with it came to an end. 

While connected with _The Leader_, Lewes had turned his attention toGoethe, and made a thorough study of his life and opinions. After spendingmany months in Weimar, and as a result of his studies in Germany, hepublished in 1855 his _Life and Works of Goethe_. It was carefullyre-written in 1873, and the substance of it was given in an abbreviatedand more popular form a few years later. This has usually been acceptedas the best book about Goethe written in English. Mr. Anthony Trollopeexpresses the usual opinion when he says, "As a critical biography ofone of the great heroes of literature it is almost perfect. It is short, easily understood by common readers, singularly graphic, exhaustive, andaltogether devoted to the subject. " On the other hand, Bayard Taylorsaid that "Lewes's entertaining apology hardly deserves the name of abiography. " It is an opinionated book, controversial, egotistic, andunnecessarily critical. It was written less with the purpose ofinterpreting Goethe to the English reader than of giving expressionto Lewes's own views on many subjects. His chapters on Goethe's scienceand on his realism are marked by an extreme dogmatism. The poetic andreligious side of Goethe's nature he was incapable of understanding, andalways misrepresents, as he did that side of his nature which allied Goethewith Schiller and the other idealists. Lewes was always polemical, had sometheory to champion, some battle to fight. He did not write for the sake ofthe subject, but because the subject afforded an arena of battle for thetheories to the advocacy of which he gave his life. 

With the completion of his _Life of Goethe_, Lewes turned his attentionmore than ever to physiological studies, though he had continued to givethem much attention in the midst of his other pursuits. In 1858 appearedhis _Seaside Studies_, in which he recorded the results of his originalinvestigations at Ilfracombe, Tenby, Scilly Isles and Jersey. This volumeis written in a plain descriptive style, containing many interestingaccounts of scenery and adventure, explanations of the methods of study ofanimal life at the seashore, how experiments are carried on, the results ofthese special studies, and much of controversy with other observers. Itcombines science and description in a happy manner. Another result of hisphysiological studies was a paper "On the Spinal Cord as a Centre ofSensation and Volition, " read before the British Association for theAdvancement of Science, in 1858. This was followed the next year by threepublished addresses on "The Nervous System, " in which he presented thosetheories which were more carefully developed in his latest work, where hegave a systematic account of his philosophy. From this time on to his deaththe greater part of his energies were given to these studies, and to thebuilding up of a philosophy based on physiology. A popular work, in whichmany of his theories are unfolded, and marked throughout by his peculiarideas in regard to the relations of body and mind, was published in 1858. This was his _Physiology of Common Life_, a work of great value, andwritten in a simple, comprehensive style, suited to the wants of thegeneral reader. In the first volume he wrote of hunger and thirst, food anddrink, digestion, structure and uses of the blood, circulation of theblood, respiration and suffocation, and why we are warm and how we keep so. The second treats of feeling and thinking, the mind and the brain, oursenses and sensations, sleep and dreams, the qualities we inherit from ourparents, and life and death. In 1860 he printed in _The Cornhill Magazine_a series of six papers on animal life. They were reprinted in book form in1861, under the title of _Studies in Animal Life_. More strictly scientificthan his _Seaside Studies_, they were even more popular in style, andintended for the general reader. While these books were being published hewas at work on a more strictly scientific task, and one intended for thethoughtful and philosophic reader. This was his _Aristotle: a Chapter fromthe History of Science, including Analyses of Aristotle's ScientificWritings_, which was completed early in 1862, but not published until 1864. As in his previous works, Lewes is here mainly concerned with an expositionof his theories of the inductive method, and he judges Aristotle from thissomewhat narrow position. He refuses Aristotle a place among scientificobservers, but says he gave a great impulse towards scientific study, whilein intellectual force he was a giant. The book contains no recognition ofAristotle's value as a philosopher; indeed his metaphysics are treated withentire distrust or indifference. His fame is pronounced to be justifiablycolossal, but it is said he did not lay the basis of any physical science. It is a work of controversy rather than of unbiassed exposition, and itsmethod is dry and difficult. 

Early in the year 1865, a few literary men in London conceived the projectof a new review, which should avoid what they conceived to be the errors ofthe old ones. It was to be eclectic in its doctrinal position, contain onlythe best literature, all articles were to be signed by the author's name, and it was to be published by a joint-stock company. Lewes was invited tobecome the editor of this new periodical, and after much urging heconsented. The first number of _The Fortnightly Review_ was published May15, 1865, It proved a financial failure, and was soon sold to a publishingfirm. The eclectic theory was abandoned, and the _Review_ became anagnostic and radical organ under the management of its second editor, JohnMorley. Lewes edited six volumes, when, in 1867, he was obliged, on accountof his health, to resign his position. He made the _Review_ an independentand able exponent of current thought, and he kept it up to a very highstandard of literary excellence. His own contributions were among the bestthings it contained, and give a good indication of the wide range of histalent. In the first volume he published papers on "The Heart and theBrain, " and on the poetry of Robert Buchanan, as well as a series of fourvery able and valuable papers on "The Principles of Success in Literature. "In the second volume he wrote about "Mr. Grote's Plato. " In the third hedealt with "Victor Hugo's Latest Poems, " "Criticism in relation to Novels, "and "Auguste Comte. " In this volume he began a series of essays entitled"Causeries, " in which he treated, in a light vein, of the passing topics ofthe day. He wrote of Spinoza in the fourth volume, and of "Comte and Mill"in the sixth, contributing nothing to the fifth. After Morley became theeditor, in the ninth and tenth volumes, he published three papers onDarwin's hypothesis, and in 1878 there was a paper of his on the "Dread andDislike of Science. " He also had a criticism of Dickens in the July numberof 1872, full of his subtle power of analysis and literary insight. 

Lewes in early life had a strong inclination to become an actor, and he didgo on the stage for a short time. He wrote and translated several plays, one of his adaptations becoming very popular. He wrote dramatic criticismsfor the _Pall Mall Gazette_ and other journals, during many years. In 1875, a volume of these papers was published with the title, _On Actors and theArt of Acting_. It treated in a pleasant way, and with keen insight, ofEdmund Kean, Charles Kean, Rachel, Macready, Fan-en, Charles Matthews, Frédéric Lemaitre, the two Keeleys, Shakspere as actor and critic, naturalacting, foreign actors on our stage, the drama of Paris in 1865, Germany in1867, and Spain in 1867, and of his first impressions of Salvini. Anotherpiece of work done by him was the furnishing, in 1867, of an explanatorytext to accompany Kaulbach's _Female Characters of Goethe_. 

The last years of Lewes's life were devoted to the preparation of asystematic exposition of his physiological philosophy. As early as the year1858, he was at work on the nervous system, and, soon after, his studiestook a systematic shape. In his series of volumes on the _Problems of Lifeand Mind_ he gave to the world a new theory of the mind and of knowledge. In the first two volumes, published in 1874, and entitled _The Foundationsof a Creed_, he developed his views on the methods of philosophic research. These were followed in 1877 by a third volume, on _The Physical Basis ofLife_. After his death his wife edited two small volumes on Psychology, which included all the writing he left in a form ready for publication. Hiswork was left incomplete, but its publication had gone far enough to showthe methods to be followed and the main conclusions to be reached. 

Concerning the work done by Lewes in philosophy, there will be muchdifference of opinion. He did much through his various expositions to makethe public familiar with the inductive methods of inquiry and with theconclusions of positive thought. He made his books readable, and evenpopular, giving philosophy an exposition suited to the wants of the generalreader. At the same time, he was polemical and dogmatic, and more concernedto be clever than to be exact in his interpretation. Into the meanings ofsome of the greatest thinkers he had little clear insight, and he is seldomto be implicitly trusted as an expositor of those whose systems were in anyway opposed to his own. His limitations have been well defined by Ribot, inhis _Contemporary English Psychology_. 

"Mr. Lewes lacks the vocation of the scholar, which, indeed, is generallywanting in original minds. His history resembles rather that of Hegel thanthat of Ritter. His review of the labors of philosophers is rather occupiedwith that which they have thought, than with their comparative importance. He judges rather than expounds; his history is fastidious and critical. Itis the work of a clear, precise and elegant mind, always that of a writer, often witty, measured, possessing no taste for declamation, avoidingexclusive solutions, and making its interest profitable to the reader whomhe forces to think. " Ribot speaks of the work again as being original butdogmatic and critical. He says it belongs to that class of books which makehistory a pretext for conflict. "The author is less occupied with theexposition of facts than he is with his method of warfare; he thinks lessof being exact than of being clever.... He has evidently no taste, or, ifwe prefer so to put it, he has not the virtue necessary to face theseformidable folios, these undigested texts of scholastic learning, which thehistorian of philosophy ought to penetrate, however repulsive to hispositive and lucid mind. "

On the other hand, Mr. Frederic Harrison has described the great success ofthe _Biographical History of Philosophy_, and made it apparent what are itschief merits. "This astonishing work was designed to be popular, to bereadable, to be intelligible. It was all of these in a singular degree. Ithas proved to be the most popular account of philosophy of our time; it hasbeen republished, enlarged, and almost re-written, and each re-issue hasfound new readers. It did what hardly any previous book on philosophy everdid--it made philosophy readable, reasonable, lively, almost as exciting asa good novel. Learners who had been tortured over dismal homilies on thepantheism of Spinoza, and yet more dismal expositions of the pan-nihilismof Hegel, seized with eagerness upon a little book which gave an intensereality to Spinoza and his thoughts, which threw Hegel's contradictoriesinto epigrams, and made the course of philosophic thought unfold itselfnaturally with all the life and coherence of a well-considered plot.... There can be no possible doubt as to the success of this method. Men towhom philosophy has been a wearisome swaying backward and forward ofmeaningless phrases, found something which they could remember andunderstand.... For a generation this 'entirely popular' book saturated theminds of the younger readers. It has done as much as any book, perhaps-morethan any, to give the key to the prevalent thought of our time about themetaphysical problems.... That such a book should have had such a triumphwas a singular literary fact. The opinions frankly expressed as totheology, metaphysics, and many established orthodoxies; its conclusion, glowing in every page, that metaphysics, as Danton said of the Revolution, was devouring its own children, and led to self-annihilation; itsproclamation of Comte as the legitimate issue of all previous philosophyand positive philosophy as its ultimate _irenicon_--all this, one mightthink, would have condemned such a book from its birth. The orthodoxiesfrowned; the professors sneered; the owls of metaphysic hooted from thegloom of their various jungles; but the public read, the younger studentsadopted it, the world learned from it the positive method; it held itsground because it made clear what no one else had made clear--whatphilosophy meant, and why philosophers differed so violently. "

This extravagant praise becomes even absurd when the writer gravely saysthat this book "had simply killed metaphysic. " A popular style and methodgave the book success, along with the fact that the temper of the time madesuch a statement acceptable. It cleverly indicated the weak places in themetaphysical methods, and it presented the advantages of the inductivemethod with great eloquence and ingenuity. Its satire, and its contempt forthe more spiritualistic systems, also helped to make it readable. 

His later work, in which he develops his own positive conclusions, has themerit of being one of the best expositions yet made of the philosophy ofevolution. In view, however, of his unqualified condemnation of thetheories of metaphysicians, his system is one of singular audacity ofspeculation. Not even Schelling or Hegel has gone beyond him in theorizing, or exceeded him in the ground traversed beyond the limits of demonstration. He who had held up all speculative systems to scorn, distanced those he hadcondemned, and showed how easy it is to take theory for fact. Metaphysichas not had in its whole history a greater illustration of the daring ofspeculation than in the case of Lewes's theory of the relations of thesubjective and objective. He interprets matter and mind, motion andfeeling, objective and subjective, as simply the outer and inner, theconcave and convex, sides of one and the same reality. Mind is the same asmatter, except that it is viewed from a different aspect. In this opinionhe resembles Schelling more than any other thinker, as he does in someother of his speculations. As a monist, his conclusions are similar tothose of the leading German transcendentalists. Indeed, the evolutionphilosophy he expounds is, in some of its aspects, but a development of theidentity philosophy of Schelling. In its monism, its theory of thedevelopment of mind out of matter, and its conception of law, they are oneand the same. The evolution differs from the identity philosophy mainly inits more scientific interpretation of the influence of heredity and thesocial environment. The one is undoubtedly an outgrowth from the other, while the audacious nights of speculation indulged in by Lewes rivalanything attempted even by Schelling. 

Lewes was one of the earliest English disciples of Auguste Comte, and heprobably did more than any other person to introduce the opinions of thatthinker to English students. He was a zealous and yet not a blind disciple, rejecting for the most part the later speculations of Comte. Comte'stheories of social and religious construction were repugnant to Lewes'smind, but his positive methods and his entire rejection of theology wereacceptable. Comte's positivism was the foundation of his own philosophy, and he did little more than to expand and more carefully work out thesystem of his predecessor. In psychology he went beyond Comte, through hisphysiological studies, and by the adoption of the methods and results ofevolution. His discovery of the sociological factors of mind was a realadvance on his master. 

George Eliot's connection with Lewes had much to do with theafter-development of her mind. An affinity of intellectual purposeand conviction drew them together. She found her philosophical theoriesconfirmed by his, and both together labored for the propagation ofthat positivism in which they so heartily believed. Their lives andinfluence are inseparably united. There was an almost entire unanimity ofintellectual conviction between them, and his books are in many ways thebest interpreters of the ethical and philosophical meanings of her novels. Her thorough interest in his studies, and her comprehension of them, ismanifest on many of her pages. Her enthusiastic acceptance of positivism inthat spirit in which it is presented by Lewes, is apparent throughout allher work. Their marriage was a companionship and a friendship. They livedin each other, were mutual helpers, and each depended much on--the adviceand counsel of the other. Miss Mathilde Blind has pointed out howthoroughly identical are their views of realism in art, and on many othersubjects they were as harmonious. They did not echo each other, but therewas an intimate affinity of intellectual apprehension and purpose. 

Immediately after their marriage, Lewes and his wife went to Germany, andthey spent a quiet year of study in Berlin, Munich and Weimar. Here here-wrote and completed his _Life of Goethe_. On their return to Englandthey took a house in Blandford Square, and began then to make that homewhich was soon destined to have so much interest and attraction. A goodpart of the year 1858 was also spent on the continent in study and travel. Three months were passed in Munich, six weeks in Dresden, while Salzburg, Vienna and Prague were also visited. The continent was again visited in thesummer of 1865, and a trip was taken through Normandy, Brittany andTouraine. Other visits preceded and followed, including a study of Florencein preparation for the writing of _Romola_, and a tour in Spain in 1867 tosecure local coloring for _The Spanish Gypsy_. In 1865, the house inBlandford Square was abandoned for "The Priory, " a commodious and pleasanthouse on the North Bank, St. John's Wood. It was here Mr. And Mrs. Leweslived until his death. 

IV. 

CAREER AS AN AUTHOR. 

Until she was thirty-six years old Mrs. Lewes had given no hint that shewas likely to become a great novelist. She had shown evidence of largelearning and critical ability, but not of decided capacity for imaginativeor poetic creation. The critic and the creator are seldom combined in oneperson; and while she might have been expected to become a philosophicalwriter of large reputation, there was little promise that she would becomea great novelist. Before she began the _Scenes of Clerical Life_, she hadwritten but very little of an original character. She was not drawnirresistibly to the career for which she was best fitted, and others had todiscover her gift and urge her to its use. Mr. Lewes saw that the personwho could write so admirably of what a novel ought to be, and who could soskilfully point out the defects in the lady novelists of the day, washerself capable of writing much better ones than those she criticised. Itwas at his suggestion, and through his encouragement, she made her firstattempt at novel-writing. Her love of learning, her relish for literary andphilosophical studies, led her to believe that she could accomplish thelargest results in the line of the work she had already begun. Yet Leweshad learned from her conversational powers, from her keen appreciation ofthe dramatic elements of daily life, and from her fine humor and sarcasm, that other work was within the range of her powers. Reluctantly sheconsented to turn aside from the results of scholarship she had hoped toaccomplish, and with many doubts concerning her ability to become a writerof fiction. The history of the publication of her first work, _Scenesof Clerical Life_, has been fully told, and is helpful towards anunderstanding of her career as an author. 

In the autumn of 1856, William Blackwood received from Lewes a short storybearing--the title of "The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton, " which hesent as the work of an anonymous friend. His nephew has described theresults that followed on the reception of this novel by Blackwood, and itspublication in _Blackwood's Magazine_. "The story was offered as the firstinstalment of a series; and though the editor pronounced that 'Amos' would'do, ' he wished to satisfy himself that it was no chance hit, and requesteda sight of the other tales before coming to a decision. Criticisms on theplot and studies of character in 'Amos Barton' were frankly put forward, and the editor wound up his letter by saying, ' If the author is a newwriter, I beg to congratulate him on being worthy of the honors of printand pay. I shall be very glad to hear from him or you soon. ' At this timethe remaining _Scenes of Clerical Life_ were unwritten, and the criticismsupon 'Amos' had rather a disheartening effect upon the author, which theeditor hastened to remove as soon as he became sensible of them, byoffering to accept the tale. He wrote to Mr. Lewes, 'If you think it wouldstimulate the author to go on with the other tales, I shall publish 'Amos'at once;' expressing also his 'sanguineness' that he would be able toapprove of the contributions to follow, as 'Amos' gave indications ofgreat freshness of style. Some natural curiosity had been expressed asto the unknown writer, and a hint had been thrown out that he was 'aclergyman, '--a device which, since it has the great sanction of Sir WalterScott, we must regard as perfectly consistent with the ethics of anonymousliterature. 

"'Amos Barton' occupied the first place in the magazine for January, 1857, and was completed in the following number. By that time 'Mr. Gilfil's LoveStory' was ready, and the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ appeared month bymonth, until they ended with 'Janet's Repentance' in November of that year. As fresh instalments of the manuscript were received, the editor'sconviction of the power, and even genius, of his new contributor steadilyincreased. In his first letter to the author after the appearance of 'AmosBarton, ' he wrote, 'It is a long time since I have read anything so fresh, so humorous and so touching. The style is capital, conveying so much in sofew words. ' In another letter, addressed 'My dear Amos, ' for lack of anymore distinct appellation, the editor remarks, 'I forgot whether I told youor Lewes that I had shown part of the MS. To Thackeray. He was staying withme, and having been out at dinner, came in about eleven o'clock, when I hadjust finished reading it. I said to him, 'Do you know that I think I havelighted upon a new author who is uncommonly like a first-class passenger?'I showed him a page or two--I think the passage where the curate returnshome and Milly is first introduced. He would not pronounce whether it cameup to my ideas, but remarked afterwards that he would have liked to haveread more, which I thought a good sign. '

"From the first the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ arrested public attention. Critics were, however, by no means unanimous as to their merits. Theyhad so much individuality--stood so far apart from the standards ofcontemporary fiction--that there was considerable difficulty in applyingthe usual tests in their case. The terse, condensed style, the exactitudeof expression, and the constant use of illustration, naturally suggested tosome the notion that the new writer must be a man of science relaxinghimself in the walks of fiction. The editor's own suspicions had once beendirected towards Professor Owen by a similarity of handwriting. Guesseswere freely hazarded as to the author's personality, and among otherconjectures was one that Lord Lyttoll, whose 'Caxton' novels were aboutthe same period delighting the readers of this magazine, had again strucka new vein of fiction. Probably Dickens was among the first to divine thatthe author must be a woman; but the reasons upon which he based thisopinion might readily have been met by equally cogent deductions from the_Scenes_ that the writer must be of the male sex. Dickens, on theconclusion of the _Scenes_, wrote a letter of most generous appreciation, which, when sent through the editor, afforded the unknown author veryhearty gratification. 

"While 'Mr. Gilfil's Love Story' was passing through the magazine, theeditor was informed that he was to know the author as 'George Eliot. ' Itwas at this time, then, that a name so famous in our literature wasinvented. We have no reason to suppose that it had been thought of when theseries was commenced. It was probably assumed from the impossibility of anameless shadow maintaining frequent communication with the editor of amagazine; possibly the recollection of George Sand entered into the idea;but the designation was euphonious and impressive. 

"Before the conclusion of the _Scenes_, Mr. Blackwood felt satisfied thathe had to do with a master mind, and that a great career as a novelist layopen to George Eliot; and his frequent communications urged her warmly topersevere in her efforts. When 'Janet's Repentance' was drawing to a close, and arrangements were being made for re-issuing the sketches as a separatepublication, he wrote to Mr. Lewes, 'George Eliot is too diffident of hisown powers and prospects of success. Very few men, indeed, have more reasonto be satisfied as far as the experiment has gone. The following should bea practical cheerer, '--and then he proceeded to say how the Messrs, Blackwood had seen reason to make a large increase in the forthcomingreprint of the _Scenes_. The volumes did not appear until after the NewYear of 1858; and their success was such that the editor was able, beforethe end of the month, to write as follows to Lewes: 'George Eliot hasfairly achieved a literary reputation among judges, and the public mustfollow, although it may take time. Dickens's letter was very handsome, andtruly kind. I sent him an extract from George Eliot's letter to me, and Ihave a note from him, saying that 'he has been much interested by it, ' andthat 'it has given him the greatest pleasure. ' Dickens adheres to histheory that the writer must be a woman. ' To George Eliot herself he wrotein February, 1858, 'You will recollect, when we proposed to reprint, myimpression was that the series had not lasted long enough in the magazineto give you a hold on the general public, although long enough to make yourliterary reputation. Unless in exceptional cases, a very long time oftenelapses between the two stages of reputation, the literary and the public. Your progress will be _sure_, if not so quick as we could wish. '"

The success of the _Clerical Scenes_ determined the literary career of Mrs. Lewes. She began at once an elaborate novel, which was largely written inGermany. It was sent to Blackwood for publication, and his nephew has givena full account of the reception of the manuscript and the details of givingthe work to the public. 

"_Adam Bede_ was begun almost as soon as the _Scenes_ were finished, andhad already made considerable progress before their appearance in thereprint. In February, 1858, the editor, writing to Mr. Lewes, says, 'I amdelighted to hear from George Eliot that I might soon hope to see somethinglike a volume of the new tale. I am very sanguine. ' In a few weeks after, the manuscript of the opening chapters of _Adam Bede_ was put into hishands, and he writes thus to Lewes after the first perusal: 'Tell GeorgeEliot that I think _Adam Bede_ all right--most lifelike and real. I shallread the MS. Quietly over again before writing in detail about it.... Forthe first reading it did not signify how many things I had to think of; Iwould have hurried through it with eager pleasure. I write this note toallay all anxiety on the part of George Eliot as to my appreciation of themerits of this most promising opening of a picture of life. In spite of allinjunctions, I began _Adam Bede_ in the railway, and felt very savage whenthe waning light stopped me as we neared the Scottish border. ' A few weekslater, when he had received further chapters, and had reperused themanuscript from the beginning, Mr. Blackwood wrote to George Eliot, 'Thestory is altogether very novel, and I cannot recollect anything at all likeit. I find myself constantly thinking of the characters as real personages, which is a capital sign. ' After he had read yet a little further heremarks, 'There is an atmosphere of genuine religion and purity that fearsno evil, about the whole opening of the story. ' George Eliot made anexpedition to Germany in the spring of 1858, and the bulk of the secondvolume was sent home from Munich. Acknowledging the receipt of themanuscript, the editor wrote to Lewes, 'There can be no mistake about themerits, and I am not sure whether I expressed myself sufficiently warmly. But you know that I am not equal to the _abandon_ of expression whichdistinguishes the large-hearted school of critics. ' Adam Bede was completedin the end of October, 1858, and Mr. Blackwood read the conclusion at once, and sent his opinions. He says, 'I am happy to tell you that I think it iscapital. --I never saw such wonderful efforts worked out by such asuccession of simple and yet delicate and minute touches. Hetty's night inthe fields is marvellous. I positively shuddered for her, poor creature;and I do not think the most thoughtless lad could read that terriblepicture of her feelings and hopeless misery without being deeply moved. Adam going to support her at the trial is a noble touch. You really makehim a gentleman by that act. It is like giving him his spurs. The way poorHetty leans upon and clings to Dinah is beautiful. Mr. Irwine is alwaysgood; so are the Poysers, lifelike as possible. Dinah is a very strikingand original character, always perfectly supported, and never obtrusive inher piety. Very early in the book I took it into my head that it would be'borne in upon her' to fall in love with Adam. Arthur is the leastsatisfactory character, but he is true too. The picture of his happy, complacent feelings before the bombshell bursts upon him is very good. '

"_Adam Bede_ was published in the last week of January, 1859. The authorwas desirous on this occasion to test her strength by appealing directly tothe public; and the editor, though quite prepared to accept _Adam Bede_ forthe magazine, willingly gratified her. Sending George Eliot an early copy, before _Adam Bede_ had reached the public, he says, 'Whatever thesubscription may be, I am confident of success--great success. The book isso novel and so true, that the whole story remains in my mind like asuccession of incidents in the lives of people I know. _Adam Bede_ cancertainly never come under the class of popular agreeable stories; butthose who love power, real humor, and true natural description, will standby the sturdy carpenter and the living groups you have painted in and aboutHayslope. '

"_Adam Bede_ did not immediately command that signal success which, lookingback to it now, we might have expected for it. As the editor had warned theauthor, the Scenes had secured for her a reputation with the higher orderof readers and with men of letters, but had not established her popularitywith the public in general. The reviewers, too, were somewhat divided. Manyof them recognized the merits of the work, but more committed the blunderof endeavoring to fix the position of the book by contrasting the authorwith the popular novelists of the time, and by endeavoring to determinefrom which of them she had drawn her inspiration. In 1859 a review of _AdamBede_ from the pen of one of the oldest and ablest of our contributors waspublished in this magazine, and on its appearance George Eliot wrote theeditor, 'I should like you to convey my gratitude to your reviewer. I seewell he is a man whose experience and study enabled him to relish parts ofmy book which I should despair of seeing recognized by critics in Londonback drawing-rooms. He has gratified me keenly by laying his fingers onpassages which I wrote either from strong feeling or from intimateknowledge, but which I had prepared myself to find passed over byreviewers. ' Soon after, _The Times_ followed with an appreciative notice ofthe book which sounded its real merits, and did justice to the author'soriginality of genius; and by the month of April the book was steadilyrunning through a second edition. Readers were beginning to realize thatthe _Scenes of Clerical Life_ was not a mere chance success, but the workof a writer capable of greater and better things. "

It was Mrs. Lewes's desire not to be known to the public in her ownpersonality, hence her adoption of a _nom de plume_. She shrank from theconsequences of a literary fame, had none of George Sand's love ofnotoriety or desire to impress herself upon the world. It was her hope thatGeorge Eliot and Mrs. Lewes would lead distinct lives so far as either wasknown outside her own household; that the two should not be joined togethereven in the minds of her most intimate friends. When her friend, the editorof the _Westminster Review_, detected the authorship of _Adam Bede_, andwrote to her in its praise, congratulating her on the success she hadattained, Lewes wrote to him denying positively that Mrs. Lewes was theauthor. Charles Dickens also saw through the disguise, and wrote to thepublisher declaring his opinion that _Adam Bede_ was written by a woman. When this was denied, he still persisted in his conviction, detecting thewomanly insight into character, her failure adequately to portray men, while of women "she seemed to know their very hearts. "

The vividness with which scenes and persons about her childhood home weredepicted, speedily led to the breaking of this disguise. One of herschool-fellows, as soon as she had read _Adam Bede_, said, "George Eliotis Marian Evans;" but others were only confident that the author must besome Nuncaton resident, and began to look about them for the author. Someportions of the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ had already been discovered tohave a very strong local coloring, and now there was much curiosity as tothe personality of the writer. A dilapidated gentleman of the neighborhood, who had run through with a fortune at Cambridge, was selected for thehonor. While the _Scenes_ were being published, an Isle of Man newspaperattributed the authorship to this man, whose name was Liggins, but he atonce repudiated it. On the appearance of _Adam Bede_ this claim was againput forward, and a local clergyman became the medium of its announcementto the public. The London _Times_ printed the following letter in its issueof April 15, 1859: "Sir, --The author of _Scenes of Clerical Life_ and _AdamBede_ is Mr. Joseph Liggins, of Nuncaton, Warwickshire. You may easilysatisfy yourself of my correctness by inquiring of any one in thatneighborhood. Mr. Liggins himself and the characters whom he paints areas familiar there as the twin spires of Coventry. --Yours obediently, H. ANDERS, Rector of Kirkby. "

The next day the following was printed by the same paper:--

 Sir, --The Rev. H. Anders has with questionable delicacy and unquestionable inaccuracy assured the world through your columns that the author of _Scenes of Clerical Life_ and _Adam Bede_ is Mr. Joseph Liggins, of Nuncaton. I beg distinctly to deny that statement. I declare on my honor that that gentleman never saw a line of those works until they were printed, nor had he any knowledge of them whatever. Allow me to ask whether the act of publishing a book deprives a man of all claim to the courtesies usual among gentlemen? If not, the attempt to pry into what is obviously meant to be withheld--my name--and to publish the rumors which such prying may give rise to, seems to me quite indefensible, still more so to state these rumors as ascertained facts. I am, sir. Yours, &c. , GEORGE ELIOT. 

Liggins found his ardent supporters, and he explained the letterrepudiating the authorship of the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ as beingwritten to further his own interests. He obtained money on the plea that hewas being deprived of his rights, by showing portions of a manuscript whichhe had copied from the printed book. Neighboring clergymen zealouslyespoused his cause, and a warm controversy raged for a little timeconcerning his claim. Very curiously, it became a question of high and lowchurch, his own fellow-believers defending Liggins with zeal, while theother party easily detected his imposition. Finally, Blackwood published aletter in _The Times_ denying his claims, accompanied by one from GeorgeEliot expressing entire satisfaction with her publisher. A consequence ofthis discussion was, that the real name of the author was soon known to thepublic. 

The curiosity excited about the authorship of _Adam Bede_, the Ligginscontroversy, and the fresh, original character of the book itself, soondrew attention to its merits. It was referred to in a Parliamentary debate, and it became the general topic of literary conversation. Its success wassoon assured, and it was not long before it was recognized that a newnovelist of the first order had appeared. 

It is as amusing as interesting now to look back upon the reception givento _Adam Bede_ by the critics. It is not every critic who can detect agreat writer in his first unheralded book, and some very stupid blunderswere made in regard to this one. It was reviewed in _The Spectator_ forFebruary 12, 1859, in this unappreciative manner: "George Eliot'sthree-volume novel of _Adam Bede_ is a story of humble life, wherereligious conscientiousness is the main characteristic of the hero andheroine, as well as of some of the other persons. Its literary featurepartakes, we fear, too much of that Northern trait which, by minutelydescribing things and delineating individuals as matters of substantiveimportance in themselves, rather than as subordinate to general interest, has a tendency to induce a feeling of sluggishness in the reader. "

Not all the critics were so blundering as this one, however, and in themiddle of April, _The Times_ said there was no mistake about the characterof _Adam Bede_, that it was a first-rate novel, and that its author wouldtake rank at once among the masters of the craft. In April, also, _Blackwood's Magazine_ gave the book a hearty welcome. The natural, genuinedescriptions of village life were commended, and the boot was praised forits "hearty, manly sympathy with weakness, not inconsistent with hatred ofvice. " Throughout this notice the author is spoken of as "Mr. Eliot. " Thecritic of the _Westminster Review_, in an appreciative and favorablenotice, expressed a doubt if the author could be a man. He cited Hetty asproof that only a woman could have written the book, and said thischaracter could "only be delineated as it is by an author combining theintense feelings and sympathies of a woman with the conceptive power ofartistic genius. " The woman theory was pronounced to be beset with seriousdifficulties, however, and the notice concluded with these words: "Butwhile pronouncing no decisive opinion on this point, we may remark that theunion of the best qualities of the masculine and feminine intellect is asrare as it is admirable; that it is a distinguishing characteristic of themost gifted artists and poets, and that to ascribe it to the author of_Adam Bede_ is to accord the highest praise we can bestow. "

With the writing of _Adam Bede_, George Eliot accepted her career as anovelist, and henceforth her life was devoted to literary creation. Evenbefore _Adam Bede_ was completed, her attention was directed to Savonarolaas the subject for a novel. Though this subject was in her mind, yet it wasnot made use of until later. As soon as _Adam Bede_ was completed, she atonce began another novel of English life, and drawn even more fully thanits predecessors from her own experience. Of this new work a greaterportion of the manuscript was in the hands of the publishers with thebeginning of 1860. She called it _Sister Maggie_, from the name of theleading character. This title did not please the publisher, and on the 6thof January, Blackwood wrote to her suggesting that it be called _The Millon the Floss_. This title was accepted by George Eliot, and the new workappeared in three volumes at the beginning of April, 1860. 

In July, 1859, there appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_ a short story fromGeorge Eliot bearing the title of "The Lifted Veil. " This was followed byanother, in 1864, called "Brother Jacob. " Both were printed anonymously andare the only short stories she wrote after the _Clerical Scenes_. Theyattracted attention, but were not reprinted until 1880, when they appearedin the volume with _Silas Marner_, in Blackwood's "cabinet edition" of herworks. In March, 1861, _Silas Marner, the Weaver of Raveloe_, her onlyone-volume novel, was given to the public by Blackwood. 

Having carefully studied the life and surroundings of Savonarola, she nowtook up this subject, and embodied it in her _Romola_. This novel appearedin the _Cornhill Magazine_ from July, 1862, to July, 1863. It has beenreported that it was offered to Blackwood for publication, who rejected itbecause it was not likely to be popular with the public. The probablereason of its publication in the _Cornhill Magazine_ was that a large sumwas paid for its first appearance in that periodical. In a letter writtenJuly 5, 1862, Lewes gave the true explanation. "My main object inpersuading her to consent to serial publication was not the unheard-ofmagnificence of the offer, but the advantage to such a work of being readslowly and deliberately, instead of being galloped through in threevolumes. I think it quite unique, and so will the public when it gets overthe first feeling of surprise and disappointment at the book not beingEnglish and like its predecessor. " The success it met with while under wayin the pages of the magazine may be seen from a letter written by Lewes onDecember 18. "Marian lives entirely in the fifteenth century, and is muchcheered every now and then by hearing indirectly how her book isappreciated by the higher class of minds, and some of the highest, thoughit is not, and cannot be, popular. In Florence we hear they are wild withdelight and surprise at such a work being executed by a foreigner, as if anItalian had ever done anything of the kind. " _Romola_ was illustrated inthe _Cornhill Magazine_, and on its completion was reprinted by Smith, Elder & Co. , the publishers of that periodical. 

The success of _Romola_ was such as to lead George Eliot to begin onanother historical subject, though she was probably induced to do this muchmore by its fitness to her purposes than by the public reception of thenovel. This time she gave her work a poetical and dramatic form. _TheSpanish Gypsy_ was written in the winter of 1864-5, but was laid aside formore thorough study of the subject and for careful revision. She hadpreviously, in 1863, written a short story in verse, founded on the pagesof Bocaccio, entitled "How Lisa Loved the King. " Probably other poems hadalso been written, but poetry had not occupied much of her attention. As aschool-girl, and even after she had gone to London, she had written verses. Among these earlier attempts, it may not be unsafe to conjecture, may havebeen the undated poems which she has published in connection with _TheLegend of Jubal_. These are "Self and Life, " "Sweet Evenings come and go, Love, " and "The Death of Moses. "

After laying aside _The Spanish Gypsy_ she began on another novel ofEnglish life, and _Felix Holt: the Radical_ was printed in three volumes byBlackwood, in June, 1866. Shortly after, she printed in _Blackwood'sMagazine_--an "Address to workmen, by Felix Holt, " in which she gave somewholesome and admirable advice to the operative classes who had beenenfranchised by the Reform Bill. In the same magazine, "How Lisa Loved theKing" was printed in May, 1869. This was the last of her contributions toits pages. Its publisher gave her many encouragements in her literarycareer, and was devoted to her interests. After his death she gaveexpression to her appreciation of his valuable aid in reaching the public, through a letter addressed to his successor. 

 I feel that his death was an irreparable loss to my mental life for nowhere else is it possible that I can find the same long-tried genuineness of sympathy and unmixed impartial gladness in anything I might happen to do well. To have had a publisher who was in the fullest sense of the word a gentleman, and at the same time a man of excellent moral judgment, has been an invaluable stimulus and comfort to me. Your uncle had retained that fruit of experience which makes a man of the world, as opposed to the narrow man of literature. He judged well of writing, because he had learned to judge well of men and things, not merely through quickness of observation and insight, but with the illumination of a heart in the right place--a thorough integrity and rare tenderness of feeling. 

After a visit to Spain in the summer of 1867, _The Spanish Gypsy_ wasre-written and published by Blackwood, in June, 1868. During several years, at this period of her life, her pen was busy with poetical subjects. "AMinor Prophet" was written in 1865, "Two Lovers" in 1866, and "Oh may Ijoin the Choir Invisible" in 1867. "Agatha" was written in 1868, and waspublished in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for August, 1869. _The Legend of Jubal_was written in 1869 and was printed in _Macmillan's Magazine_ for May, 1870. In 1869 were also written the series of sonnets entitled "Brother andSister. " "Armgart" was written in 1870, and appeared in _Macmillan'sMagazine_ in July, 1871. "Arion" and "Stradivarius" were written in 1873. "A College Breakfast Party" was written in April, 1874, and was printed in_Macmillan's Magazine_ for July, 1878. _The Legend of Jubal and otherPoems_ was published by Blackwood in 1874, and contained all the poems justnamed, except the last. A new edition was published in 1879 as _The Legendof Jubal and other Poems, Old and New_. The "new" poems in this edition are"The College Breakfast Party, " "Self and Life, " "Sweet Evenings come andgo, Love, " and "The Death of Moses. "

To the longer of these poetical studies succeeded another novel of EnglishLife. _Middlemarch: a Study of Provincial Life_ was printed in twelvemonthly parts by Blackwood, beginning in December, 1871. Five years later, _Daniel Deronda_ was printed in eight monthly parts by the same publisher, beginning with February, 1876. This method of publication was probablyadopted for the same reason assigned by Lewes for the serial appearance of_Romola_. Both novels attracted much attention, and were eagerly devouredand discussed as the successive numbers appeared, the first because of itsremarkable character as a study of English life, the other because of itspeculiar ideas, and its defence of the Jewish race. Her last book, _Impressions of Theophrastus Such_, a series of essays on moral andliterary subjects, written the year before, was published by Blackwood inJune, 1879. Its reception by the public was somewhat unfavorable, and itadded nothing of immediate enlargement to her reputation. 

Of miscellaneous writing George Eliot did but very little. While Mr. Leweswas the editor of _The Leader_ newspaper, from 1849 to 1854, she was anoccasional contributor of anonymous articles to its columns. When hefounded _The Fortnightly Review_ she contributed to its first number, published in May, 1865, an article on "The Influence of Rationalism, " inwhich she reviewed Lecky's _Rationalism in Europe_. These occasionalefforts of her pen, together with the two short stories and the poemsalready mentioned, constituted all her work outside her series of greatnovels. She concentrated her efforts as few authors have done; and havingfound, albeit slowly and reluctantly, what she could best accomplish, sheseldom strayed aside. When her pen had found its proper place it was notoften idle; and though she did not write rapidly, yet she continuedsteadily at her work and accomplished much. Within twenty years she wroteeight great works of fiction, including _The Spanish Gypsy_; works that aredestined to an immortality of fame. From almost entire obscurity her nameappeared, with the publication of the _Scenes of Clerical Life_, to attractattention among a few most appreciative readers, and it was destined thento rise suddenly to the highest place of literary reputation with thepublication of _Adam Bede_. Her genius blazed clearly out upon the world inthe fulness of its powers, and each new work added to her fame, andrevealed some new capacity in the delineation of character. Her literarycareer shows throughout the steady triumph of genius and of persistentlabor. 

V. 

PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS. 

The home of Mrs. Lewes during the later years of her life was in one of theLondon suburbs, near Regent's Park, in what is known as St. John's Wood, atnumber 21, North Bank Street. This locality was not too far from the cityfor the enjoyment and the use of its advantages, while it was out of thenoise and the smoke. The houses stand far apart, are surrounded with treesand lawns, while all is quiet and beautiful. The square, unpretentioushouse in which the Leweses lived was surrounded by a fine garden and greenturf, while flowers were abundant. A high wall shut it out from the street. Within, all was refinement and good taste; there were flowers in thewindows, the furniture was plain and substantial, while quiet simplicityreigned supreme. The house had two stories and a basement. On the firstfloor were two drawing-rooms, a small reception room, a dining-room and Mr. Lewes's study. These rooms were decorated by Owen Jones, their artistfriend. The second floor contained the study of George Eliot, which was aplain room, not large. Its two front windows looked into the garden, andthere were book-cases around the walls, and a neat writing-desk. All thingsabout the house indicated simple tastes, moderate needs, and a plain methodof life. 

Mrs. Lewes usually went into her study at eight o'clock in the morning, andremained there at work until one. If the weather was fine, she rode out inthe afternoon, or she walked in Regent's Park with Mr. Lewes. In case theweather did not permit her going out, she returned again to her study inthe afternoon. The affairs of her household were so arranged that she couldgive herself uninterruptedly to her work. The kitchen was in the basement, a housekeeper had entire charge of the management of the house, and Mrs. Lewes was carefully guarded from all outside interruptions. She very seldomwent into society, and she received but few visitors, except on Sundayafternoons. Her letters were written by Mr. Lewes, with the exception ofthose to personal friends or an occasional outside correspondent; and allthe details of the publication of her books and the management of herbusiness affairs were in his hands. The immediate success of her novelsmade them profitable to the publisher, and she was paid comparatively largesums for them. 

Her evenings were spent by Mrs. Lewes at home, in reading and singing, unless she went to the theatre, as she often did. She walked much, oftenvisiting the zoological gardens, and she had a great liking for all kindsof small animals. She greatly enjoyed travelling. Music was her passion, and art her delight. She preferred the realistic painters, and she nevertired of the collections she often visited in London. 

The health of Mrs. Lewes was never good. She was a constant sufferer, wasnervous, excitable and low-spirited. Only by the utmost care and husbandingof her powers was she enabled to accomplish her work. In a note to one ofher correspondents she has given some hint of the almost chronic languorand bodily weakness from which she suffered. 

 The weather, our ailments, and various other causes, have made us put off our flight from one week to another, but now we are really fluttering our wings and making a dust about us. I wish we had seen you oftener. I was placidly looking forward to your staying in England another year or more, and gave way to my general languor about seeing friends in these last months, which have been too full of small bodily miseries for me to feel that I had much space to give to pleasanter occupation. 

Only those who knew her long and well can fitly describe such a woman asMrs. Lewes. Personal intimacy gives a color to the words used, and ameaning to the delicate shades of expression, that can be had in no otherway. One of her friends has described her as being of "the middle height, the head large, the brow ample, the lower face massive; the eyes gray, lighting up from time to time with a sympathetic glow; the countenancesensitive, spiritual, with 'mind and music breathing' from it; the generaldemeanor composed and gracious; her utterance fluent and finished, butsomewhat measured; her voice clear and melodious, moving evenly, as it werein a monotone, though now and then rising, with a sort of quiet eagerness, into a higher note. " The same writer speaks of the close-fitting flow ofher robe, and the luxuriant mass of light-brown hair hanging low on bothsides of her head, as marked characteristics of her costume. Her featureswere very plain and large, too large for anything like beauty, but stronglyimpressive by their very massiveness. More than one of her friends hasspoken of her resemblance to Savonarola, perhaps suggested by herdescription of that monk-prophet in _Romola_. Mr. Kegan Paul finds that shealso resembled Dante and Cardinal Newman, and that these four were of thesame spiritual family, with a curious interdependence of likeness. Allthese persons have "the same straight wall of brow; the droop of thepowerful nose; mobile lips, touched with strong passion kept resolutelyunder control; a square jaw, which would make the face stern were it notcounteracted by the sweet smile of lips and eye. " Her friends say that noportrait does her justice, that her massive we features could not beportrayed. "The mere shape of the head, " says Kegan Paul, "would be thedespair of any painter. It was so grand and massive that it would scarcelybe possible to represent it without giving the idea of disproportion to theframe, of which no one ever thought for a moment when they saw her, although it was a surprise, when she stood up, to see that, after all, shewas but a little fragile woman who bore this weight of brow and brain. "

An account of her personal traits has been given by Mrs. Lippincott. "Sheimpressed me, " says this writer, "at first as exceedingly plain, with themassive character of her features, her aggressive jaw and evasive blueeyes. But as she grew interested and earnest in conversation, a great lightflashed over or out of her face, till it seemed transfigured, while thesweetness of her rare smile was something quite indescribable. But sheseemed to me to the last lofty and cold. I felt that her head was among thestars--the stars of a wintry night. " Another American, Miss Kate Field, inwriting of the English authors to be seen in Florence half a dozen yearsafter George Eliot began her career, was the first to give an account ofthis new literary star. "She is a woman of large frame and fair Saxoncoloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatlyresembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of Wordsworth, judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is gentle andamiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring. Inconversation Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in youngwriters is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of thisclass. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she addresseda young girl who had just begun to handle a pen, how frankly she relatedher own literary experience, and how gently she _suggested_ advice. Truegenius is always allied to humility; and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the workof a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman asmuch as we had ever admired the writer. 'For years, ' said she to us, 'Iwrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity. '"

These sketches by persons who only met her casually have an interest in theillustration of her character; and they may be added to by still anotheraccount, written by Mrs. Annie Downs, also an American, in 1879, anddescribing a visit to George Eliot two years before her death. "Tall, slender, with a grace most un-English, her face, instead of beauty, possessed a sweet benignity, and at times flashed into absolute brilliancy. She was older than I had imagined, for her hair, once fair, was gray, andunmistakable lines of care and thought were on the low, broad brow. Butalthough a pang pierced my heart as I recognized that most of her life wasbehind her, so intensely did I feel her personality that in a moment I lostsight of her age; it was like standing soul to soul, and beyond the reachof time. Dressed in black velvet, with point lace on her hair, and repeatedat throat and wrists, she made me think at once of Romola and DorotheaBrooke. She talked of Agassiz, of his museum at Cambridge, of the greatnatural-history collections at Naples, of Sir Edwin Landseer's pictures, and with enthusiasm of Mr. Furnival's Shakspere and Chaucer classes at theWorking Men's College... She had quaint etchings of some of the monkeys atthe zoological gardens, and told me she was more interested in them thanany of the other animals, they exhibit traits so distinctly human. Shedeclared, while her husband and friends laughingly teased her for theassertion, that she had seen a sick monkey, parched with fever, absolutelyrefuse the water he longed for, until the keeper had handed it to a friendwho was suffering more than he. As an illustration of their quickness, shetold me, in a very dramatic manner, of a nurse who shook two of her littlecharges for some childish misdemeanor while in the monkey house. No onenoticed the monkeys looking at her, but pretty soon every old monkey in thehouse began shaking her children, and kept up the process until the littlemonkeys had to be removed for fear their heads would be shaken off. I feltno incongruity between her conversation and her books. She talked as shewrote; in descriptive passages, with the same sort of humor, and the samemanner of linking events by analogy and inference. The walls were coveredwith pictures. I remember Guido's Aurora, Michael Angelo's prophets, Raphael's sibyls, while all about were sketches, landscapes and crayondrawings, gifts from the most famous living painters, many of whom arefriends of the house. A grand piano, opened and covered with music, indicated recent and continual use. "

One of her intimate friends says that "in every line of her face there waspowder, and about her jaw and mouth a prodigious massiveness, which mightwell have inspired awe had it not been tempered by the most gracious smilewhich ever lighted up human features, and was ever ready to convert whatotherwise might have been terror into fascination!" We are told that "anextraordinary delicacy pervaded her whole being. She seemed to live uponair, and the rest of her body was as light and fragile as her countenanceand intellect were massive. " One of the results of this large brain andfragile body was, that she was never vigorous in health. Only her quiet, simple life, and avoidance of all excitement in regular work, enabled herto accomplish so much as she did. Her conversation was rich and attractive. She talked much as she wrote, was a good listener, never obtruded heropinions, and always had a noble moral purpose in her words. 

An American lady has given an interesting account of her home and of herconversation. "No one, " says Mrs. Field, "who had ever seen her couldmistake the large head (her brain must be heavier than most men's) coveredwith a mass of rich auburn hair. At first I thought her tall; for one couldnot think that such a head could rest on an ordinary woman's shoulders. But, as she rose up, her figure appeared of but medium height. She receivedus very kindly. In seeing, for the first time, one to whom we owed so manyhappy hours, it was impossible to feel towards her as a stranger. Alldistance was removed by her courtesy. Her manners are very sweet, becausevery simple and free from affectation. To me her welcome was the moregrateful as that of one woman to another. There is a sort of free-masonryamong women, by which they understand at once those with whom they have anyintellectual sympathy. A few words, and all reserve was gone. 'Come, sit byme on this sofa, ' she said; and instantly, seated side by side, we weredeep in conversation. It is in such intimacy one feels the magnetism of alarge mind informed by a true woman's heart; then, as the soul shinesthrough the face, one perceives its intellectual beauty. No portrait cangive the full expression of the eye any more than of the voice. Lookinginto that clear, calm eye, one sees a transparent nature, a soul ofgoodness and truth, an impression which is deepened as you listen to hersoft and gentle tones. A low voice is said to be an excellent thing in awoman. It is a special charm of the most finely cultured English ladies. But never did a sweeter voice fascinate a listener, --so soft and low thatone must almost bend to hear. You can imagine what it was thus to sit foran hour beside this gifted woman and hear talk of questions interesting tothe women of England and America. But I should do her great injustice if Igave the impression that there was in her conversation any attempt atdisplay. There is no wish to shine. She is above that affectation ofbrilliancy which is often mere flippancy. Nor does she seek to attracthomage and admiration. On the contrary, she is very averse to speak ofherself, or even to hear the heartfelt praise of others. She does notengross the conversation, but is more eager to listen than to talk. She hasthat delicate tact--which is one of the fine arts among women--to makeothers talk, suggesting topics the most rich and fruitful, and by a worddrawing the conversation into a channel where it may flow with broad, freecurrent. Thus she makes you forget the celebrated author, and think only ofthe refined and highly cultivated woman. You do not feel awed by hergenius, but only quickened by it, as something that calls out all that isbetter and truer. While there is no attempt to impress you with herintellectual superiority, you naturally feel elevated into a higher sphere. The conversation of itself floats upward into a region above thecommonplace. The small-talk of ordinary society would seem an impertinence. There is a singular earnestness about her, as if those mild eyes lookeddeep into the great, sad, awful truths of existence. To her, life is aserious reality, and the gift of genius a grave responsibility. "

Mrs. Lewes was in the habit for many years of receiving her friends onSunday afternoons from two to six o'clock. These gatherings came to beamong the most memorable features of London literary life. A large numberof persons, both men and women, attended her receptions, and among themmany who were well known to the scientific or literary world. Especiallywere young men of aspiring minds drawn hither and given a largercomprehension of life. She had no political or fashionable connections, says Mr. F. W. H. Myers, "but nearly all who were most eminent in art, science, literature, philanthropy, might be met from time to time at herSunday-afternoon receptions. There were many women, too, drawn often fromamong very different traditions of thought and belief, by the unfeignedgoodness which they recognized in Mrs. Lewes's look and speech, andsometimes illumining with some fair young face a _salon_ whose grave talkneeded the grace which they could bestow. And there was sure to be aconsiderable admixture of men not as yet famous, --probably never to beso, --but whom some indication of studies earnestly pursued, of sincereeffort for the good of their fellow-men, had recommended to 'thathopeful interest which'--to quote a letter of her own--'the elder mind, dissatisfied with itself, delights to entertain with regard to thoseyounger, whose years and powers hold a larger measure of unspoiled life. 'It was Mr. Lewes who on these occasions contributed the cheerful_bonhomie_, the observant readiness, which are necessary for the facing ofany social group. Mrs. Lewes's manner had a grave simplicity, which rose incloser converse into an almost pathetic anxiety to give of her best--toestablish a genuine human relation between herself and her interlocutor--toutter words which should remain as an active influence for good in thehearts of those who heard them. To some of her literary admirers, thisserious tone was distasteful; they were inclined to resent the prominencegiven to moral ideas in a quarter from which they preferred to look merelyfor intellectual refreshment. Mrs. Lewes's humor, though fed from a deepperception of the incongruities of human fates, had not, except in intimatemoments, any buoyant or contagious quality, and in all her talk--full ofmatter and wisdom, and exquisitely worded as it was--there was the samepervading air of strenuous seriousness which was more welcome to thosewhose object was distinctively to _learn_ from her, than to those whomerely wished to pass an idle and brilliant hour. To her, these mixedreceptions were a great effort. Her mind did not move easily from oneindividuality to another, and when she afterward thought that she hadfailed to understand some difficulty which had been laid before her, --hadspoken the wrong word to some expectant heart, --she would suffer fromalmost morbid accesses of self-reproach. " A further idea of theseconversations may be gathered from Mr. Kegan Paul's account. "When Londonwas full, " he says, "the little drawing-room in St. John's Wood was now andthen crowded to overflowing with those who were glad to give their best ofconversation, of information, and sometimes of music, always to listen witheager attention to whatever their hostess might say, when all that she saidwas worth hearing. Without a trace of pedantry, she led the conversation tosome great and lofty strain. Of herself and her works she never spoke; ofthe works and thoughts of others she spoke with reverence, and sometimeseven too great tolerance. But these afternoons had the highest pleasurewhen London was empty, or the day was wet, and only a few friends werepresent, so that her conversation assumed a more sustained tone than waspossible when the rooms were full of shifting groups. It was then that, without any premeditation, her sentences fell as fully formed, as wise, asweighty, as epigrammatic, as any to be found in her books. Always ready, but never rapid, her talk was not only good in itself, but it encouragedthe same in others, since she was an excellent listener, and eager tohear. "

At these gatherings the most noted of the English disciples of Comte wereto be found, and among them Frederic Harrison, Prof. E. S. Beesley, Dr. Congrove, the director of the London Church of Humanity, and Prof. W. K. Clifford. The English positivists were represented by Herbert Spencer, Prof. T. H. Huxley and Moncure D. Conway. The realistic school of poets andartists came in the persons of its most representative men. Dante Rosettiand Millais, Tourguénief and Burne Jones, DuMaurier and Dr. Hueffnerillustrated most of its phases. The great world of general literature sentSir Arthur Helps, Sir Theodore Martin, Anthony Trollope, C. G. Leland, Justin McCarthy, Frederic Myers, Prof. Mark Pattison and many another. Therarer guests included Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning. It was noinconsiderable influence which could draw together such a company and holdit together for many years. Of the part played in these gatherings by thehosts, Miss Mathilde Blind has given an account. Lewes acted "as a socialcement. His vivacity, his ready tact, the fascination of his manners, diffused that general sense of ease and _abandon_ so requisite to foster anharmonious flow of conversation. He was inimitable as a _raconteur_, andThackeray, Trollope and Arthur Helps were fond of quoting some of thestories which he would dramatize in the telling. One of the images which, on these occasions, recurs oftenest to George Eliot's friends is that ofthe frail-looking woman who would sit with her chair drawn close to thefire, and whose winning womanliness of bearing and manners struck every onewho had the privilege of an introduction to her. Her long, pale face, withits strongly marked features, was less rugged in the mature prime of lifethan in youth, the inner meanings of her nature having worked themselvesmore and more to the surface, the mouth, with its benignant suavity ofexpression, especially softening the too prominent under lip and massivejaw. Her abundant hair, untinged with gray, whose smooth bands made a kindof frame to the face, was covered by a lace or muslin cap, with lappets ofrich point or Valenciennes lace fastened under her chin. Her gray-blueeyes, under noticeable eyelashes, expressed the same acute sensitiveness asher long, thin, beautifully shaped hands. She had a pleasant laugh andsmile, her voice being low, distinct, and intensely sympathetic in quality;it was contralto in singing, but she seldom sang or played before more thanone or two friends. Though her conversation was perfectly easy, eachsentence was as finished, as perfectly formed, as the style of herpublished works. "

Among the persons who gathered at The Priory on Sunday afternoons therecame to be a considerable number of those who were Mrs. Lewes's devoteddisciples. They hung upon her words, they accepted her views of life, herphilosophy became theirs. That she would have admitted such discipleshipexisted there is no reason to believe, and it is certain she did notattempt to bring it about or even desire it. So great, however, was herpower of intellect, so noble her personal influence, it was impossible thatardent young natures could refrain from devotion to such genius and speedyacceptance of its teachings. The richness of her moral and intellectualnature aided largely in this heroine worship, but she impressed herself onother minds because she was so much an individual, because her personalitywas of a kind to command reverence and devotion. It was not merely youngand impulsive natures who were thus attracted and inspired, for EdithSimcox says that "men and women, old friends and new, persons of her ownage and of another generation, the married and the single, impulsivelovers and hard-headed philosophers, nay, even some who elsewhere mighthave passed for cynics, all classes alike yielded to the attractive forceof this rare character, in which tenderness and strength were blendedtogether, and as it were transfused with something that was all herown--the genius of sweet goodness. " Perhaps her influence was so great onthose it reached because it demanded high and noble life and thought of herdisciples. Her moral ideal was a high one, and she had literary andartistic standards that demanded all the effort of both genius and talent, while her culture was such as to be exacting in its requirements. So wefind Miss Simcox saying that Mrs. Lewes, in her friendships, "had theunconscious exactingness of a full nature. She was intolerant of a vacuumin the mind or character, and she was indifferent to admiration that didnot seem to have its root in fundamental agreement with those principlesshe held to be most 'necessary to salvation. ' Where this sympathy existed, her generous affection was given to a fellow-believer, a fellow-laborer, with singularly little reference to the fact that such full sympathy wasnever unattended with profound love and reverence for herself as a livingwitness to the truth and power of the principles thus shared. To love herwas a strenuous pleasure; for in spite of the tenderness for all humanweakness that was natural to her, and the scrupulous charity of her overtjudgments, the fact remained that her natural standard was ruthlessly outof reach, and it was a painful discipline for her friends to feel that shewas compelled to lower it to suit their infirmities. The intense humilityof her self-appreciation, and the unfeigned readiness with which she wouldeven herself with any sinner who sought her counsel, had the same effectupon those who would compare what she condemned in herself with what shetolerated in them. And at the same time, no doubt, this total absence ofself-sufficiency had something to do with the passionate tenderness withwhich commonplace people dared to cherish their immortal friend. "

As has already been suggested, her womanliness is a more prominentcharacteristic of Mrs. Lewes's mind than its great intellectual power. Hersympathy was keen and most sensitive, her modesty and humility were almostexcessive, and her tenderness of nature was a woman's own. She gave hersympathy readily and freely to the humble and unfavored. She had no taintof intellectual aristocracy, says one of her friends. Faithful, devotedlove; the sacredness of simple duties and plain work; earnest help of othersouls, --these were among the daily lessons of her life and teaching. "Howstrong was the current of her sympathy in the direction of all humbleeffort, " exclaims one of her friends, "how reluctantly she checkedpresumption! The most ordinary and uninteresting of her friends must feelthat had they known nothing of her but her rapid insight into and quickresponse to their inmost feelings she would still have been a memorablepersonality to them. This sympathy was extended to the sorrows most unlikeanything she could ever by any possibility have known--the failures of lifeobtained as large a share of her compassion as its sorrows. The wish toconsole and cheer was indeed rooted in the most vital part of her nature. "Another of her friends has said that "she possessed to a marvellous degreethe divine gifts of charity, and of attracting moral outcasts to herself, whose devils she cast out, if I may be permitted the expression, byshutting her eyes to their existence. In her presence you felt wrappedround by an all-embracing atmosphere of sympathy and readiness to make theleast of all your short comings, and the most of any good which might be inyou. But great as was her personality, she shrank with horror fromintruding it upon you, and, in general society, her exquisitely melodiousvoice was, unhappily for the outside circles, too seldom raised beyond thepitch of something not much above a whisper. Of the rich vein of humorwhich runs through George Eliot's works there was comparatively littletrace in her conversation, which seldom descended from the grave to thegay. But although she rarely indulged in conversational levity herself, shewas most tolerant of it, and even encouraged its ebullition, in others, joining heartily in any mirth which might be going on. "

She made her younger admirers feel the deeper influence of her greatpersonality by inspiring them with the largest moral purposes. To awakenand to arouse the moral nature seems always to have been her purpose, andto lead it to the highest attainable results. Earnest young minds never"failed to feel in her presence that they were for the time, at all events, raised into a higher moral level, and none ever left her without feelinginspired with a stronger sense of duty, and positively under the obligationof striving to live up to a higher standard of life. " Hence her personalinfluence was considerable, though she led the close life of a student, anddid not go into general society at all. This high moral earnestness madeher a prophet to her friends, as in her books it made her a great moralteacher to the world at large. Those who had the privilege of an intimateacquaintance with Mrs. Lewes have pronounced the woman greater than herbooks. She was not only a great writer but a great woman. Human nature inits largest capacities was represented in her, for she rose above thelimitations of sex; and she is thought of less as a great woman than as alarge human personality. Hers was a massive nature, emphatic, individual, many-sided. Genius of a very high order, though not the highest, was hers, while she was possessed of a broad culture and great learning. Seldom doesgenius carry with it talents so varied and well-trained or a culture sofull and thorough. And her culture was of that kind which entered intoevery fibre of her nature and became a part of her own personality. It wasthoroughly digested and absorbed into good healthy red blood, and became aquickened, sustained motive to the largest efforts. How vital this love ofculture was, may be seen when we are told that "she possessed in an eminentdegree that power which has led to success in so many directions, ofkeeping her mind unceasingly at the stretch without conscious fatigue. Shewould cease to ponder or to read when other duties called her, but neverbecause she herself felt tired. Even in so complex an effort as a visit toa picture gallery implies, she could continue for hours at the same pitchof earnest interest, and outweary strong men. Nor was this a mere habit ofpassive reception. In the intervals between her successive compositions hermind was always fusing and combining its fresh stores. "

She had culture, moral power and earnestness in a high degree, warmth ofsympathy and sensitiveness to all beauty, but she had no saintliness. Profound as was her reverence for moral purity, and lofty as was her moralpurpose, she was not a saint, and holiness was not a characteristic of hernature. This clear and high sense of moral truth everywhere appears in herlife and thought. "For the lessons most imperatively needed by the mass ofmen, the lessons of deliberate kindness, of careful truth, of unwaveringendeavor, --for these plain themes one could not ask a more convincingteacher than she. Everything in her aspect and presence was in keeping withthe bent of her soul. The deeply lined face, the too marked and massivefeatures, were united with an air of delicate refinement, which in one waywas the more impressive because it seemed to proceed entirely from within. Nay, the inward beauty would sometimes quite transform the externalharshness; there would be moments when the thin hands that entwinedthemselves in their eagerness, the earnest figure that bowed forward tospeak and hear, the deep gaze moving from one face to another with a graveappeal, --all these seemed the transparent symbols that showed the presenceof a wise, benignant soul. But it was the voice which best revealed her, avoice whose subdued intensity and tremulous richness seemed to environ heruttered words with the mystery of a world that must remain untold. And thenagain, when in moments of more intimate converse some current of emotionwould set strongly through her soul, when she would raise her head inunconscious absorption and look out into the unseen, her expression was notone to be soon forgotten. It has not, indeed, the serene felicity of soulsto whose childlike confidence all heaven and earth are fair. Rather it wasthe look of a strenuous Demiurge, of a soul on which high tasks are laid, and which finds in their accomplishment its only imagination of joy. "

Another side of her influence on persons is expressed by the representativeof that publishing house which gave her books to the world. "In addition tothe spell which bound the world to her by her genius, she had a personalpower of drawing to herself, in ties of sympathy and kindly feeling, allwho came under her influence. She never oppressed any one by her talents;she never allowed any one to be sensible of the depth and variety of herscholarship; she knew, as few know, how to draw forth the views andfeelings of her visitors, and to make their sympathies her own. There was acharm in her personal character which of itself was sufficient toconciliate deep and lasting regard. Every one who entered her society leftit impressed with the conviction that they had been under the influence ofa sympathy and tenderness not less remarkable than the force of her mentalpower.... Her deep and catholic love for humanity in its broadest and bestsense, which was in itself the strongest quickening motive of her genius, will maintain her influence in the future as in the present. "

Hers was a somewhat sensitive, shrinking nature, with no self-assumption, and without the taint of egotism. She had a modest estimate of her owngreat literary creations, and shrank from all mention of them and from thehomage paid to her as an author. After the publication of _Romola_ she wasone day reading French to a girl companion in the garden of a Swiss hotel, when a lady drew near to listen to the silvery tones of her voice. Noticingthis, she said, "Do you understand?" The lady answered, "I do not care forthe matter; I only came to listen to your voice. " "Do you like it?" wasthen inquired. When the lady expressed the pleasure it gave her, Mrs. Lewestook her hand and warmly said, "I thank you. I would rather you wouldcompliment my voice than my _Romola_. " [Footnote: This story is notauthenticated; it may be taken for what it is worth, though it appears tobe characteristic. ]

It has been truly said of her that above all novelists, with the exceptionof Goethe, she was supreme in culture. She had a passion for knowledge, andzeal in the pursuit of learning. She was a lover of books, but not ascholar in the technical and exact sense. Delighting in literature, art, music, and all that appeals to the imagination, rather than in mereinformation, yet she was a thinker of original powers, with a keenappreciation of philosophy, and ability to tread its most difficult pathswith firm step. She had an intimate acquaintance with the literatures ofGermany, France, Italy and Spain, and she was well read in the classics ofGreece and Rome. She was "competently acquainted" with the differentsystems of philosophy, and she had mastered their problems while thinkingout her own conclusions. Having no professional knowledge of the sciences, she was a diligent reader of scientific books, and was familiar with allthe bearings of science on philosophy and religion. Her books show anintimate knowledge of modern thought in many of its phases, as it bearsupon physical, economic, historical and intellectual science. With all herlearning, however, she retained a woman's sympathy with life, beauty andpoetry. Her knowledge was never dry and technical, but warm and imaginativewith genius and poetry. [Footnote: Her scholarly habits, and her realistictendencies, usually made George Eliot very painstaking and accurate, but anoccasional slip of pen or memory is to be noted in her books. InTheophrastus Such she credited to the Apologia of Plato what is reallycontained in the Phaedo. The motto to chapter seventeen of Daniel Derondawas quoted, in the first edition, as from In Memoriam instead of LocksleyHall. In an early chapter of Felix Holt she made the parson preach from thewords, "Break up the fallow ground of your hearts. " The words of scriptureare, "Break up your fallow ground. " In Adam Bede a clergyman is made totake the words of the Prayer Book, "In the midst of life we are in death, "for his text. ]

Her culture may be compared with Mrs. Browning's, who was also an extensivereader and widely informed. The poet as well as the novelist acquired herlearning because of her thirst for knowledge, and mainly by her ownefforts; but she preferred the classics to science, and literature tophilosophy. Mrs. Browning was the wiser, George Eliot the more learned. Thewritings of Mrs. Browning are less affected by her information than GeorgeEliot's; and this is true because she was of a more poetical temperament, because her imagination was more brilliant and creative. 

Mrs. Lewes was an enthusiastic lover of art, and especially of music. Shenever tired in her interest in beholding fine paintings, and music was thecontinual delight of her life. She was a tireless frequenter of picturegalleries, and every fine musical entertainment in London was sure to findher, in company with Mr. Lewes, an enthusiastic listener. Good acting alsoclaimed not a little of her interest, and she carefully studied even thedetails of the dramatic art, so that she was able to give a criticalappreciation to the acting she enjoyed. Indeed, she had given to her mindthat rounded fulness of attainment, and developed all her facultieswith that due proportion, which Fichte so earnestly preached as thecharacteristic of true culture. "Her character, " says Edith Simcox, "seemedto include every possibility of action and emotion; no human passion waswanting in her nature, there were no blanks or negations; and themarvellous thing was to see how, in this wealth of impulses and desires, there was no crash of internal discord, no painful collisions with otherhuman interests outside; how, in all her life, passions of volcanicstrength were harnessed in the service of those nearest her, and soinspired by the permanent instinct of devotion to her kind, that it seemedas if it were by her own choice they spent themselves there only wheretheir force was welcome. Her very being was a protest against the opposingand yet cognate heresies that half the normal human passions must bestrangled in the quest of virtue, and that the attainment of virtue is adull and undesirable end, seeing that it implies the sacrifice of most thatmakes life interesting. " She had her own temptations and her imperfections. With these she struggled bravely, and set herself to the hard task ofcorrection and discipline. Her culture was not merely one of books, but itwas also one of moral discipline and of strenuous spiritual subjection. Itwas one of stern moral requirements and duties, as well as one of largesympathy with all that is natural and beautiful. 

It was a quiet life of continuous study and authorship which Mrs. Lewes ledin The Priory, and it was varied from year to year only by her visits tothe continent and by her summer residence in Surrey. One of her summerretreats, at the village of Shotter Mill, has been described, as well asher life there. The most picturesque house in the place is known asBrookbank, and here she spent a summer, that of 1871. It is described as"an old two-storied cottage, the front of the house being half-covered withtrailing rose-trees. The rooms are low but pleasant, and furnished in asimple, comfortable manner. We have often endeavored, " says the writer ofthis account, "to glean some information regarding George Eliot's life atShotter Mill, but she and Mr. Lewes lived in such seclusion that there wasvery little to be told. They seldom crossed their threshold during the day, but wandered over the commons and hills after sundown. They were veryanxious to lodge at the picturesque old farm, ten minutes' walk beyondBrookbank, but all available room was then occupied. However, George Eliotwould often visit the farmer's wife, and, sitting on a grassy bank justbeside the kitchen door, would discuss the growth of fruit and the qualityof butter in a manner so quiet and simple the good country folks wereastonished, expecting very different conversation from the great novelist. The farmer was employed to drive them two or three times a week. Theyoccasionally visited Tennyson, whose home is only three miles distant, though a rather tedious drive, since it is up hill nearly all the way. George Eliot did not enjoy the ride much, for the farmer told us that, 'withal her being such a mighty clever body, --she were very nervous in acarriage--allays wanted to go on a smooth road, and seemed dreadful fearedof being thrown out. ' George Eliot was writing _Middlemarch_ during hersummer at Brookbank, and the term for which they had the cottage expiredbefore they wished to return to London. The Squire was away at the time, sothey procured permission to use his house during the remainder of thevisit. In speaking of them he said, 'I visited Mr. And Mrs. Lewes severaltimes before they went back to town, and found the authoress a veryagreeable woman, both in manner and appearance; but her mind was evidentlycompletely absorbed in her work; she seemed to have no time for anythingbut writing from morning till night. Her hand could hardly convey herthoughts to paper fast enough. It was an exceptionally hot summer, and yetthrough it all Mrs. Lewes would have artificial heat placed at her feet tokeep up the circulation. Why, one broiling day I came home worn out, longing for a gray sky and a cool breeze, and on going into the garden Ifound her sitting there, her head just shaded by a deodara on the lawn, writing away as usual. I expostulated with her for letting the midday sunpour down on her like that. 'Oh, ' she replied, 'I like it. To-day is thefirst time I have felt warm this summer. ' So I said no more, and went myway. ' And thus nearly all we could learn about George Eliot was that sheloved to bask in the sun and liked green peas. She visited some of thecottagers, but only those living in secluded places, who knew nothing ofher. Just such people as these she used in her graphic and realisticsketches of peasant life. With regard to the surrounding country, GeorgeEliot said that it pleased her more than any she knew of in England. "

In these summer retreats she continued steadily at her work, and shegreatly delighted in the quiet and rest. Other summers were spent atWitley, in the same county, where the fine scenery, lovely drives andwide-reaching views from the hill-tops were to her a perpetual delight. At this place a house was bought, and there was a project of giving up theLondon residence and of visiting the city only for occasional relaxation. This project was not carried out, for soon after their return from Witleyin the autumn of 1878, Mr. Lewes was taken ill, and died in November. Hisdeath was a great blow to Mrs. Lewes, and he was deeply mourned, so much soas to seriously impair her health. The state of her mind at this tryingperiod is well indicated in a letter written to Prof. David Kaufmann. 

THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, REGENT'S PARK, April 17, '79. 

MY DEAR SIR, --Your kind letter has touched me very deeply. I confess thatmy mind has more than once gone out to you as one from whom I should liketo have some sign of sympathy with my loss. But you were rightly inspiredin waiting till now, for during many weeks I was unable even to listen tothe letters which my generous friends were continually sending me. Now, atlast, I am eagerly interested in every communication that springs out of anacquaintance with my husband and taskworks. 

I thank you for telling me about the Hungarian translation of his Historyof Philosophy, but what would I not have given if the volumes could havecome a few days before his death; for his mind was perfectly clear, and hewould have felt some joy in that sign of his work being effective. I do notknow whether you enter into the comfort I feel that he never knew he wasdying, and fell gently asleep after ten days of illness in which thesuffering was comparatively mild..... 

One of the last things he did at his desk was to despatch a manuscript ofmine to the publishers. The book (not a story and not bulky) is to appearnear the end of May, and as it contains some words I wanted to say aboutthe Jews, I will order a copy to be sent to you. 

I hope that your labors have gone on uninterruptedly for the benefit ofothers, in spite of public troubles. The aspect of affairs with us isgrevious--industry languishing, and the best part of our nation indignantat our having been betrayed into an unjustifiable war (in South Africa). 

I have been occupied in editing my husband's MSS. , so far as they are leftin sufficient completeness to be prepared for publication without theobtrusion of another mind instead of his. A brief volume on _The Study ofPsychology_ will appear immediately, and a further volume of psychologicalstudies will follow in the autumn. But his work was cut short while hestill thought of it as the happy occupation of far-stretching months. Oncemore let me thank you for remembering me in my sorrow, and believe me

Yours with high regard, M. E. LEWES. 

Writing to a friend soon after Lewes's death, who had also lost herhusband, she said, --

 There is but one refuge--the having much to do. Nothing can make the burden to be patiently borne, except the gradual adaptation of your soul to the new conditions. 

The much to do she partly found in editing the uncompleted _Problemsof Life and Mind_, and in establishing a studentship for originalinvestigation in physiology, known as "The George Henry Lewes Studentship. "Its value is about two hundred pounds, and it is open to both sexes. Theselabors enabled her to do honor to one she had trusted through many years, whose name and fame she greatly revered, and to recover the even poise ofher life. She carefully managed the business affairs he had left in herhands, and she provided for his children. 

A year and a half after the death of Lewes, May 6, 1880, she was married atthe church of St. George's, Hanover Square, to John Walter Cross, thesenior partner in a London banking firm, whom she had first met in 1867, and who had been a greatly valued friend both to herself and Lewes. Thoughmuch younger than herself, he had many qualities to recommend him to herregard. A visit to the continent after this ceremony lasted for severalmonths, a considerable portion of the time being spent in Venice. On theirreturn to London in the autumn after spending a happy summer in Surrey, they went to live in the house of Mr. Cross at 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. Theold habits of her life were taken up, her studies were resumed, a new novelwas begun, her friends came as usual on Sunday afternoons, and many yearsof work seemed before her, for her health had greatly improved. On Friday, December 17, 1880, she attended the presentation of the _Agamemnon_ ofAeschylus, in the original Greek, with the accompaniments of the ancienttheatre, by the undergraduates of Balliol College, Oxford. She was veryenthusiastic about this revival of ancient art, and planned to read anewall the Greek dramatists with her husband. The next day she attended apopular concert at St. James Hall, and listened with her usual intenseinterest. Sitting in a draught, she caught cold, but that evening sheplayed through much of the music she had heard in the afternoon. The nextday she was not so well as usual, yet she met her friends in the afternoon. On Monday her larynx was slightly affected, and a physician was called, butno danger was apprehended. Yet her malady gained rapidly. On Tuesday nightshe was in a dangerous condition, and on Wednesday the pericardium wasfound to be seriously diseased. Towards midnight of that day, December 22, after a period of unconsciousness, she quietly passed away. She was buriedon the 29th, in the unconsecrated portion of Highgate Cemetery, by the sideof George Henry Lewes. The funeral services were conducted by the Rev. Dr. Sadler, a radical Unitarian minister, who spoke of her great genius, andquoted her own words about a future life in the life of humanity. Hisaddress contained many references to her personal characteristics, such ascould only come from an intimate friend. He said, --

"To those who are present it is given to think of the gentleness, anddelicate womanly grace and charm, which were combined with 'that breadth ofculture and universality of power which, ' as one has expressed it, 'havemade her known to all the world. ' To those who are present it is given toknow the diffidence and self-distrust which, notwithstanding all her publicfame, needed individual sympathy and encouragement to prevent her fromfeeling too keenly how far the results of her labors fell below thestandard she had set before her. To those who are present too it may begiven--though there is so large a number to whom it is not given--tounderstand how a nature may be profoundly devout, and yet unable to accepta great deal of what is usually held as religious belief. No intellectualdifficulties or uncertainties, no sense of mental incapacity to climb theheights of infinitude, could take from her the piety of the affections or'the beliefs which were the mother-tongue of her soul. ' I cannot doubt thatshe spoke out of the fulness of her own heart when she put into the lips ofanother the words, 'May not a man silence his awe or his love and take tofinding reasons which others demand? But if his love lies deeper than anyreasons to be found!' How patiently she toiled to render her work in allits details as little imperfect as might be! How green she kept theremembrance of all those companions to whom she felt that she owed amoulding and elevating influence, especially in her old home, and of himwho was its head, her father! How her heart glowed with a desire to help tomake a heaven on earth, to be a 'cup of strength' to others, and when herown days on earth should have closed, to have a place among those

 "'Immortal dead who still live on In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude; in scorn For miserable aims that end with sell; In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. '

"How she thus yearned 'to join the choir invisible, whose music is thegladness of the world!' All this is known to those who had the privilege ofbeing near her. "

The address was preceded by a simple burial service, and was followed by aprayer, all being given in the chapel of the cemetery. The coffin, coveredwith the finest floral tributes, was then borne to the grave, where theburial service was completed, and was followed by a prayer and thebenediction. Although the day was a disagreeable one and rain was falling, the chapel was crowded, and many not being able to gain admittance stoodabout the open grave. Beside her personal friends and her family there werepresent many persons noted for their literary or scientific attainments, Onthe lid of the coffin was this inscription:

 MARY ANN CROSS. ("George Eliot") Born 22d Nov. , 1819; died 22d Dec. , 1880. 

 Quilla fonte Che spande di parlay si largo flume. 

[Footnote: From Dante, and has been rendered into English thus:

 That fountain Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech. ]

The novel which had been begun was left a mere fragment, and in accordancewith what it was thought would have been her wish, was destroyed by herfamily. Perhaps it was better that her dislike of unfinished work should beso respected. 

VI. 

LITERARY TRAITS AND TENDENCIES. 

George Eliot was a painstaking, laborious writer. She did not proceedrapidly, so carefully did she elaborate her pages. Her subjects werethoroughly studied before the pen was taken in hand, patiently thought out, planned with much care, and all available helps secured that could be had. She threw her whole life into her work, became a part of the scenes she wasdepicting; her life was absorbed until the work of writing became a painfulprocess both to body and mind. "Her beautifully written manuscript, " saysher publisher, "free from blur or erasure, and with every letter delicatelyand distinctly finished, was only the outward and visible sign of theinward labor which she had taken to work out her ideas. She never drew anyof her facts or impressions from second hand; and thus, in spite of thenumber and variety of her illustrations, she had rarely much to correct inher proof-sheets. She had all that love of doing her work well for thework's sake which she makes prominent characteristics of Adam Bede andStradivarius. "

When a book was completed, so intense had been her application and theabsorption of her life in her work, a period of despondency followed. Whena correspondent praised _Middlemarch_, and expressed a hope that even agreater work might follow, she replied, "As to the 'great novel' whichremains to be written, I must tell you that I never believe in futurebooks. " Again, she wrote of the depression which succeeded the completionof each of her works, --

 Always after finishing a book I have a period of despair that I can ever again produce anything worth giving to the world. The responsibility of writing grows heavier and heavier--does it not?--as the world grows older and the voices of the dead more numerous. It is difficult to believe, until the germ of some new work grows into imperious activity within one, that it is possible to make a really needed contribution to the poetry of the world--I mean possible to one's self to do it. 

Owing probably somewhat to this tendency to take a despondent viewconcerning her own work, and to distrust of the leadings of her owngenius, was her habit of never reading the criticisms made on her books. She adopted this rule, she tells one correspondent, "as a necessarypreservative against influences that would have ended by nullifying herpower of writing. " To another, who had written her in appreciation of herbooks, she wrote this note, in which she alludes to the same habit ofshunning criticism:

MY DEAR MISS WELLINGTON, --The signs of your sympathy sent to me across thewide water have touched me with the more effect because you imply that youare young. I care supremely that my writing should be some help andstimulus to those who have probably a long life before them. 

Mr. Lewes does not let me read criticisms on my writings. He always readsthem himself, and gives me occasional quotations, when be thinks that theyshow a spirit and mode of appreciation which will win my gratitude. He hascarefully read through the articles which were accompanied by your kindletter, and he has a high opinion of the feeling and discernment exhibitedin them. Some concluding passages which he read aloud to me are such as Iregister among the grounds of any encouragement in looking backward on whatI have written, if not in looking forward to my future writing. 

Thank you, my dear young friend, whom I shall probably never know otherwisethan in this spiritual way. And certainly, apart from those relations inlife which bring daily duties and opportunities of lovingness, the mostsatisfactory of all ties is this effective invisible intercourse of anelder mind with a younger. 

The quotation in your letter from Hawthorne's book offers an excellent typeboth for men and women in the value it assigns to that order of work whichis called subordinate but becomes ennobling by being finely done. [Footnote: A reference to Hilda's ceasing to consider herself an originalartist in the presence of the great masters. "Beholding the miracles ofbeauty which the old masters had achieved, the world seemed already richenough in original designs and nothing more was so desirable as to diffusethese selfsame beauties more widely among mankind. '--So Hilda became acopyist. "] Yours, with sincere obligations, M. E. LEWES. 

By the way, Mr. Lewes tells me that you ascribe to me a hatred of blueeyes--which is amusing, since my own eyes are blue-gray. I am not in anysense one of the "good haters;" on the contrary, my weaknesses all vergetoward an excessive tolerance and a tendency to melt off the outlines ofthings. 

THE PRIORY, 21 North Bank, Regent's Park, Jan. 16, '73. 

[Footnote: From The Critic of December 31, 1881. This letter was addressedto Miss Alice Wellington, now Mrs. Rollins. ]

Her sensitiveness was great, and contact with an unappreciative andunsympathetic public depressing to a large degree. It was a part of thatshrinking away from the world which kept her out of society, and away fromall but a select few whose tastes and sympathies were largely in accordancewith her own. Besides, she distrusted that common form of criticism whichpresumes to tell an author how he ought to have written, and assumes toitself an insight and knowledge greater than that possessed by geniusitself. Concerning the value of such criticism she wrote these pertinentwords:

 I get confirmed in my impression that the criticism of any new writing is shifting and untrustworthy. I hardly think that any critic can have so keen a sense of the shortcomings in my works as that I groan under in the course of writing them, and I cannot imagine any edification coming to an author from a sort of reviewing which consists in attributing to him or her unexpressed opinions, and in imagining circumstances which may be alleged as petty private motives for the treatment of subjects which ought to be of general human interest. 

To the same correspondent she used even stronger words concerning herdislike of ordinary criticism. 

 Do not expect "criticism" from me. I hate "sitting in the seat of judgment, " and I would rather try to impress the public generally with the sense that they may get the best result from a book without necessarily forming an "opinion" about it, than I would rush into stating opinions of my own. The floods of nonsense printed in the form of critical opinions seem to me a chief curse of our times--a chief obstacle to true culture. 

It is not to be forgotten, however, that George Eliot had done muchcritical work before she became a novelist, and that much of it was of akeen and cutting nature. Severely as she was handled by the critics, no oneof them was more vigorous than was her treatment of Young and Cumming. Evenin later years, when she took up the critical pen, the effect was felt. Mr. Lecky did not pass gently through her hands when she reviewed his_Rationalism in Europe_. Her criticisms in _Theophrastus Such_ werepenetrating and severe. 

For the same reason, she read few works of contemporary fiction, that hermind might not be biassed and that she might not be discouraged in her ownwork. Always busy with some special subject which absorbed all her time andstrength, she could give little attention to contemporary literature. Toone correspondent she wrote, --

 My constant groan is, that I must leave so much of the greatest writing which the centuries have sifted for me, unread for want of time. 

The style adopted by George Eliot is for the most part fresh, vital andenergetic. It is pure in form, rich in illustrations, strong and expressivein manner. There are exceptions to this statement, it is true, and she issometimes turgid and dry, again gaudy and verbose. Sententious in herdidactic passages, she is pure and noble in her sentiment, poetical andimpressive in her descriptions of nature. Her diction is choice, her rangeof expression large, and she admirably suits her words to the thought shewould present. There is a rich, teeming fulness of life in her books, thecanvas is crowded, there is movement and action. An abundance of passion, delicate feeling and fine sensibility is expressed. 

The critics have almost universally condemned the plots of George Eliot'snovels for their want of unity. They tell us that the flow of events isoften not orderly, while improbable scenes are introduced, superfluousincidents are common, the number of characters is too great, and theanalysis of character impedes the unity of events. These objections are notalways vital, and sometimes they are mere objections rather than genuinecriticisms. Instances of failure to follow the best methods may be cited inabundance, one of which is seen in the first two chapters in _DanielDeronda_ being placed out of their natural order. The opening scenes in_The Spanish Gypsy_ seem quite unnecessary to the development of the plot, while the last two scenes of the second book are so fragmentary andunconnected with the remainder of the story as to help it but little. Inthe middle of _Adam Bede_ are several chapters devoted to the birthdayparty, which are quite unnecessary to the development of the action. _Daniel Deronda_ contains two narratives which are in many respects almostentirely distinct from each other, and the reader is made to alternatebetween two worlds that have little in common. There is much of theimprobable in the account of the Transome estate in _Felix Holt_, while theclosing scenes in the life of Tito Melema in _Romola_ are more tragicalthan natural. Yet these defects are incidental to her method and art ratherthan actual blemishes on her work. For the most part, her work isthoroughly unitary, cause leads naturally into effect, and there is a moraldevelopment of character such as is found in life itself. Her plots arestrongly constructed, in simple outlines, are easily comprehended and keptin mind, and the leading motive holds steadily through to the end. Heranalytical method often makes an apparent interruption of the narrative, and the unity of purpose is frequently developed through the philosophicpurport of the novel rather than in its literary form. Direct narrative isoften hindered, it is true, by her habit of studying the remote causes andeffects of character, but she never wanders far enough to forget the realpurpose had in view. She holds the many elements of her story well undercommand, she concentrates them upon some one aim, and she gives to herstory a tragic unity of great moral splendor and effect. Even the diverseelements, the minute side-studies and the profuse comments, are all woveninto the organic structure, and are essential to the unfoldment of theplot. They seem to be quite irrelevant interruptions until we look backupon the completed whole and study the perfected intent of the story. Thenwe see how essential they are to the epic finish of the novel, and to thattotal effect which a work of genius creates. Then it is seen that adramatic unity and well-studied intent hold together every part and make acompleted structure of great beauty. 

Her dramatic skill is great, and her dialogues thoroughly good. Hercharacters are full of power and life, and stand out as distinctpersonalities. The conversation is sprightly, strong and wise. Probably nonovelist has created so many clearly cut, positive, intensely personalcharacters as George Eliot, and this individualism is depicted as actingwithin social and hereditary limits; hence dramatic action is constantlyarising. Shakspere and Browning only surpass her in dramatic power, as inthe creation of character. Yet her method of producing character differsessentially from that of Shakspere, Homer and all the great creators. Shedescribes character, while they present it. Homer gives no description ofHelen; but of her beauty and her person we learn all the more because weare left to find them out from the influence they produce. We know Hamletbecause he lives before us, and impresses his personality upon everyfeature of the great drama in which he appears. George Eliot's manner is todescribe, to minutely portray, and to dissect to the last muscle and nerve. 

She has also a rich and racy humor, sensitive and sober, refined anddelicate. She does not caricature folly with Dickens, or laugh at weaknesswith Thackeray; but she shows us the limitations of life in such a manneras to produce the finest humor. She is never repulsive, grotesque orvulgar; but wise, laughter-loving and sympathetic. Her humor is pure andhomely as it is delicate and exquisite; and it is invariably human andnoble. She has an intense love and a wonderful appreciation of theludicrous, sees whatever is incongruous In life, and makes her laughtergenial and joyous. Her humor is the very quintessence of human experience, strikes deadly blows at what is unjust and untrue. It is both intellectualand moral, as Professor Dowden suggests. "The grotesque in human characteris reclaimed from the province of the humorous by her affections, when thatis possible, and is shown to be a pathetic form of beauty. Her humorusually belongs to her entire conception of character, and cannot beseparated from it. " She laughs at all, but sneers at no one, --for she haskeen sympathy with all. 

George Eliot is not so good a satirist as she is humorist. Her humor is asfresh and delightful as a morning in May, but her satire is nearly alwayslabored. She is too much in sympathy with human nature to laugh at itsfollies and its weaknesses. Its joys, its bubbling humor and delight shecan appreciate, as well as all the pain and sorrow that come to men andwomen; and she can fully enter into the life of her characters of everykind, and portray their inmost motives and impulses; but the foibles of theworld she cannot treat in the vein of the satirist. In her earlier booksshe is said to have been under the influence of Thackeray, but her satireis heavy, and lacks his light touch and his tender undertone of compassion. Here is a good specimen of her earlier attempts to be satirical:

 When a man is happy enough to win the affections of a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with crochet, and respond to all his most cherished ideas with beaded urn-rugs and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, a guarantee of domestic comfort, whatever trials may await him out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to have your drawing-room well supplied with small mats, which would always be ready if you ever wanted to set anything on them! And what styptic for a bleeding heart can equal copious squares of crochet-work, which are useful for slipping down the moment you touch them? [Footnote: Janet's Repentance, chapter III. ]

Similar to this is the account of Mrs. Pullett's grief. 

 It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity Introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization--the sight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From the sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buckram sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an architectural bonnet, and delicate ribbon-strings--what a long series of gradations! In the enlightened child of civilization the abandonment characteristic of grief is checked and varied in the subtlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to the analytic mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half-blinded by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too devious step through a door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves, too, and the deep consciousness of this possibility produces a composition of forces by which she takes a line that just clears the door-post. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly backward--a touching gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a charm. As the tears subside a little, and with her head leaning backward at an angle that will not injure her bonnet, she endures that terrible moment when grief, which has made all things else a weariness, has itself become weary; she looks down pensively at her bracelets, and adjusts their clasps with that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her mind if it were once more in a calm and healthy state. [Footnote: Mill on the Floss, chapter VII. ]

In her later books the strained efforts at satire are partially avoided, and though the satirical spirit is not withdrawn in any measure, yet it ismore delicately managed. It is less open, less blunt, but hardly moresubtle and penetrative. It is still a strained effort, and it is quite toohard and bare in statement. We are told in _Middlemarch_ that

 Mrs. Bulstrode's _naïve_ way of conciliating piety and worldliness, the nothingness of this life and the desirability of cut glass, the consciousness at once of filthy rags and the best damask, was not a sufficient relief from the weight of her husband's invariable seriousness. 

Such a turning of sentiment into satire as the following is rather jarring, and is a good specimen of that "laborious smartness, " as Mr. R. H. Huttonjustly calls it, which is found in all of George Eliot's books:--

 Young love-making--that gossamer web! Even the points it clings to--the things whence its subtile interlacings are swung--are scarcely perceptible: momentary touches of finger-tips, meetings of rays from blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life toward another, visions of completeness, indefinite trust. And Lydgate fell to spinning that web from his inward self with wonderful rapidity, in spite of experience supposed to be finished off with the drama of Laure--in spite, too, of medicine and biology; for the inspection of macerated muscle or of eyes presented in a dish (like Santa Lucia's), and other incidents of scientific inquiry, are observed to be less incompatible with poetic love than a native dulness or a lively addiction to the lowest prose. [Footnote: Middlemarch, chapter XXXVI. ]

This introduction of a scientific illustration will serve to bring anothertendency of George Eliot's to our attention. She makes a frequent use ofher large learning and culture in her novels. In the earlier ones a Greekquotation is to be found here and there, while in the later, German seemsto have the preference. In _The Mill on the Floss_ she describes BobJakin's thumb as "a singularly broad specimen of that difference betweenthe man and the monkey. " Such references to recent scientific speculationsare not unfrequent. If they serve to show the tendencies of her mindtowards knowledge and large thought, they also indicate a too readywillingness to imbibe, and to use in a popular manner, what is notthoroughly assimilated truth. The force of such an illustration as thefollowing must be lost on most novel-readers:--

 Although Sir James was a sportsman, he had some other feelings toward women than toward grouse and foxes, and did not regard his future wife in the light of prey, valuable chiefly for the excitements of the chase. Neither was he so well acquainted with the habits of primitive races as to feel that an ideal combat for her, tomahawk in hand, so to speak, was necessary to the historical continuity of the marriage tie. [Footnote: Middlemarch, chapter VI. ]

It is doubtful whether any reader will quite catch the meaning of thissentence:

 Has any one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of prematrimonial acquaintanceship? [Footnote: Ibid, chapter II. ]

Many of her critics have asserted that this use of the language of science, and the adoption of the speculative ideas of the time, had largelyincreased upon George Eliot in her later books; but this is not true. Inher _Westminster Review_ essays both tendencies are strongly developed. Inone of them she says, "The very chyme and chyle of a rector are consciousof the gown and band. " Again, she says, --

 The woman of large capacity can seldom rise beyond the absorption of ideas; her physical conditions refuse to support the energy required for spontaneous activity; the voltaic pile is not strong enough to produce crystallization. 

It is not just to George Eliot, however, to refer to such mere casualblemishes, without insisting on the largeness of thought, the wealth ofknowledge, and the comprehensive understanding of human experience withwhich her books abound. She often turns aside to discuss the problemssuggested by the experiences of her characters, to point out how the effectof their own thoughts and deeds re-act upon them, and to inculcate thehighest ethical lessons. In one of her "asides" she seems to reject thismethod, in referring to Fielding. 

 A great historian, as he insisted on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is observed to walk under, glories in his copious remarks and digressions as the least imitable part of his work, and especially in those initial chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to bring his arm-chair to the proscenium, and chat with us in all the lusty ease of his fine English. But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. We belated historians must not linger after his example; and if we did so, it is probable that our chat would be thin and eager, as if delivered from a campstool in a parrot-house. I, at least, have so much to do in unravelling certain human lots, and seeing how they were woven and interwoven, that all the light I can command must be concentrated on this particular web, and not dispersed over that tempting range of relevancies called the universe. [Footnote: Middlemarch, chapter XV. ]

She does not ramble away from her subject, it is true; but she likes topause often to discuss the doings of her personages, and to pour forth sometender or noble thought. To many of her readers these bits of wisdom and ofsentiment are among the most valuable portions of her books, when taken intheir true environment in her pages. She has a purpose larger than that oftelling a story or of describing the loves of a few men and women. Sheseeks to penetrate into the motives of life, and to reveal the hiddensprings of action; to show how people affect each other; how ideas mouldthe destinies of the individual. To do all this in that large, artisticspirit she has followed, requires that there shall be something morethan narration and conversation. That she has now and then commentedunnecessarily, and in a too-learned manner, is a very small detraction fromthe interest of her books. 

In _Adam Bede_ she turns aside for a whole chapter to defend her method ofdepicting accurately, minutely, in the simplest detail, the feelings, motives, actions and surroundings of very commonplace and uninterestingpeople. Her reasons for this method in novel-writing apply to all herworks, and are worthy of the author of _Adam Bede_ and _Silas Marner_. 

 I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty streets and the common green fields--on the real breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your outspoken, brave justice. 

 So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one's best efforts, there is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a griffin--the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility, which we mistook for genius, is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that, even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings--much harder than to say something fine about them which is _not_ the exact truth. 

 It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened, perhaps, by a screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel and her stone jug, and all those cheap, common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her: or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with quart pots in their hands, but with expression of unmistakable contentment and good-will. "Foh!" says my idealistic friend, "what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life! what clumsy, ugly people!"

 But, bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those "lords of their kind, " the British, squat figures, ill-shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions, are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love among us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yet, to my certain knowledge, tender hearts have beaten for them, and their miniatures--flattering, but still not lovely--are kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron who could never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth; it does not wait for beauty--it flows with resistless force, and brings beauty with it. 

 All honor and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women and children--in our gardens and in our houses; but let us love that other beauty, too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward, and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the regions of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house--those rounded-backs and stupid, weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world--those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common, coarse people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things--men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them. 

 There are few prophets in the world--few sublimely beautiful women--few heroes. I can't afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities; I want a great deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common laborer, who gets his own bread, and eats it vulgarly, but creditably, with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers; more needful that my heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who is, perhaps, rather too corpulent, and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist. [Footnote: Adam Bede, chapter XVII. ]

In all her earlier novels George Eliot has shown the artistic possibilitiesof the humblest lives and situations. In the most ordinary lives, as in thecase of the persons described in _Silas Marner_, and in the leastpicturesque incidents of human existence, there is an interest for uswhich, when properly brought out, will be sure to absorb our attention. Shehas abundantly proved that dramatic situations, historic surroundings andheroic attitudes are not necessary for the highest purposes of thenovelist. Hers are heart tragedies and spiritual histories; for life hasits tragic, pathetic and humorous elements of the keenest interest underevery social condition. Her realism is relieved, as in actual life, bylove, helpfulness and pathos; by deep sorrow, sufferings patiently borne, and tender sympathy for others' woes. And if she sometimes sketches withtoo free a hand the coarse and repulsive features of life, this fault isrelieved by her tender sympathy with the sorrows and weaknesses of hercharacters. She asks her readers not to grudge Amos Barton his lovely wife, that "large, fair, gentle Madonna, " with an imposing mildness and theunspeakable charm of gentle womanhood. He was a man of very middlingqualities and a quite stupid sort of person, but he loved his wife and madethe most he could of such talents as he had. She pleads in his behalf bysaying, --

 I have all my life had a sympathy for mongrel ungainly dogs, who are nobody's pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by my lady's chair. 

Much the larger number of characters in these novels are of the sameunpromising quality. Most of them are ignorant, uncouth and simple-minded;yet George Eliot gives them a warm place in our hearts, and we rejoice tohave known them all. This ignorant rusticity is discovered to have charmsand attractions of its own. Especially does the reader learn that what ismost human and what is most lovely in personal character may be foundwithin these rough exteriors and amid these unpromising circumstances. 

Even so fine a character as Adam Bede, one of the best in all her books, was a workman of limited education and little knowledge of the outsideworld. The author does "not pretend that his was an ordinary characteramong workmen. " Yet such men as he are found among his class, and the noblequalities he possessed are not out of place among workingmen. Her warmsympathy with this class, the class in which she was born and reared, andher earnest desire to do it justice, is seen in what she says of Adam. 

 He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared here and there in every generation of our peasant artisans--with an inheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of common need and common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trained in skilful, courageous labor; they make their way upward, rarely as geniuses, most commonly as painstaking, honest men, with the skill and conscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have no discernible echo beyond the neighborhood where they dwelt, but you are almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building, some application of mineral produce, some improvement in farming practice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their names are associated by one or two generations after them. Their employers were richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the work of their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coal-dust or streaked with lime and red paint; in old age their white hairs are seen in a place of honor at church and at market, and they tell their well-dressed sons and daughters seated round the bright hearth on winter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their twopence a day. Others there are who die poor, and never put off the workman's coat on week-days; they have not had the art of getting rich; but they are men of trust, and when they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine; the master who employed them says, "Where shall I find their like?" [Footnote: Chapter XIX. ]

In _Amos Barton_ she states her reasons for portraying characters of solittle outward interest. Amos had none of the more manly and sturdyqualities of Adam Bede, and yet to George Eliot it was enough that he washuman, that trouble and heartache could come to him, and that he must carryhis share of the burdens and weaknesses of the world. 

 The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have undertaken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character; and perhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a man who was so very far from remarkable, --a man whose virtues were not heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had not the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably and unmistakably commonplace; who was not even in love, but had had that complaint many years ago. "An utterly uninteresting character!" I think I hear a lady reader exclaim, --Mrs. Farthingale, for example, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine tippets, adultery and murder; and comedy, the adventures of some personage who is quite a "character. "

 But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At least eighty out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Britons returned in the last census are neither extraordinarily silly, nor extraordinarily wicked, nor extraordinarily wise; their eyes are neither deep and liquid with sentiment, nor sparkling with suppressed witticisms; they have probably had no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures; their brains are certainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions have not manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a volcano. They are simply men of complexions more or less muddy, whose conversation is more or less bald and disjointed. Yet these commonplace people--many of them--bear a conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do the painful right; they have their unspoken sorrows, and their sacred joys; their hearts have perhaps gone out towards their first-born, and they have mourned over the irreclaimable dead. Nay, is there not a pathos in their very insignificance, --in our comparison of their dim and narrow existence with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which they share?

 Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to see some of the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, lying in the experience of a human soul that looks out through dull gray eyes, and that speaks in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I should have no fear of your not caring to know what further befell the Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I have to tell at all beneath your attention. 

In her hands the novel becomes the means of recording the history of thosewhom no history takes note of, and of bringing before the world its unnamedand unnoted heroes. Professor Dowden says her sympathy spreads with apowerful and even flow in every direction. In this effort she has beeneminently successful; and her loving sympathy with all that is human; herwarm-hearted faith in the weak and unfortunate; the graciousness of herlove for the common souls who are faithful and true in their way and intheir places, will excuse much greater literary faults than any into whichshe has fallen. The sincere and loving humanity of her books gives them agreat charm, and an influence wide-reaching and noble. 

No one of her imitators and successors has gained anything of like powerwhich is given to her novels by her intense sympathy with her characters. Others have described ignorant and coarse phases of life as something tolook at and study, but not to bring into the heart and love. George Eliotloves her characters, has an intense affection for them, pours out hermotherliness upon them. Not so Daudet or James or Howells, who studycrude life on the surface, and because it is the fashion. There is noheart-nearness in their work, little of passionate human desire to dojustice to phases of life hitherto neglected. She has in this regard thegenius of Scott and Hugo, who live in and with their characters, and somake them living and real. She identifies herself with the life shedescribes, and never looks at it from without, with curious and cold andcritical gaze, simply for the sake of making a novel. 

She is more at home among villagers than in the drawing-room. A profoundintuition has led her to the very heart of English life among the happierand worthier classes of working-people. There is no squalor in her books, no general misery, but always conscience, respectability and home-comforts. There is something of coarseness in some of her scenes, and a realism toobare and bald; but for the most part she has come far short of what mighthave been done in picturing the repulsive and sensual side of life. In allher books there is abundant evidence of her painstaking, and of her anxiousdesire to be truthful. She has studied life on the spot, and gives to itthe local coloring. In writing _Romola_, she searched into every corner ofFlorentine history, custom and thought. She is true to every touch of localincident and manner. In _Daniel Deronda_, she made herself familiar withJewish life, and has given the race aroma to her portraits and scenes. Sheis thoroughly a realist, but a realist with a wide and attractive sympathy, a profound insight into motives and impulses, and a strong imagination. Sheis too great a genius to believe that the novelist can describe life as thegeologist describes the strata of the earth. She feels with her characters;she has that form of insight or imagination which enables her to apprehenda mind totally unlike her own. This is what saves the history of Hetty fromcoarseness and repulsiveness. It is Hetty's own account of her life-woes. Its infinite pathos, and the tenderness and pity it awakens, destroys ourconcern for the other features of the narrative. 

Psychologic analysis seems out of place in a novel, but with George Eliotit is a chief purpose of her writing. She lays bare the soul, opens itsinmost secrets, and its anatomy is minutely studied. She devotes more spaceto the inner life and character of her personalities than to her narrativesand conversations. She traces some of her characters through a long processof development, and shows how they are affected by the experiences of life. Her more important characters grow up under her pen, develop under theinfluence of thought or sorrow. Novelists usually carry their charactersthrough their pages on the same level of mind and life; and George Eliotnot only does this with her uncultured characters, but she also shows thesoul in the process of unfolding or expanding. None of her leadingcharacters are at the end what they were in the beginning; with the mostsubtle power she traces the growth of Tito Melema's mind through itsperilous descent into selfish corruption, and with equal or even greaterskill she unfolds the history of Daniel Deronda's development under theimpulse to find for himself a life-mission. In this direction George Eliotis always great. Her skill is remarkable, albeit she has not sounded eitherthe highest or the lowest ranges of human capacity. The range within whichher studies are made is a wide one, however, and within it she has shownherself the master of human motives and a consummate artist in portrayingthe soul. She devotes the utmost care to describing some plain person whoappears in her pages for but a moment, and is as much concerned that heshall be truly presented as if he were of the utmost consequence. More thanone otherwise very ordinary character acquires under this treatment of hersthe warmest interest for the reader. And she describes such persons, because their influence is subtle or momentous as it affects the lives ofothers. Personages and incidents play a part in her books not for the sakeof the plot or to secure dramatic unity, but for the sake of manifestingthe soul, in order that the unfoldment of psychologic analysis may go on. The unity she aims at is that of showing the development of the soul underinfluence of some one or more decisive impulses or as affected by givensurroundings. The lesser characters, while given a nature quite their own, help in the process of unfolding the personality which gives centralpurpose to each of her novels. The influence of opposite natures on eachother, the moulding power of circumstances, and especially the bearings ofhereditary impulses, all play a prominent part in this process ofpsychologic analysis. 

Through page after page and chapter after chapter she traces the feelingsand thoughts of her characters. How each decisive event appears to them isexplained at length. Moreover, the most trivial trait of character, themost incidental impulse, is described in all its particularity. Throughmany pages Hetty's conduct in her own bedroom is laid before the reader, and in no other way could her nature have been so brought to our knowledge. Her shallow lightness of heart and her vanity could not be realized byordinary intercourse with one so pretty and so bright; but George Eliotdescribes Hetty's taking out the earrings given her by Arthur, and we seewhat she is. The author seeks to open before us the inner life of thatchildish soul, and we see into its nature and realize all its capacitiesfor good and evil. 

 Oh, the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the earrings! Do not reason about it, my philosophical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she had any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at earrings which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand women's natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary-bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the earrings nestled in the little box. Ah! you think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have cared to have earrings rather than anything else? and I know that she had longed for earrings from among all the ornaments she could imagine. 

This faculty of soul interpretation may be illustrated by innumerablepassages and from characters the most diverse in nature and capacity. As aninstance of her ability to interpret uncommon minds, those affected in somepeculiar manner, reference may be made to Baldassarre, in _Romola_. Thedescriptions of this man's sufferings, the giving way of his mind underthem, and the purpose of revenge which took complete possession of him, form a study in character unsurpassed. For subtle insight into the actionof a morbid mind, and for a majestic conception of human passion, thepassage wherein Baldassarre finds he can again read his Greek book is mostworthy of attention. 

Her ability to delineate a growing mind, and a mind at work under theinfluence of new and rare experiences, is shown in the case of DanielDeronda. His quiet love of ease as a boy is described as he sits one daywatching the falling rain, and meditates on the possibility which has beensuggested to him, that his is not to be the life of a gentleman. 

 He knew a great deal of what it was to be a gentleman by inheritance, and without thinking much about himself--for he was a boy of active perceptions, and easily forgot his own existence in that of Robert Bruce--he had never supposed that he could be shut out from such a lot, or have a very different part in the world from that of the uncle who petted him... But Daniel's tastes were altogether in keeping with his nurture: his disposition was one in which every-day scenes and habits beget not _ennui_ or rebellion but delight, affection, aptitudes; and now the lad had been stung to the quick by the idea that his uncle--perhaps his father--thought of a career for him which was totally unlike his own, and which he knew very well was not thought of among possible destinations for the sons of English gentlemen. 

The mind of this lad expands; ideal desires awake in him; there is ayearning for a life of noble knight-errantry in some heroic cause. Thereader is permitted to watch from step to step the growth of this longing, and to behold each new deed by which it is expressed. He craves for abroader life, but he is surrounded by such a social atmosphere as to makehis longing futile. As a young man who is seeking to know what there is inthe world for him to do, and who is eager for some task that is to end in alarger life for man, he is again described. 

 It happened that the very vividness of his impressions had often made him the more enigmatic to his friends, and had contributed to an apparent indefiniteness in his sentiments. His early wakened sensibility and reflectiveness, had developed into a many-sided sympathy, which threatened to hinder any persistent course of action: as soon as he took up any antagonism, though only in thought, he seemed to himself like the Sabine warriors in the memorable story--with nothing to meet his spear but flesh of his flesh, and objects that he loved. His imagination had so wrought itself to the habit of seeing things as they probably appeared to others, that a strong partisanship, unless it were against an immediate oppression, had become an insincerity for him. His plenteous, flexible sympathy had ended by falling into one current with that reflective analysis which tends to neutralize sympathy. Few men were able to keep themselves clearer of vices than he; yet he hated vices mildly, being used to think of them less in the abstract than as a part of mixed human natures having an individual history, which it was the bent of his mind to trace with understanding and pity. With the same innate balance he was fervidly democratic in his feeling for the multitude, and yet, through his affections and imagination, intensely conservative; voracious of speculations on government and religion, yet loath to part with long-sanctioned forms which, for him, were quick with memories and sentiments that no argument could lay dead... He was ceasing to care for knowledge--he had no ambition for practice--unless they could both be gathered up into one current with his emotions; and he dreaded, as if it were a dwelling-place of lost souls, that dead anatomy of culture which turns the universe into a mere ceaseless answer to queries, and knows, not everything, but everything else about everything--as if one should be ignorant of nothing concerning the scent of violets except the scent itself, for which one had no nostril. But how and whence was the needed event to come?--the influence that would justify partiality, and make him what he longed to be, yet was unable to make himself--an organic part of social life, instead of roaming in it like a yearning disembodied spirit, stirred with a vague, social passion, but without fixed local habitation to render fellowship real? To make a little difference for the better was what he was not contented to live without; but how make it? It is one thing to see your road, another to cut it. 

He rescues Mirah and sets out in search of her brother. He finds Mordecai, and gradually a way is opened to him along which his yearning is satisfied. Step by step the reader is permitted to trace the expansion of his mind. Awindow is opened into his soul, and we see its every movement as Daniel isled on to find the mission which was to be his. When that task is fullyaccepted he says to Mordecai, --

 Since I began to read and know, I have always longed for some ideal task, in which I might feel myself the heart and brain of a multitude--some social captainship, which would come to me as a duty, and not to be striven for as a personal prize. 

In her strong tendency to psychologic analysis George Eliot much resemblesRobert Browning. It is the life of passion and ideas which both alikedelight to describe. They greatly differ, however, in their methods ofdissecting the inner life. Browning lays bare the soul in some startlingexperience, George Eliot by the slow development of the mind through allthe stages of growth. He is impersonal, but she is always present to makecomments and to expound the causes of growth. Yet her characters are asclear-cut, as individual, as his. His analysis is the more rapid, subtleand complete in immediate expression; hers is the more penetrating, vigorous and interesting. His lightning flash sees the soul through andthrough in the present moment; her calmer and intenser gaze penetrates thelong succession of hidden causes by which the soul is shaped to its earthlydestiny. 

Any account of George Eliot which dwells only on her humor and sarcasm, herrealism and her powers of analysis, does her grave injustice. She has alsoin rare degree the power of artistic constructiveness, a strong andbrilliant imagination and genius of almost the highest range. She cancreate character as well as analyze it, and with that brilliant command ofresources which indicates a high order of genius. She had culture almostequal to Goethe's, and quite equal to Mrs. Browning's; and she had thatwide sympathy with life which was his, with an equal capacity for theirexpression in an artistic reconstruction of human experience. While Mr. R. H. Hutton is justified in saying that "few minds at once so speculative andso creative have ever put their mark on literature, " yet the critic needsto beware lest he give the speculative tendency in her mind a place tooprominent compared with that assigned to her creative genius. The poet andthe novelist are so seldom speculative, so seldom put into their creationsthe constant burden of great thoughts, that when one appears who does this, it is likely to be dwelt upon too largely by the critics. George Eliotspeculates about life and its experiences, and it is evident she had aphilosophy of life at her command; but it is quite as true that she soarson pinions free into the heavens of genius, and brings back the song whichno other has sung, and which is a true song. She has created characters, she has described the histories of souls, in a manner which will cause someof her books to endure for all time. If she has allied her genius tocurrent culture and speculation, it has in that way been given continuityof purpose and definiteness of aim. The genius is there and cannot behidden or obscured; and those who love what is great and noble will beprofoundly attracted by her books. If a great thinker, she is still moretruly a great literary artist; and such is the largeness and gracious powerof her genius that those who do not love her speculations will be drawn toher in spite of all objections. Her genius is generous, expansive, illuminative, profound. Her creativeness is an elemental power; new birthsare to be found in her books; life has grown under her moulding touch. 

VII. 

THEORY OF THE NOVEL. 

Before George Eliot began her career as a novelist she had already turnedher attention to what is good and bad in fiction-writing, and had givenexpression to her own theory of the novel. What she wrote on this subjectis excellent in itself, but it now has an additional interest in view ofher success as a novelist, and as throwing light on her conception of thepurposes to be followed in the writing of fiction. In what she wrote onthis subject two ideas stand out distinctly, that women are to find innovel-writing a literary field peculiarly adapted to their capacities, andthat the novel should be a true portraiture of life. 

She was a zealous advocate of woman's capacity to excel as a novelist, andshe saw in this form of literature a field especially adapted to hergreater powers of emotion and sympathy. Very generous and appreciative areher references to the lady novelists whom she defends, the excellence ofwhose work she maintains entitles them to the highest places as literaryartists. In the article on "Lady Novelists" she has drawn attention both tothose qualities in which woman may excel and to those in which she mayfail. In writing later of "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists" she criticisedunsparingly those women who write novels without comprehending life or anyof its problems, and who write in a merely artificial manner. The width ofher own culture, the vigor of her critical talent, the largeness of herconception of life and its interests, are well expressed in these essays. Only a large mind could have so truly conceived the real nature of woman'srelations to literature, and expressed them in a spirit so intelligent andcomprehensive. She would have the whole of life portrayed, and she believesonly a woman can truly speak for women. But her faith in woman seems not tohave been of the revolutionary character. She rather preferred that womenshould achieve a higher social condition by deeds than by words. A greatintellectual career like her own, which places a woman in the front rank ofliterary creators, does more to elevate the position of women than anyamount of agitation in favor of suffrage. That she sought for the highestintellectual achievement, and that she labored to attain the widest resultsof scholarship, is greatly to her credit; but more to her credit is it, that she made no claim upon the public as a woman, but only as a literaryartist. She asked that her work should be judged on its literary merits, asthe product of intellect, and not with reference to her sex. Whilebelieving that woman can do her work best by being true to the instincts, sympathies and capacities of her sex, yet she would have the same standardof literary judgment applied to women as to men. Its truthfulness, itsreality, its power to widen our sympathies and enlarge our culture, itsmeasure of genius and moral power, is the true test to be applied to anyliterary work. Such being her conception of the manner in which womenshould be judged when becoming literary creators, she had no excuses tooffer for those who make use of prejudices and a false culture in their ownbehalf. She says that

 The most mischievous form of feminine silliness is the literary form, because it tends to confirm the popular prejudice against the solid education of women. 

That she believed in the solid education of women is apparent in her ownefforts towards obtaining it for herself, and her conception of what is tobe done with it was large and generous. Mere learning she did not hold tobe an adornment in a woman. The culture must be transmuted into life-power, and be poured forth, not as oracular wisdom in silly novels, but assympathy and enlarged comprehension of the daily duties of life. Wheneducated women "mistake vagueness for depth, bombast for eloquence, andaffectation for originality, " she is not surprised that men regardrhodomontade as the native accent of woman's intellect, or that they cometo the conclusion that "the average nature of women is too shallow andfeeble a soil to bear much tillage. "

 It is true that the men who come to such a decision on such very superficial and imperfect observation may not be among the wisest in the world; but we have not now to contest their opinion--we are only pointing out how it is unconsciously encouraged by many women who have volunteered themselves as representatives of the feminine intellect. We do not believe that a man was ever strengthened in such an opinion by associating with a woman of true culture, whose mind had absorbed her knowledge instead of being absorbed by it. A really cultured woman, like a really cultured man, is all the simpler and the less obtrusive for her knowledge; it has made her see herself and her opinions in something like just proportions; she does not make it a pedestal from which she flatters herself that she commands a complete view of men and things, but makes it a point of observation from which to form a right estimate of herself.... She does not write books to confound philosophers, perhaps because she is able to write books that delight them, in conversation she is the least formidable of women, because she understands you, without wanting to make you aware that you _can't_ understand her. She does not give you information, which is the raw material of culture, --she gives you sympathy, which is its subtlest essence. 

After this estimate of the value of culture to women, it is interesting toturn to George Eliot's words concerning the legitimate work which women canperform in literature. What she says on this subject shows that she notonly had culture, but also the wisdom which is its highest result. She sawthat while a woman is to ask for no leniency towards her work because sheis a woman, yet that she is not to imitate men or to ignore her sex. She isto portray life as a woman sees it, with a woman's sympathies andexperiences. To interpret the feminine side of life is her legitimateprovince as a literary artist. 

 If we regard literature as the expression of the emotions, the whims, the caprices, the enthusiasms, the fluctuating idealisms which move each epoch, we shall not be far wrong; and inasmuch as women necessarily take part in these things, they ought to give them _their_ expression. And this leads us to the heart of the question, what does the literature of women mean? It means this: while it is impossible for men to express life otherwise than as they know it--and they can only know it profoundly according to their own experience--the advent of female literature promises woman's view of life, woman's experience; in other words, a new element. Make what distinctions you please in the social world, it still remains true that men and women have different organizations, consequently different experiences. To know life you must have both sides depicted. Let him paint what he knows. And if you limit woman's sphere to the domestic circle, you must still recognize the concurrent necessity of domestic life finding its homeliest and truest expression in the woman who lives it. 

 Keeping to the abstract heights we have chosen, too abstract and general to be affected by exceptions, we may further say that the masculine mind is characterized by the predominance of the intellect, and the feminine by the predominance of the emotions. According to this rough division, the regions of philosophy would be assigned to men, those of literature to women. We need scarcely warn the reader against too rigorous an interpretation of this statement, which is purposely exaggerated the better to serve as a signpost. It is quite true that no such absolute distinction will be found in authorship. There is no man whose mind is shrivelled up into pure intellect; there is no woman whose intellect is completely absorbed by her emotions. But in most men the intellect does not move in such inseparable alliance with the emotions as in most women, and hence, although often not so great as in women, yet the intellect is more commonly dominant. In poets, artists, and men of letters, _par excellence_, we observe this feminine trait, that their intellect habitually moves in alliance with their emotions; and one of the best descriptions of poetry was that given by Professor Wilson, as the "intellect colored by the feelings. "

 Woman, by her greater affectionateness, her greater range and depth of emotional experience, is well fitted to give expression to the emotional facts of life, and demands a place in literature corresponding to that she occupies in society; and that literature must be greatly benefited thereby, follows from the definition we have given of literature. 

 But hitherto, in spite of illustrations, the literature of woman has fallen short of its function, owing to a very natural and a very explicable weakness--it has been too much a literature of imitation. To write as men write, is the aim and besetting sin of women; to write as women, is the real office they have to perform. Our definition of literature includes this necessity. If writers are bound to express what they have really known, felt and suffered, that very obligation imperiously declares they shall not quit their own point of view for the point of view of others. To imitate is to abdicate. We are in no need of more male writers; we are in need of genuine female experience. The prejudices, notions, passions and conventionalisms of men are amply illustrated; let us have the same fulness with respect to women. Unhappily the literature of women may be compared with that of Rome: no amount of graceful talent can disguise the internal defect. Virgil, Ovid and Catullus were assuredly gifted with delicate and poetic sensibility; but their light is, after all, the light of moons reflected from the Grecian suns, and such as brings little life with its rays, To speak in Greek, to think in Greek, was the ambition of all cultivated Romans, who could not see that it would be a grander thing to utter their pure Roman natures in sincere originality. So of women. The throne of intellect has so long been occupied by men, that women naturally deem themselves bound to attend the court. Greece domineered over Rome; its intellectual supremacy was recognized, and the only way of rivalling it seemed to be imitation. Yet not so did Rome vanquish Pyrrhus and his elephants; not by employing elephants to match his, but by Roman valor. 

 Of all departments of literature, fiction is the one to which, by nature and by circumstance, women are best adapted. Exceptional women will of course be found competent to the highest success in other departments; but speaking generally, novels are their forte. The domestic experiences which form the bulk of woman's knowledge finds an appropriate form in novels; while the very nature of fiction calls for that predominance of sentiment which we have already attributed to the feminine mind. Love is the staple of fiction, for it "forms the story of a woman's life. " The joys and sorrows of affection, the incidents of domestic life, the aspirations and fluctuations of emotional life, assume typical forms in the novel. Hence we may be prepared to find women succeeding better in _finesse_ of detail, in pathos and sentiment, while men generally succeed better in the construction of plots and the delineation of character. Such a novel as _Tom Jones_ or _Vanity Fair_ we shall not get from a woman, nor such an effort of imaginative history as _Ivanhoe_ or _Old Mortality_; but Fielding, Thackeray and Scott are equally excluded from such perfection in its kind as _Pride and Prejudice_, _Indiana_ or _Jane Eyre_. As an artist Jane Austen surpasses all the male novelists that ever lived; and for eloquence and depth of feeling no man approaches George Sand. 

 We are here led to another curious point in our subject, viz. , the influence of sorrow upon female literature. It may be said without exaggeration that almost all literature has some remote connection with suffering. "Speculation, " said Novalis, "is disease. " It certainly springs from a vague disquiet. Poetry is analogous to the pearl which the oyster secretes in its malady. 

 "Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong, They learn in suffering what they teach in song. "

 What Shelley says of poets, applies with greater force to women. If they turn their thoughts to literature, it is--when not purely an imitative act--always to solace by some intellectual activity the sorrow that in silence wastes their lives, and by a withdrawal of the intellect from the contemplation of their pain, or by a transmutation of their secret anxieties into types, they escape from the pressure of that burden. If the accidents of her position make her solitary and inactive, or if her thwarted affections shut her somewhat from that sweet domestic and maternal sphere to which her whole being spontaneously moves, she turns to literature as to another sphere. We do not here simply refer to those notorious cases where literature was taken up with the avowed and conscious purpose of withdrawing thoughts from painful subjects; but to the unconscious, unavowed influence of domestic disquiet and unfulfilled expectations, in determining the sufferer to intellectual activity. The happy wife and busy mother are only forced into literature by some hereditary organic tendency, stronger even than the domestic; and hence it is that the cleverest women are not those who have written books. 

In the later essay on "Silly Novels" her powers of sarcasm were fullydisplayed. It showed keen critical powers, and a clear insight into thedefects inherent in most novel-writing. She spared no faults, had no mercyfor presumption, and condemned unsparingly the pretence of culture. She described four kinds of silly novels, classing them as being of the_mind-and-millinery_, the _oracular, the _white-neck-cloth_, and the_modern-antique_ varieties. All her powers of analysis and insight shownin her novels appeared in this article. 

Severe as her criticism is, it is always just. It aims at the presentationof a truer conception of the purpose of novel-writing, and women arejudged simply as literary workers. This criticism is based on the clearestapprehension of why it is that women fail as novel-writers; that it is notbecause they are women, but because they are false to nature and to thesimplest conditions of literary art. These women write poor novels becausethey aim at fine writing, and believe they must be learned andgrandiloquent. They ignore what they see about them every day, and which, if they were to describe it in simple language, would give them real power. It is this falsity in thought, method and purpose which is so severelycondemned. And it is the very justness of the criticism which makes itsevere, which gives to a true description of these novels the nature of astinging sarcasm. That these women are praised by the critics she justlyregards as a sure indication of their incapacity, or a sign of man'schivalry towards the other sex, which does not permit him to speak thetruth about what he knows to be so false and immature. She also sees thatwhat women need is to be told the truth, and to be compelled to accept thejust consequences of their work, The standing apology for women who become writers without any special qualification is, that society shuts them out from other spheres of occupation. Society is a very culpable entity, and has to answer for the manufacture of many unwholesome commodities, from bad pickles to bad poetry. But society, like "matter" and her Majesty's Government, and other lofty abstractions, has its share of excessive blame as well as excessive praise. Where there is one woman who writes from necessity, we believe there are three who write from vanity; and besides, there is something so antiseptic in the mere healthy fact of working for one's bread, that the most trashy and rotten kind of literature is not likely to have been produced under such circumstances. "In all labor there is profit;" but ladies' silly novels, we imagine, are less the result of labor than of busy idleness. 

 Happily we are not dependent on argument to prove that fiction is a department of literature in which women can, after their kind, fully equal men. A cluster of great names, both living and dead, rush to our memories in evidence that women can produce novels not only fine, but among the very finest;--novels, too, that have a precious specialty, lying quite apart from masculine aptitudes and experience. No educational restrictions can shut women out from the materials of fiction, and there is no species of art which is so free from rigid requirements. Like crystalline masses, it may take any form and yet be beautiful; we have only to pour in the right elements--genuine observation, humor and passion. But it is precisely this absence of rigid requirement which constitutes the fatal seduction of novel-writing to incompetent women. Ladies are not wont to be very grossly deceived as to their power of playing on the piano; here certain positive difficulties of execution have to be conquered, and incompetence inevitably breaks down. Every art which has its absolute _technique_ is, to a certain extent, guarded from the intrusions of mere left-handed imbecility. But in novel-writing there are no barriers for incapacity to stumble against, no external criteria to prevent a writer from mistaking foolish facility for mastery. And so we have again and again the old story of La Fontaine's ass, who puts his nose to the flute, and, finding that he elicits some sound, exclaims, "Moi, aussi, je joue de la flute;"--a fable which we commend, at parting, to the consideration of any feminine reader who is in danger of adding to the number of "silly novels by lady novelists. "

Her praise of the great novelists is as enthusiastic as her condemnation ofthe silly ones is severe. It is interesting to note that in the first ofthese papers she selects Jane Austen and George Sand as the chiefest amongwomen novelists, and that she praises them for the truthfulness of theirportraitures of life, nor is she any the less aware of the defects of thesemasters than of the deficiencies of silly women who write novels. She findsthat Jane Austen never penetrates into the deeper spiritual experiences oflife, and that George Sand lacks in that moral poise and purity which is sonecessary to the finest literary effort. Her sketches of these women are astruthful as they are interesting. 

 First and foremost let Jane Austen be named, the greatest artist that has ever written, using the term to signify the most perfect mastery over the means to her end. There are heights and depths in human nature Miss Austen has never scaled nor fathomed, there are worlds of passionate existence into which she has never set foot; but although this is obvious to every reader, it is equally obvious that she has risked no failures by attempting to delineate that which she has not seen. Her circle may be restricted, but it is complete. Her world is a perfect orb and vital. Life, as it appears to an English gentlewoman peacefully yet actively engaged in her quiet village, is mirrored in her works with a purity and fidelity that must endow them with interest for all time. To read one of her books is like an actual experience of life; you know the people as if you had lived with them, and you feel something of personal affection towards them. The marvellous reality and subtle distinctive traits noticeable in her portraits has led Macaulay to call her a prose Shakspere. If the whole force of the distinction which lies in that epithet _prose_ be fairly appreciated, no one, we think, will dispute the compliment; for out of Shakspere it would be difficult to find characters so typical yet so nicely demarcated within the limits of their kind. We do not find such profound psychological insight as may be found in George Sand (not to mention male writers), but taking the type to which the characters belong, we see the most intimate and accurate knowledge in all Miss Austen's creations. 

 Only cultivated minds fairly appreciate the exquisite art of Miss Austen. Those who demand the stimulus of effects, those who can only see by strong lights and shadows, will find her tame and uninteresting. We may illustrate this by one detail. Lucy Steele's bad English, so delicately and truthfully indicated, would in the hands of another have been more obvious, more "effective" in its exaggeration, but the loss of this comic effect is more than replaced to the cultivated reader by his relish of the nice discrimination visible in its truthfulness. And so of the rest. _Strong_ lights are unnecessary, _true_ lights being at command. The incidents, the characters, the dialogue--all are of every-day life, and so truthfully presented that to appreciate the art we must try to imitate it, or carefully compare it with that of others. 

 We are but echoing an universal note of praise in speaking thus highly of her works, and it is from no desire of simply swelling that chorus of praise that we name her here, but to call attention to the peculiar excellence, at once womanly and literary, which has earned this reputation. Of all imaginative writers she is the most _real_. Never does she transcend her own actual experience, never does her pen trace a line that does not touch the experience of others. Herein we recognize the first quality of literature. We recognize the second and more special quality of womanliness in the tone and point of view; they are novels written by a woman, an Englishwoman, a gentlewoman; no signature could disguise that fact; and because she has so faithfully (although unconsciously) kept to her own womanly point of view, her works are durable. There is nothing of the _doctrinaire_ in Jane Austen; not a trace of woman's "mission;" but as the most truthful, charming, humorous, pure-minded, quick-witted and unexaggerated of writers, female literature has reason to be proud of her. 

And this is her suggestive portrait of the other, drawn with that skillwhich is only displayed when one genius interprets another throughcommunity of feeling and purpose. 

 Of greater genius, and incomparably deeper experience, George Sand represents woman's literature more illustriously and more obviously. In her, quite apart from the magnificent gifts of nature, we see the influence of sorrow as a determining impulse to write, and the abiding consciousness of the womanly point of view as the subject matter of her writings. In vain has she chosen the mask of a man: the features of a woman are everywhere visible. Since Goethe no one has been able to say with so much truth, "My writings are my confessions. " Her biography lies there, presented, indeed, in a fragmentary shape and under wayward disguises, but nevertheless giving to the motley groups the strong and uumistakable charm of reality. Her grandmother, by whom she was brought up, disgusted at her not being a boy, resolved to remedy the misfortune as far as possible by educating her like a boy. We may say of this, as of all the other irregularities of her strange and exceptional life, that whatever unhappiness and error may be traceable thereto, its influence on her writings has been beneficial, by giving a greater range to her experience. It may be selfish to rejoice over the malady which secretes a pearl, but the possessor of the pearl may at least congratulate himself that at any rate the pearl has been produced; and so of the unhappiness of genius. Certainly few women have had such profound and varied experience as George Sand; none have turned it to more account. Her writings contain many passages that her warmest admirers would wish unwritten; but although severe criticism may detect the weak places, the severest criticism must conclude with the admission of her standing among the highest minds of literature. In the matter of eloquence, she surpasses everything France has yet produced. There has been no style at once so large, so harmonious, so expressive, and so unaffected: like a light shining through an alabaster vase, the ideas shine through her diction; while as regards rhythmic melody of phrase, it is a style such as Beethoven might have written had he uttered in words the melodious passion that was in him. But deeper than all eloquence, grander than all grandeur of phrase, is that forlorn splendor of a life of passionate experience painted in her works. There is no man so wise but he may learn from them, for they are the utterances of a soul in pain, a soul that has been tried. No man could have written her books, for no man could have had her experience, even with a genius equal to her own. The philosopher may smile sometimes at her philosophy, for _that_ is only the reflex of some man whose ideas she has adopted; the critic may smile sometimes--at her failure in delineating men; but both philosopher and critic must perceive that those writings of hers are _original_ and genuine, are transcripts of experience, and as such fulfil the primary condition of all literature. 

This clear, intellectual apprehension of what woman can effect inliterature, had much to do with George Eliot's own success. Yet it isdoubtful if she was so true, in some directions, to the instincts of hersex as was George Sand, Mrs. Browning or Charlotte Brontë. Hers was inlarge measure an intellect without sex; and though she was a woman in allthe instincts of her heart, yet intellectually she occupied the humanrather than the woman's point of view. With a marvellous insight into theheart of woman, and great skill in portraying womanly natures, she had aman's way, the logical and impersonal manner, of viewing, the greaterproblems of human existence. Charlotte Brontë more truly represents thewoman's way of viewing life; the trustful way of one educated in theconventional views of religion. She has given a corrector interpretation ofthe meaning of love to woman than George Eliot has been able to present, and simply because she thought and lived more nearly as other women thinkand live. Hers was the genius of spontaneous insight and emotion, thatvibrated to every experience and was moved by every sentiment. Life playedupon her heart like the wind upon an Aescolian harp, and she reflected itsevery movement of joy and sorrow. George Eliot studied life, probed intoit, cut it in pieces, constructed a theory of it, and then told us what itmeans. In this she was unlike other women who have made a deep impressionon literature. Mrs. Browning had nearly as much culture, was as thoughtfulas she, but more genuinely feminine at the heart-core. Love she painted ina purer and happier fashion than that adopted by George Eliot, and she hadthe warmer impulses of a woman's tenderness. Her account of life is thetruer, because it is the more ideal; and this may be said for CharlotteBrontë also. George Eliot had the larger intellect, the keener mind, was aprofounder thinker; but her realism held her back from that instinctiveconception of life which realizes its larger ideal meanings. It is notenough to see what is; man desires to know what ought to be. The poet isthe seer, the one who apprehends, who has that finer eye for facts by whichhe is able to behold what the facts give promise of. This ideal vision Mrs. Browning had, and in so far she was the superior of George Eliot. The samemay be said for George Sand, who, with all her wildness and impurity, was awoman through and through. She was all heart, all impulse, lived in herinstincts and emotions. She had the abandon, enthusiasm and spontaneitywhich George Eliot lacked. If the one represents the head, the otherexpresses the heart of woman. George Eliot, as a woman, thought, reasoned, philosophized; George Sand felt, gave every emotion reign, lived out allher impulses. What the one lacks the other had; where one was weak theother was strong. With somewhat of George Sand's idealism and emotionalzeal for wider and freer life, George Eliot would have been a greaterwriter. Could she have moulded Dorothea with what is best in Consuelo, shewould have been the rival of the greatest literary artists among men. Yet, with her limitations, it must be said that George Eliot is the superior ofall other women in her literary accomplishments. If others are hersuperiors in some directions, in the totality of her powers she surpassesall. Even as an interpreter of woman's nature and the feminine side oflife, she does not fail to keep well ahead of the best of feminine writers. She is more thoroughly the master of her powers, is more self-centred, looks out upon human experience more calmly and with a more penetratinggaze. Foremost of the half-dozen women who during the present century havesought to interpret the feminine side of life, she has done much for hersex. Daring more than others, she has given a greater promise than anyother of what woman is to accomplish when her nature blossoms out into allits possibilities. 

The chief rule for novel-writing laid down by George Eliot in these essaysis, that the novel shall be the result of experience and true to nature. She emphasizes the importance of this condition, and says that the novelistis bound to use actual experience as his material, and that alone, or elsekeep silent. Weak and silly novels are the result of an effort to breakaway from this rule; but the writer who ventures to disregard it never canbe other than silly or weak. Novelists, she says, may either portrayexperience outwardly through observation, or inwardly through sentiment, orthrough a combination of both. 

 Observation without sentiment usually leads to humor or satire; sentiment without observation to rhetoric and long-drawn lachrymosity. The extreme fault of the one is flippant superficiality, that of the other is what is called sickly sentimentality. 

All true literature, she says, is based on fact, describes life as it islived by men and women, touches and is fragrant with reality. This cardinalprinciple of literary art she has defined and illustrated in her own strongand expressive manner in this _Review_ article. 

 All poetry, all fiction, all comedy, all _belles-lettres_, even to the playful caprices of fancy, are but the expression of experiences and emotions; and these expressions are the avenues through which we reach the sacred _adytum_ of humanity, and learn better to understand our fellows and ourselves. In proportion as these expressions are the forms of universal truths, of facts common to all nations or appreciable by all intellects, the literature which sets them forth is permanently good and true. Hence the universality and immortality of Homer, Shakspere, Cervantes, Moliere. But in proportion as these expressions are the forms of individual, peculiar truths, such as fleeting fashions or idiosyncrasies, the literature is ephemeral. Hence tragedy never grows old, for it arises from elemental experience; but comedy soon ages, for it arises from peculiarities. Nevertheless, even idiosyncrasies are valuable as side glances; they are aberrations that bring the natural orbit into more prominent distinctness. 

 It follows from what has been said, that literature, being essentially the expression of experience and emotion--of what we have seen, felt and thought--that only _that_ literature is effective, and to be prized accordingly, which has _reality for its basis_ (needless to say that emotion is as real as the three-per-cents), _and effective in proportion to the depth and breadth of that basis_. 

In writing? of the authors of _Jane Eyre_ and _Mary Barton_, she shows howimportant to her mind it is that the novel should have its basis in actualexperience, and that it should be an expression of reality. 

 They have both given imaginative expression to actual experience--they have not invented, but reproduced; they have preferred the truth, such as their own experience testified, to the vague, false, conventional notions current in circulating libraries. Whatever of weakness may be pointed out in their works will, we are positive, be mostly in those parts where experience is deserted, and the supposed requirements of fiction have been listened to; whatever has really affected the public mind is, we are equally, certain, the transcript of some actual incident, character or emotion. Note, moreover, that beyond this basis of actuality these writers have the further advantage of deep feeling united to keen observation. 

Especially severe is her condemnation of the tendency to introduce onlyfashionable or learned people into novels. She says the silly novelistsrarely make us acquainted with "any other than very lofty and fashionablesociety, " and very often the authors know nothing of such society exceptfrom the reading of other such novels. 

 It is true that we are constantly struck with the want of verisimilitude in their representations of the high society in which they seem to live; but then they betray no closer acquaintance with any other form of life. If their peers and peeresses are improbable, their literary men, tradespeople and cottagers are impossible; and their intellect seems to have the peculiar impartiality of reproducing both what they _have_ seen and heard, and what they have _not_ seen and heard, with equal faithfulness. 

What is simple, natural, unaffected, she pleads for as the true material offiction. How she would apply this idea may be seen in her condemnation of anovelist who devoted her pages to a defence of Evangelicalism. This writeris "tame and feeble" because she attempts to depict a form of society withwhich she is not familiar. That the common phases of religious life arecapable of affording the richest material for the novelist, George Eliothas abundantly shown, and what she says of their value in this discussionof "Silly Novelists" is of great interest in view of her own success inthis kind of portraiture. What she suggested as a fine field for thenovelist was to be the one she herself was so well to occupy. Her successproved how clearly she comprehended the nature of novel-writing, and howwell she understood the character of the material with which the bestresults can be attained. 

 It is less excusable in an Evangelical novelist than any other, gratuitously to seek her subjects among titles and carriages. The real drama of Evangelicalism--and it has abundance of fine drama for any one who has genius enough to discern and reproduce it--lies among the middle and lower classes; and are not Evangelical opinions understood to give an especial interest in the weak things of the earth, rather than in the mighty? Why, then, cannot our Evangelical novelists show us the operation of their religious views among people (there really are many such in the world) who keep no carriage, "not so much as a brass-bound gig, " who even manage to eat their dinner without a silver fork, and in whose mouths the authoress's questionable English would be strictly consistent? Why can we not have pictures of religious life among the industrial classes in England as interesting as Mrs. Stowe's pictures of religious life among the negroes?

Was this question a prophecy? It indicates that the writer's attentionhad already been directed to the richness of this material for the purposesof the novelist. After reading these words we see why she took up thecommon life of the English village as she had herself been familiar withit from childhood. In order to be true to her own conception of the novel, there was no other field she could occupy. That she understood thepicturesqueness of this form of life no reader of her novels will doubt, or that she saw and understood its capacities for artistic delineation. The opening paragraphs of her _Westminster Review_ article on the "NaturalHistory of German Life" afford further evidence of her insight andwisdom on this subject. They also afford evidence of her hatred of theconventional and the artificial in art, literature and life. The spirit ofimitation and mannerism common to the eighteenth century was in every wayrepugnant to her. She could have had only contempt for the literary art ofa Pope or a Boileau. The nature of her realism, and the conception she hadof its importance, may be understood from these paragraphs, for in them shehas unfolded her theory more clearly than in anything else she has written, and with that genius for sympathetic description which is so marked in hernovels. 

 How little the real characteristics of the working-classes are known to those who are outside them, how little their natural history has been studied, is sufficiently disclosed by our art as well as by our political and social theories. Where, in our picture exhibitions, shall we find a group of true peasantry? What English artist even attempts to rival in truthfulness such studies of popular life as the pictures of Teniers or the ragged boys of Murillo? Even one of the greatest painters of the pre-eminently realistic school, while in his picture of "The Hireling Shepherd" he gave us a landscape of marvellous truthfulness, placed a pair of peasants in the foreground who were not much more real than the idyllic swains and damsels of our chimney ornaments. Only a total absence of acquaintance and sympathy with our peasantry could give a moment's popularity to such a picture as "Cross Purposes, " where we have a peasant girl who looks as if she knew L. E. L. 's poems by heart, and English rustics whose costumes seem to indicate that they are meant for ploughmen with exotic features that remind us of a handsome _primo tenore_. Rather than such cockney sentimentality as this as an education for the taste and sympathies, we prefer the most crapulous group of boors that Teniers ever painted. But even those among our painters who aim at giving the rustic type of features, who are far above the effeminate feebleness of the "Keepsake" style, treat their subjects under the influence of traditions and prepossessions rather than of direct observation. The notion that peasants are joyous, that the typical moment to represent a man in a smock-frock is when he is cracking a joke and showing a row of sound teeth, that cottage matrons are usually buxom, and village children necessarily rosy and merry, are prejudices difficult to dislodge from the artistic mind, which looks for its subjects into literature instead of life. The painter is still under the influence of idyllic literature, which has always expressed the imagination of the cultivated and town-bred, rather than the truth of rustic life. Idyllic ploughmen are jocund when they drive their team afield; idyllic shepherds make bashful love under hawthorn bushes; idyllic villagers dance in the chequered shade, and refresh themselves, not immoderately, with spicy nut-brown ale. But no one who has seen much of actual ploughmen thinks them jocund; no one who is well acquainted with the English peasantry can pronounce them merry. The slow gaze, in which no sense of beauty beams, no humor twinkles, -the slow utterance and the heavy slouching walk, remind one rather of that melancholy animal, the camel, than of the sturdy countryman with striped stockings, red waist coat and hat aside, who represents the traditional English peasant. Observe a company of haymakers, when you see them at a distance, tossing up the forkfuls of hay in the golden light, while the wagon creeps--slowly with its increasing burthen over the meadow, and the bright green space which tells of work done gets larger and larger, you pronounce the scene "smiling, " and you think that these companions in labor must be as bright and cheerful as the picture to which they give animation. Approach nearer, and you will certainly find that haymaking time is a time of joking, especially it there are women among the laborers; but the coarse laugh that bursts out every now and then, and expresses the triumphant taunt, is as far as possible from your idyllic conception of idyllic merriment. That delicious effervescence of the mind which we call fun has no equivalent for the northern peasant, except tipsy revelry; the only realm of fancy and imagination for the English clown exists at the bottom of the third quart-pot. 

 The conventional countryman of the stage, who picks up pocket books and never looks into them, and who is too simple even to know that honesty has its opposite, represents the still lingering mistake that an unintelligible dialect is a guarantee for ingenuousness, and that slouching shoulders indicate an upright disposition. It is quite true that a thresher is likely to be innocent of any adroit arithmetical cheating, but he is not the less likely to carry home his master's corn in his shoes and pocket; a reaper is not given to writing begging letters, but he is quite capable of cajoling the dairy-maid into filling his small-beer bottle with ale. The selfish instincts are not subdued by the sight of buttercups, nor is integrity in the least established by that classic rural occupation, sheep-washing. To make men moral, something more is requisite than to turn them out to grass. 

 Opera peasants, whose unreality excites Mr. Ruskin's indignation, are surely too frank an idealization to be misleading; and since popular chorus is one of the most effective elements of the opera, we can hardly object to lyric rustics in elegant laced bodices and picturesque motley, unless we are prepared to advocate a chorus of colliers in their pit costume, or a ballet of charwomen and stocking-weavers. But our social novels profess to represent the people as they are, and the unreality of their representations is a grave evil. The greatest benefit we owe to the artist, whether painter, poet or novelist, is the extension of our sympathies. Appeals founded on generalizations and statistics require a sympathy ready-made, a moral sentiment already in activity; but a picture of human life such as a great artist can give, surprises even the trivial and the selfish into that attention to what is apart from themselves, which may be called the raw material of moral sentiment. When Scott takes us into Luckie Mucklebackit's cottage, or tells the story of The Two Drovers, --when Wordsworth sings to us the reverie of Poor Susan, --when Kingsley shows us Alton Locke gazing yearningly over the gate which leads from the highway into the first wood he ever saw, --when Harnung paints a group of chimney-sweepers, --more is done towards linking the higher classes with the lower, towards obliterating the vulgarity of exclusiveness, than by hundreds of sermons and philosophical dissertations. Art is the nearest thing to life; it is a mode of amplifying experience and extending our contact with our fellow-men beyond the bounds of our personal lot. All the more sacred is the task of the artist when he undertakes to paint the life of the people. Falsification here is far more pernicious than in the more artificial aspects of life. It is not so very serious that we should have false ideas about evanescent fashions--about the manners and conversation of beaux and duchesses; but it _is_ serious that our sympathy with the perennial joys and struggles, the toil, the tragedy and the humor in the life of our more heavily laden fellow-men, --should be perverted, and turned towards a false object instead of the true one. 

 This perversion is not the less fatal because the misrepresentation which gives rise to it has what the artist considers a moral end. The thing for mankind to know is, not what are the motives and influences which the moralist thinks _ought_ to act on the laborer or the artisan, but what are the motives and influences which do act on him. We want to be taught to feel, not for the heroic artisan or the sentimental peasant, but for the peasant in all his coarse apathy, and the artisan in all his suspicious selfishness. 

 We have one great novelist who is gifted with the utmost power of rendering the external traits of our town population; and if he could give us their psychological character--their conceptions of life, and their emotions--with the same truth as their idiom and manners, his books would be the greatest contribution art has ever made to the awakening of social sympathies. But while he can copy Mrs. Plornish's colloquial style with the delicate accuracy of a sun-picture, while there is the same startling inspiration in his description of the gestures and phrases of "Boots, " as in the speeches of Shakspere's mobs or numskulls, he scarcely ever passes from the humorous and external to the emotional and tragic, without becoming as transcendent in his unreality as he was a moment before in his artistic truthfulness. But for the precious salt of his humor, which compels him to reproduce external traits that serve, in some degree, as a corrective to his frequently false psychology, his preternaturally virtuous poor children and artisans, his melodramatic bootmen and courtesans, would be as noxious as Eugene Sue's idealized proletaires in encouraging the miserable fallacy that high morality and refined sentiment can grow out of harsh social relations, ignorance and want; or that the working-classes are in a condition to enter at once into a millennial state of _altruism_, wherein every one is caring for every one else, and no one for himself. 

 If we need a true conception of the popular character to guide our sympathies rightly, we need it equally to check our theories, and direct us in their application. The tendency created by the splendid conquests of modern generalization, to believe that all social questions are merged in economical science, and that the relations of men to their neighbors may be settled by algebraic equations, --the dream that the uncultured classes are prepared for a condition which appeals principally to their moral sensibilities, --the aristocratic dilettantism which attempts to restore the "good old times" by a sort of idyllic masquerading, and to grow feudal fidelity and veneration as we grow prize turnips, by an artificial system of culture, --none of these diverging mistakes can co-exist with a real knowledge of the people, with a thorough study of their habits, their ideas, their motives. The landholder, the clergyman, the mill-owner, the mining agent, have each an opportunity for making precious observations on different sections of the working-class, but unfortunately their experience is too often not registered at all, or its results are too scattered to be available as a source of information and stimulus to the public mind generally. If any man of sufficient moral and intellectual breadth, whose observations would not be vitiated by a foregone conclusion, or by a professional point of view, would devote himself to studying the natural history of our social classes, especially of the small shop-keepers, artisans and peasantry, --the degree in which they are influenced by local conditions, their maxims and habits, the points of view from which they regard their religious teachers, and the degree in which they are influenced by religious doctrines, the interaction of the various classes on each other, and what are the tendencies in their position towards disintegration or towards development, --and if, after all this study, he would give us the result of his observations in a book well nourished with specific facts, his work would be a valuable aid to the social and political reformer. 

The estimates given in these essays of the writings of Jane Austen, GeorgeSand, Charlotte Brontë and Thackeray, show the soundness of George Eliot'scritical judgment. She fully appreciated Jane Austen's artistic skill, asshe did George Sand's impassioned love of liberty and naturalness. She alsosaw how tame are Miss Austen's scenes, how humanly imperfect areThackeray's characters. Her own work is wanting in Jane Austen's artisticskill and finish, but there is far more of originality and character in herbooks, more of thought and purpose. Miss Austen tells her story wonderfullywell, but her books are all on the same level of social mediocrity andflatness. No fresh, strong, natural, aspiring life is to be found in one ofthem. George Eliot has not Jane Austen's artistic skill, but she hasthought, depth of purpose, originality of expression and conception, and amarvellous creative insight into character. She is less passionate and boldthan George Sand, not the same daring innovator, more rational andsensible. She is not so much a poet, has little of George Sand's power ofimprovisation, much less of eloquence and abandon. She has more literaryskill than Charlotte Brontë, less originality, but none of her crudeness. She has not so much of the subtle element of genius, but more of solidityand thought. 

Her theories concerning the novel place George Eliot fully in sympathy withwhat may very properly be called the British school of fiction. The naturalhistory of man is the subject matter used by this school; and to describeaccurately, minutely, some portion of the human race, some socialcommunity, is its main object. Richardson, Fielding, Miss Austen andThackeray are the masters in this school, who have given direction to itsaims and methods. They have sought to accomplish in novel-writing somewhatthe same results as those aimed at by Wordsworth and Browning in poetry, tofollow the natural, to make much of the common, to describe things as theyare. They are realists both in method and philosophy, though differingwidely from the minuteness and coarseness of Tourguénief and Zola, in thatthey show a large element of the ideal interfused with the real. Thisschool is seldom coarse, vulgar or sensuous, does not mistake the depravedand beastly for the natural. Its members delight in simple scenes, plainlife, common joys; the scenes, life and joys which are open to everyEnglishman. They have made use of the facts lying immediately about them, those with which they were the most familiar. They have broken away fromthe traditional theories of life, the manners of books of etiquette and therules of fashionable society, for the life which is natural and instinctwith impulses of its own. The life of the professions is described, localdialects and provincialisms appear, places and scenery are carefullypainted, and the disagreeable and painful become elements in these novels, because common to humanity. 

To this special theory of the novel, as it had been worked out by theEnglish masters of prose-poetry, George Eliot added nothing essential. Thackeray, Mrs. Gaskell, Miss Austen, Miss Mitford, Fielding and Richardsonhad preceded her along the way she was to follow. Their methods becamehers, she accepted their influence, and her work was done in the spiritthey had so ably illustrated. In one direction, however, she far surpassedany one of her masters, and gave to the novel a richness of power andfulness of aim it had not attained to with any of her predecessors. GeorgeEliot combined other methods with that of naturalism, not adhering rigidlyto the purpose of painting life as it appears on the surface. Not only fromthe pre-Raphaelites, but from such romanticists as Scott, did she learnmuch. Past scenes became natural, and history was discovered to be a vastelement in the thought of the present. Scott's power of reviving the pastin all its romantic and picturesque features, which gave him such capacityfor re-creating the life that had once passed away, was not possessed byGeorge Eliot. Still, if not a romancist, she realized how mighty is theshaping power of the past over the present. For this reason, she endeavoredto recast old scenes, to revive in living shapes the times that had goneby. The living movements of the present, its efforts at reform, its criesfor liberty, its searchings after a freer and purer life, also became aprominent element in her novels. If in this tendency she somewhat enlargedupon the methods of her masters, yet she was quite in sympathy with manywho came just before her, and with many more who were her contemporaries. In another direction she kept along the way followed by many of herco-workers, and brought philosophy and socialistic speculation to the aidof the naturalistic method. Indeed, she so far departed from that method, and from the soundest theories of art, as to become to some extent a_doctrinaire_. 

Her novels, like much of the poetry of the same period, are eclectic inspirit, combining with the naturalistic methods those of the historic, socialistic, culture and speculative schools. Art and culture for their ownsake combined in her novels with the purpose to use history and social lifeobedient to a distinct conception of their meanings. To describe lifeaccurately there must be a clear conception of what life means. Geniusnever works aimlessly; and in seeing life as it is, always sees that it hasa tendency and direction. A mind so thoughtful as George Eliot's, with sostrong a love of speculative interest in it, was likely to give tonovel-writing done by her a large philosophic element. Yet her philosophyis nearly always subject to her imagination and to her naturalism. Her loveof nature, her intimate interest in life and its elemental problems, herpassionate sympathy with all human passions and experiences, saves her frombecoming a mere _doctrinaire_, and gives to her speculations a pathetic, living interest. The poetic elements of her novels are so many as tosubordinate the philosophic to the true purposes of art. 

In one direction George Eliot departed from the methods of herpredecessors, and to so great an extent as to be herself the originator ofa new school of fiction. She followed the bent of her time for analysis andpsychologic interpretation. It is here more than anywhere else she differsfrom Charlotte Brontë and George Sand. These two great novelists createcharacter by direct representation, by making their persons live and act. George Eliot shows her characters to the reader by analyzing their motivesand by giving the history of their development. The disadvantages of theanalytic method are apparent when George Eliot is compared with Scott. Unique, personal and human are his creations, instinct with all humanemotions, and profoundly real. It is only the poetic side of life which hesees, not its philosophic. George Eliot wanted to know the meanings ofthings, and this very desire brings a largeness into her books which is notfound in Scott's. She was much the more thoughtful of the two, the one whotried to realize to the intellect what life means. Yet her method of doingthis is not always the best one for the poet or the novelist. Scott was norealist, and yet George Eliot has not been more accurate than he. Indeed, he is far more truly accurate in so far as he paints the soul as well asthe body of life. The sad endings of her novels grew out of a false theory, and from her inability to see anything of spiritual reality beyond thelittle round of man's earthly destiny. She did not accept the doctrine thatart is to be cultivated only for art's sake, for art was always to her thevehicle of moral or philosophic teaching. The limitations of her artlargely lay in the direction of her agnosticism. Scott and George Sand gainfor their work a great power and effect by their acceptance of thespiritual as real. There is a light, a subtle aroma, a width of vision, asense of reality, in their work from this source, which is wanting inGeorge Eliot's. The illimitable mystery beyond the region of the real isthe greatest fact man has presented to him, and that region is a reality inall the effects it works on humanity. No poet can ignore it or try to limitit to humanity without a loss to his work. It is this subtle, penetrative, aromatic and mystic power of the ideal which is most to be felt as lackingin the works of George Eliot. Much as we may praise her, we can but feelthis limitation. Great as is our admiration, we can but feel that there isa higher range of poetic and artistic creation than any she reached. 

The quotations presented from her early writings prove that George Eliotbegan her career as a novelist with a fully elaborated conception of thepurposes of the novel and of the methods to be followed in its production. She had thoroughly studied the subject, had read many of the best works ofthe best writers, and had formed a carefully digested theory of the novel. That she could do this is rather an indication of critical than of creativepower. Her novels everywhere betray the greatness of her reasoning powers, that she was a thinker, that she had strong powers of intellectualanalysis, and that she had a logical, accurate mind. Had her mind taken noother direction than this, however, she never could have become a greatnovelist. These essays indicated something beside powers of reasoning andpsychological analysis. They also indicated her capacity for imaginativeinsight into the motives and impulses of human nature, and an intuitivecomprehension of what is most natural to human thought and action. Theyshowed appreciation of sympathy and feeling, and delicate perception of thefiner cravings and tendencies of even the commonest souls. They gavepromise of so much creative power, her friends saw that in novel-writingshe was to find the true expression of her large qualities of mind andheart. The person who could so skilfully point out the faults in the poornovels rapidly issuing from the press, and realize the true indications ofa master's power in the creations of the literary artists, might herselfpossess the genius necessary to original work of her own. Her early essaysare now chiefly of value for this promise they give of larger powers thanthose which could be fully expressed in such work. They prophesied thefuture, and made her friends zealous to overcome her own reluctance toenter upon a larger work. She doubted her own genius, but it was notdestined to remain unfruitful. 

VIII. 

POETIC METHODS. 

Had George Eliot written nothing else than the poems which bear her name, she would have been assigned a permanent place among the poets. Havingfirst attained her rank in the highest order of novelists, however, herpoetry suffers in comparison with her prose. The critics tell us that noperson gifted with supreme excellence in one form of creative expressionhas ever been able to attain high rank in another. They forget that Goethewas great both in prose and poetry; that his _Wilhelm Meister_ is ofscarcely inferior genius to his _Faust_. They also forget that Victor Hugoholds the first place among the French poets of the present century, at thesame time that he is the greatest of all French novelists. It would be wellfor them also to remember that Scott held high rank as a poet before hebegan his wonderful career as a novelist. A contemporary of George Eliot's, to name a single instance of another kind, was equally excellent as poetand painter. Dante Rossetti made for himself a lasting place in bothdirections, and in both he did work of a high order. 

In reality, the novel much resembles the narrative or epic poem; and if awork of true genius, it is difficult to distinguish it from the poem exceptas they differ in external form. The novel has for its main elements thosequalities of imagination, description, high-wrought purpose, which are alsoconstituents of much of the best poetry. The novel is more expansive thanthe poem, one of the chief characteristics of which is condensation; itstheme may take a wider range, and it may embrace those cruder and morecommon features of life which are inappropriate to the poem. The novelistcan make a greater use of humor, he can give more detail to description, and portrayal of character can be carried to a much greater extent, than isusual with the poet. The poet requires a subject more sublime, inspiringand naturally beautiful than the novelist, who seeks what is the morehuman, nearer the level of daily social existence, and full of theaffecting even if ruder interests and passions of life. The novel is sosimilar to the poem, and in so many ways requires such similar qualities ofmind for its production, that there is no inherent reason why the sameperson cannot do equally good work in both. The supposition is that thepoet may become a novelist, or the novelist a poet, in all cases exceptwhere there is some outward disqualification. The novelist may not have thesense of rhythmical form and of metrical expression; and the poet may notpossess that constructive faculty which builds up plots, incidents andcharacters. In nearly all respects but these the two forms of creativegenius so nearly assimilate each other, it is to be expected a novelist mayturn poet if he have a large imagination and a stimulating capacity formetrical expression. 

Novelists of strong imagination and a ready command of expressive words, barely escape writing poetry when they only purpose to write prose. This istrue of Hugo, Auerbach, Dickens and George Eliot, again and again. The glowof creation, the high-wrought impulse of imagination, the ideal conceptionof life, all move the novelist in the direction of poetry. With much efforthe keeps meter and rhyme out of his prose, but simile and metaphor, condensed expression, unusual words, poetic compounds, alliteration, sublime and picturesque expression, will intrude themselves. Dickens evenpermits meter and rhyme to conquer him, and weakens his style inconsequence. He grows sentimental, and the real strength of pure prose islost. George Eliot is often poetical in expression, touches the veryborders of poetry continually, but she seldom permits herself to lapse fromthe strong, energetic and impressive prose which she almost uniformlywrites. Specimens of this noble poetic-prose may be found very often in herpages. While it would be difficult by any transposition of words to turn itinto poetry, as may often be done in the case of Dickens's prose, yet itcontains most of the elements of a high order of poetry. In the account ofthe death of Maggie and Tom is to be found a fine specimen of her style, the last words being good iambics. 

 The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in an embrace never to be parted; living through again, in one supreme moment, the days when they _had clasped their little hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together_. 

In the first paragraph of the thirty-third chapter of _Adam Bede_ is asentence which makes a successful stanza in iambics by the addition of asingle word. 

 The woods behind the chase, And all the hedgerow trees, Took on a solemn splendor _then_ Under the dark low-hanging skies. 

It is very seldom, however, that George Eliot permits anything like meterin her prose, and she is usually very reticent of rhythm. There is fervorand enthusiasm, imagination and poetic insight, but all kept within thelimits of robust and manly prose. This capacity of prose to serve most ofthe purposes of poetry may be seen in a marked degree in all of GeorgeEliot's novels. In the account of Adam Bede's love for Hetty this subtlepower of words and ideas to give the charm and impression of poetry withoutrhythm or rhyme is exhibited in a characteristic manner. 

 I think the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the very strength of his nature, and not out of any inconsistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite music? to feel its wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and binding together your whole being, past and present, in one unspeakable vibration; melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that has been scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learned lessons of self-renouncing sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow, and your present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman's cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman is like music; what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them; it is more than a woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyes--it seems to be a far-off, mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their prettiness--by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and peace. [Footnote: Adam Bede, chapter XXXIII. ]

Love, music and beautiful landscapes continually inspire the poetic side ofher nature; and these themes, which are constantly recurring in herchapters, draw forth her imagination and give fervor and enthusiasm to herexpression. Her love of nature is deep and most appreciative of all itstransformations and beauties. This sensitiveness to the changes of theoutward world is a large element in her mind, and indicates the reality ofher poetic gifts. This may be seen in a passage such as the following:--

 The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning, lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty, and to spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from childhood; the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and valleys, with wondrous modulations of light and shadow, such as we travel far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These are the things that made the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred souls--the things they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart, standing between their father's knees while he drove leisurely. [Footnote: Middlemarch, chapter XII. ]

It is nature as affecting man, and man as transformed into a creature offeeling and passion by the mysterious conditions of his existence, whichoftenest arouses the poetic fervor in her. The enthusiasm of high resolves, yearnings after the pure and beautiful, and love's regenerating power, giveto her themes which kindle poetic expression to a glow. The vision ofMordecai on Blackfriars' bridge affords a fine example of her love of theideal in moral purpose, and shows how stimulating it is to her imagination. It is a poetic picture of the finest quality she has given in this chapter, one that could easily have been made to find expression in verse of greatbeauty; but it is poetry in thought and spirit alone, not in form orstructure. It is true prose in form, strong in its fulness of detail, knittogether with words of the right texture, built up into a true prose imageof beauty in thought. 

 Mordecai's mind wrought so constantly in images that his coherent trains of thought often resembled the significant dreams attributed to sleepers by waking persons in their most inventive moments; nay, they often resembled genuine dreams in their way of breaking off the passage from the known to the unknown. Thus, for a long while, he habitually thought of the Being answering to his need as one distinctly approaching or turning his back toward him, darkly painted against a golden sky. The reason of the golden sky lay in one of Mordecai's habits. He was keenly alive to some poetic aspects of London; and a favorite resort of his, when strength and leisure allowed, was to some one of the bridges, especially about sunrise or sunset. Even when he was bending over watch-wheels and trinkets, or seated in a small upper room looking out on dingy bricks and dingy cracked windows, his imagination spontaneously planted him on some spot where he had a far-stretching scene; his thought went on in wide spaces, and whenever he could, he tried to have in reality the influences of a large sky. Leaning on the parapet of Blackfriars' bridge, and gazing meditatively, the breadth and calm of the river, with its long vista half hazy, half luminous, the grand dim masses or tall forms of buildings which were the signs of world-commerce, the on-coming of boats and barges from the still distance into sound and color, entered into his mood and blent themselves indistinguishably with his thinking, as a fine symphony to which we can hardly be said to listen, makes a medium that bears up our spiritual wings. Thus it happened that the figure representative of Mordecai's longing was mentally seen darkened by the excess of light in the aerial background. But in the inevitable progress of his imagination toward fuller detail he ceased to see the figure with its back toward him. It began to advance, and a face became discernible; the words youth, beauty, refinement, Jewish birth, noble gravity, turned into hardly individual but typical form and color: gathered from his memory of faces seen among the Jews of Holland and Bohemia, and from the paintings which revived that memory. Reverently let it be said of this mature spiritual need that it was akin to the boy's and girl's picturing of the future beloved; but the stirrings of such young desire are feeble compared with the passionate current of an ideal life straining to embody itself, made intense by resistance to imminent dissolution. The visionary form became a companion and auditor, keeping a place not only in the waking imagination, but in those dreams of lighter slumber of which it is truest to say, "I sleep, but my heart is awake"--when the disturbing trivial story of yesterday is charged with the impassioned purpose of years. [Footnote: Daniel Deronda, chapter XXXVIII. ]

Many times in her prose George Eliot has recognized the true character ofpoetry, and she has even given definitions of it which show how well sheknew its real nature. She makes Will Ladislaw say that--

 To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a hand playing with finely ordered variety on the chords of emotion--a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. [Footnote: Middlemarch, chapter XXII. ]

She thinks poetry and romance are as plentiful in the world as ever theywere, that they exist even amidst the conditions created by invention andscience; and if we do not find them there it is only because poetry andromance are absent from our own minds. If we have not awe and tenderness, wonder and enthusiasm, poetry cannot come near us, and we shall not bethrilled and exalted by it. [Footnote: Daniel Deronda, chanter XIX. ] Yet itis not difficult to see that George Eliot is not a poet in the fullestsense, because hers is not thoroughly and always a poetic mind, because shereasons about things too much. The poet is impressed, moved, thrilled andexalted, and pours out his song from his feelings and transfused withemotion. George Eliot was given to speculation, loved exactness ofexpression, and kept too close to the real. She had not that lightness oftouch, that deftness and flexibility of expression, and that versatility ofimaging forth her ideas, which the real poet possesses. Her mind moved witha ponderous tread, which needed a prose style large and stately as its truemedium of expression. While she had poetic ideas in abundance, and animaginative discernment of nature and life, she had not the full gift ofpoetic speech. She lacked inspiration as well as flexibility of thought, her imagination was not sufficiently rich, and she had not the full senseof rhythmic harmony. 

George Eliot first began to write in verse, as was to be expected of onegifted with an imagination vigorous as hers. Her love of music, her keenperception of the beauties of nature, her love of form and color, gaveadded attraction and impetus in the same direction. That she did notcontinue through many years to write poetry seems to have been partly theresult of her intense interest in severer studies. The speculative cast ofher mind predominated the poetical so nearly as to turn her away from thepoetic side of life to find a solution for its graver and more intricateproblems. Her return to the poetic form of expression may be accounted forpartly as the result of a greater confidence in her own powers which camefrom success, and partly from a desire for a new and richer medium ofutterance. 

So far as can be judged from the dates of her poems, as appended to many ofthem, "How Lisa Loved the King" was the earliest written. This was writtenin the year of the publication of _Romola_, and was followed the next yearby the first draft of _The Spanish Gypsy_. The poetical mottoes of _FelixHolt_, however, were the first to be published; and not until theseappeared did the public know of her poetic gifts. _The Spanish Gypsy_ wasnot published until 1868, and "How Lisa Loved the King" appeared thefollowing year. 

The original mottoes in _Felix Holt_ gave good hint of George Eliot'spoetic gifts. They are solid with thought, pregnant with the ripe wisdom ofdaily experience, significant for dramatic expression, or notable for theirhumor. They are rather heavy and ponderous in style, though sonorous inexpression. A stately tread, a largeness of expression, an air of weightymeaning, appear in nearly all these mottoes. As a specimen of the morephilosophic, the following will indicate the truthfulness of thisdescription:--

 Truth is the precious harvest of the earth, But once, when harvest waved upon a land, The noisome cankerworm and caterpillar, Locusts, and all the swarming, foul-born broods, Fastened upon it with swift, greedy jaws, And turned the harvest into pestilence, Until men said, What profits it to sow?

Her capacity for dramatic expression, in which a rich comprehension oflife is included, may be seen in these lines:

 1ST CITIZEN. Sir, there's a hurry in the veins of youth That makes a vice of virtue by excess. 

 2D CITIZEN. What if the coolness of our tardier veins Be loss of virtue?

 1ST CITIZEN. All things cool with time-- The sun itself, they say, till heat shall find A general level, nowhere in excess. 

 2D CITIZEN. 'Tis a poor climax, to my weaker thought, That future middlingness. 

Wisdom alloyed with humor appears in another motto:

 "It is a good and soothfast saw; Half-roasted never will be raw; No dough is dried once more to meal. No crock new-shapen by the wheel; You can't turn curds to milk again Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then; And having tasted stolen honey, You can't buy innocence for money. "

Mr. Buxton Forman says, that "in the charming headings to the chapters of_Felix Holt_ it seemed as though the strong hand which had, up to thatpoint, exercised masterly control over the restive tendency of high proseto rear up into verse, had relaxed itself just for the sake of a holiday, and no more. These headings did not bear the stamp of original poetry uponthem. Forcible as were some, admirable in thought and applicability to therespective chapters as were all, none bore traces of that clearly definedindividuality of style betrayed by all great and accomplished practitionersof verse, in even so small a compass as these headings. Some of thempossess the great distinctive technical mark of poetry, --condensation; butthis very condensation is compassed not in an original and individualmethod, but in the method of some pre-existent model; and it is hardlynecessary to enforce that power of assimilation or reproduction, howeverlarge, is no infallible index of self-existent poetical faculty. " Thiscritic finds traces of Shakspere, Wordsworth and Mrs. Browning in thesemottoes, and thinks they are all imitative, even when they are best. It istoo easy, however, to dispose of a piece of literary work in this manner, and such criticism is very apt to have little meaning in it. George Eliothas proven herself far too original, both in prose and poetry, to make sucha criticism of much value. Even if the charge of imitation is a valid one, it is far more probable that it was conscious and purposed, than thatGeorge Eliot's poetic gifts could only be exercised when impelled by thegenius of some other. To give the impression of quotation may have been apart of George Eliot's purpose in writing these mottoes, which are originalenough, and thoughtful enough, to have been attributed to any of the greatpoets. The real defects of her poetry lie in quite another direction thanthat of a lack of originality. She has enough to say that is fresh andinteresting, she has no need to consult others for what she is to utter;but she has not the fervor of expression, the impressive touch, whichseparates poetry from prose. There is intellectual power enough, thoughteven in excess, but she does not soar and sing. She walks steadily, majestically along on the ground, she has no wings for the clear ether. Indeed, she is too much a realist to breathe in that upper air of puresong; it is too fine and delicate for one who loves the solid facts ofearth so well as she. 

If George Eliot often wrote prose which is almost poetry, she also wrotepoetry which is almost prose. The concentrated, image-bearing phrases ofpoetry are wanting oftentimes in her verse. There is meter but no otherquality of poetry, and not a few passages could be printed as prose withscarce a suspicion to the reader that they were intended for poetry. Mr. Buxton Forman has given a passage from _The Spanish Gypsy_ in this way, adding only six insignificant words, and restoring _i_ to _is_ in twoinstances. He rightly says that the passage printed in prose "would surelybe read by any one who saw it for the first time, without any suspicionthat it merely required the excision of six little words and two letters totransform it to verse; no single expression betraying the secret that thepassage is from a poem. "

 _Do_ you hear the trumpet! There _is_ old Eamon's blast. No bray but his can shake the air so well. He takes his trumpeting as solemnly as _an_ angel charged to wake the dead; thinks war was made for trumpeters, and _that_ their great art _was_ made solely for themselves who understand it. His features have all shaped themselves to blowing, and when his trumpet _is either_ bagged or left at home he seems _like_ a chattel in a broker's booth, a spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay no sum particular!

George Eliot had not full command of poetic expression. This frequentlyappears, not only in the fact that many lines are simply prose in thought, but in the defects of the poetic form. Some lines are too short and otherstoo long, some having four and some six feet. An instance of the former isto be found in these words between Don Silva and the Prior, forming oneline:

 Strong reasons, father. Ay, but good?

Of the latter:

 And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion. 

Still more suggestive are the expedients she resorts to in order tocomplete the line. Lopez is made to say, --

 Santiago! Juan, thou art hard to please. I speak not for my own delighting, I. I can be silent, I. 

Very near this, Lopez is spoken of in this line:

 That was not what he drew his sword at--he!

Such defects as these are not, certainly, of vital importance, and maydoubtless be found in even the greatest poets; but they are noticeable herebecause of one texture with that which limits the quality of her poeticart. The principal criticism to be made on her poetry is that it wascomposed and did not create itself out of a full poetic mind. It waswrought out, was the result of study and composition, is wanting inspontaneity and enthusiasm. The most serious defect of her poetry is alsothe most marked defect of her prose, and this is a want of the idealelement. She was a realist by nature, and could not free herself from thetendency to look at the world on its surface only. 

In her poetry George Eliot is much more a _doctrinaire_ than in her novels. All her poems, except a few of the shorter ones, are devoted to theinculcation of some moral or philosophic teaching. The very effort she wasobliged to make to give herself utterance in poetry predisposed her tointellectual subjects and those of a controversial nature. For this reasonher verse has a special interest for those who are attracted to herteachings. Her pen was freer, more creative, in her great novels than inher poems. In fact, her novels, especially _Adam Bede_ and _The Mill on theFloss_, are much more poetical than much she did in verse. In her verse shetried to present the more spiritual side of life, to make living andeffective her own conceptions of the unseen and eternal. Yet she wasburdened constantly in this effort by the fact that she had a new theory ofthe spiritual and ideal side of life to interpret. The poets who win thehomage of mankind, and conquer all hearts to themselves, take the acceptedinterpretations of the great spiritual problems of life as the basis oftheir work and give those a larger, loftier meaning through their poeticand ideal insight and capacity of interpretation. They shun theories whichmust be expounded and interpretations for which no one is prepared. It ishere George Eliot is seriously at fault as a poet, however much she may becommended as a teacher and reformer. Perhaps the truest piece of poeticwork she did was _Agatha_, in which, however, there is a greater reliancethan in most of her poems, on the accepted interpretations of spiritualbeliefs. In portraying the trust, childlike and simple, of an old woman, and in endeavoring to realize the poetic elements of that trust andsimplicity, she was very effective. In such work as this she would havebeen much more successful, from the strictly poetic point of view, than shehas been, if she had not attempted to give her theories a clothing inverse. In her "Brother and Sister" she was also very successful, butespecially so in the "Two Lovers. " There is an exquisite charm and power insome of these minor poems. Where the heart was free, and the intellect wasnot dominant and insistent on the importance of its theories, there wassecured a genuine poetic beauty. There is true poetry in these lines:

 Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They lean soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. Oh budding time! Oh love's blest prime!

 Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carrollings, The air was soft as passing wings, White petals on the pathway slept. Oh pure-eyed bride! Oh tender pride!

There is a beauty and majesty in the poem on subjective immortality whichis likely to make it, as it has already become, the one popular poem amongall she wrote. There is a stimulus, enthusiasm and abandon about it whichis attained but seldom in her other verses. The love of humanity, itspassionate longing to sacrifice self for the good of all, is acceptable tomuch of the thought and purpose of the present time; and its spirit ofsacrifice is one which may commend it to all earnest souls. In the moreextended poems there is genuine accomplishment just in proportion as theleading purpose was artistic rather than philosophic or moral. 

Difficult as it was for a successful novelist to secure applause as a poet, George Eliot overcame the distrust of her admirers and gained also a notunmerited place as a poet. Her verse has been a real addition to her work, and is likely to command an increasing interest in the future. That it isnot always successful from the merely artistic point of view, that it isnot to be placed by the side of the best poetry of the time, is no reasonwhy it will not appeal to many minds and enlist its own company ofadmirers. Next after the universal poets are those who appeal to a selectcircle and charm a particular class of minds. Among these George Eliot willstand as one of the foremost and one of those most worthy of homage. As thepoet of positivism, she will long delight those in sympathy with herteachings. It would be extravagant praise to call her a second Lucretius, and yet that which has given the Roman author his place among poets willalso give George Eliot rank in the same company. With all his merits as apoet, it has not been his poetic power, or his love of nature, or his worthas an interpreter of human nature, which has given Lucretius his reputationas a poet. With real poetic power, --for he would have been a much smallerman without this, --he combined a philosophic mind and a daring genius forspeculation. The poetry gave charm and ideal grandeur to the speculations, and the philosophy made the poetry full of meaning and earnest intellectualpurpose. He read life and nature with a keener eye and a more profoundpenetration than others of his time; he tried to grasp the secret of theuniverse, and because of it he left behind the touch of a strong mind. Insome such way as this, George Eliot's poetry is likely to be read in thefuture. As poetry merely, it cannot take high rank; but for the sake of itsphilosophy, which is conceived as a poet would conceive it, there ispromise that its future is to be one that is lasting. Even for poetry theremust be thought, and the larger, profounder it is the better for thepoetry, if it is imaginatively conceived and expressed. It is not thought, or even philosophy, which annuls poetry, but want of ideal and creativeinsight. To Goethe, Wordsworth or Browning there was a gain by enlargementof intellectual materials, but these were suffused in true poetic fire, andcame forth a new creation. In so far as George Eliot has attained thisresult is she a poet, and is she sure of the future suffrages of those whoaccept her philosophy. At the least, her admirers must rejoice at theenlarged range of expression she secured by the use of the poetic form. 

IX. 

PHILOSOPHIC ATTITUDE. 

George Eliot was pre-eminently a novelist and a poet; but she is also thetruest literary representative the nineteenth century has yet afforded ofits positivist and scientific tendencies. What Comte and Spencer havetaught in the name of philosophy, Tyndall and Haeckel in the name ofscience, she has applied to life and its problems. Their aims, spirit andtendencies have found in her a living embodiment, and re-appear in herpages as forms of genius, as artistic creations. They have experimented, speculated, elaborated theories of the universe, drawn out systems ofphilosophy; but she has reconstructed the social life of man through hercreative insight. What they mean, whither they lead, is not to bediscovered nearly so plainly in their books as in hers. She is theirinterpreter through that wonderful insight, genius and creative power whichenabled her to see what they could not themselves discover, --the effect oftheir teachings on man as an individual and as a social being. 

Whoever would know what the agnostic and evolution philosophy of the timehas to teach about man, his social life, his moral responsibilities, hisreligious aspirations, should go to the pages of George Eliot in preferenceto those of any other. The scientific spirit, the evolution philosophy, live in her pages, reveal themselves there in all their strength and in alltheir weakness. She was a thinker equal to any of those whose names standforth as the representatives of the philosophy she accepted, she was ascompetent, as they to think out the problems of life and to interpretsocial existence in accordance with their theories of man and nature. Competent to grasp and to interpret the positive philosophy in all itsdetails and in all its applications, she also had that artistic spirit ofreconstruction which enabled her to apply to life what she held in theory. Along with the calm philosophic spirit which thinks out "the painful riddleof the earth, " she had the creative spirit of the artist which delights inportraying life in all its endeavors, complexities and consequences. Shenot only accepted the theory of hereditary transmission as science hasrecently developed it, and as it has been enlarged by positivism into ashaping influence of the past upon the present, but she made this law vitalwith meaning as she developed its consequences in the lives of hercharacters. To her it was not merely a theory, but a principle so pregnantwith meaning as to have its applications in every phase of humanexperience. Life could not be explained without it; the thoughts, deeds andaspirations of men could be understood only with reference to it; much thatenters into human life of weal and woe is to be comprehended only withreference to this law. In regard to all the other evolution problems andprinciples her knowledge was as great, her insight as clear, and herconstructive use of them as original. 

A new theory of life and the universe may be intellectually accepted assoon as its teachings are comprehended; but the absorption of that theoryinto the moral tissues, so that it becomes an active and constant impulseand motive in feeling and conduct, is a long and difficult process. Ittakes generations before it can associate itself with the instinctiveimpulses of the mind. It is one thing to accept the theory of universal lawas an intellectual explanation of the sequences of phenomena, but it isquite another to be guided by that theory in all the most spontaneousmovements of feeling, conscience and thought. A few minds are able to makesuch a theory at once their own by virtue of genius of a very instinctiveand subtle order; but for the great majority of mankind this result canonly be reached after generations of instruction. The use made of suchtheories by the poets and novelists is a sure test of their popularacceptance. When the poets accept such a theory, and naturally expressthemselves in accordance with its spirit, the people may soon feel andthink according to its meaning. 

The theory of evolution will not easily adjust the human mind to itsconclusions and methods. It is therefore very remarkable that George Eliot, the contemporary of Comte, Spencer, Darwin, Lewes and Tyndall, should beable to give a true literary expression to their speculations. She has notonly been able to follow these men, to accept their theories and tounderstand them in all their implications and tendencies, but she has soabsorbed these theories into her mind, and so made them a part of all itsprocesses, that she has painted life thoroughly in accordance with theirspirit. Should the teachings of the evolutionists of to-day be finallyaccepted, and after a few generations become the universally receivedexplanations of life and the universe, it is not likely any poet ornovelist will more genuinely and entirely express their spirit than GeorgeEliot has done. The evolutionary spirit and ways of looking at life becameinstinctive to her; she saw life and read its deepest experiences wholly inthe light shed by this philosophy. For this reason her writings are ofgreat value to those who would understand the evolution philosophy in itshigher phases. 

George Eliot accepted the intellectual conclusions of evolution, and theoutline thus afforded she filled in with feeling and poetry. Sheinterpreted the pathos, the tragedy, the aspirations of life in the lightof this philosophy. Accepting with a bold and undismayed intellect theimplications and consequences of evolution, rejecting or abating no leastportion of it, she found in it a place for art, poetry and religion; andshe tried to show how it touches and moulds and uplifts man. She shrankfrom nothing which would enable her to reveal how man is to live in such auniverse as she believed in; she saw all its hardness, cruelty, anguish andmystery, and resolutely endeavored to show how these enter into and help toform his destiny. In doing this she followed the lead of the positivists inthe acceptance of feeling as the basis and the true expression of man'sinner life. The emotional life is made the essential life; and all itsphases of manifestation in art, poetry and religion are regarded as ofgreat importance. George Eliot viewed the higher problems of life from thispoint of view, giving to the forms in which the emotional side of man'snature is expressed a supreme importance. Religion, as the response offeeling to the mystery of existence, occupied a most important place in herphilosophy. That her interpretation of the emotional elements of life isthe true one, that she has discovered their source or their real idealsignificance, may well be doubted; but there is every reason for believingthat she realized their great value, and she certainly tried in an earnestspirit to make them helpful in the life of ideal beauty and truthfulness. 

All that agnostic science and the evolution philosophy had to teach, GeorgeEliot accepted, its doctrine of descent, its new psychology, and itstheories of society and human destiny. Its doctrine of experience, itsethical theories, were equally hers. Yet into her interpretation ofexistence went a woman's heart, the widest and tenderest sympathy, and aquick yearning purpose to do what good she could in the world. She saw withthe lover's eyes, motherhood revealed itself in her soul, the child's trustwas in her heart. The new philosophy she applied to life, revealed itsrelations to duty, love, sorrow, trial and death. To her it had a deepsocial meaning, a vital connection with the heart, its hopes and itsburdens, and for her it touched the spiritual content of life with reality. It was in this way she became the truest interpreter of the evolutionphilosophy, the best apostle of the ethics taught by agnostic science. Shenot only speculated, she also felt and lived. Philosophy was to her morethan an abstract theory of the universe; into it entered a tender sympathyfor all human weakness, a profound sense of the mystery of existence, and aholy purpose to make life pure and true to all she could reach. This largercomprehension gives a new significance to her interpretation of evolution. It makes it impossible that this philosophy should be fully understoodwithout a study of her books. 

It is because George Eliot was not a mere speculative thinker that herteachings become so important. The true novelist, who is gifted withgenius, who creates character and situation with a master's hand, must havesome theory of life. He must have some notion of what life means, what thesignificance of the pathos and tragedy of human experience, and why it isthat good and evil in conduct do not produce the same results. Such atheory of life, if firmly grasped and worked out strongly, becomes aphilosophy. Much depends with the novelist on that philosophy, what itplaces foremost, what it sees destiny to mean. It will affect his insight, give shape to his plots, decide his characters, guide his ethicalinterpretations, fix his spiritual apprehension. It was because GeorgeEliot adopted a new and remarkable philosophy, one that teaches much whichthe instincts of the race have rejected, and repudiates much which the racehas accepted as necessary to its welfare, that her teachings become sonoteworthy. Genius first of all she had, and the artist's creative power;but the way she used these, and the limitations she put upon them by herphilosophy, give her books an interest which not even her wonderful geniuscould alone produce. That philosophy is in debate; and it is not yetdecided whether it is mainly false because growing out of wrong methods, or if it be in reality a true explanation of existence. Its revolutionarycharacter, its negative spirit, its relations to ethics and religion, make it remarkable, and even startling. Profound thinkers, men ofcommanding philosophic apprehension and power of generalization, haveaccepted it; physical science has largely lent its aid to the support ofits conclusions. Yet on its side genius, imagination, creative instinct, artistic apprehension, have not given their aid. Without them it isdefective, and cannot command the ideal sentiments and hopes of the race. First to fill this gap came George Eliot, and she yet remains its onlygreat literary ally and coadjutor. Tyndall, Haeckel and DuBois Raymond cangive us science; but this is not enough. Comte, Mill and Spencer can giveus philosophy; but that is inadequate. They have also essayed, one and all, to say some true word about morals, religion and the social ideals; butthey have one and all failed. They are too speculative, too far away fromthe vital movements of life, know too little of human experience as itthrobs out of the heart and sentiments. They can explain their theoriesin terms of science, ethics and philosophy; but George Eliot explains themin terms of life. They have speculated, she has felt; they have madephilosophies, she has created ideal characters and given us poetry; theyhave studied nature, she has studied experience and life; they have triedto resolve the mind into its constituent elements; she has entered into theheart and read its secrets; they have looked on to see what history meant, she has lived all heart tragedies and known all spiritual aspirations. 

George Eliot was not a mere disciple of any of the great teachers ofevolution. Though of their school, and largely in accord and sympathy withthem, yet she often departed from the way they went, and took a positionquite in opposition to theirs. Her standpoint in philosophy was arrived atquite independently of their influence, and in many of its main featuresher philosophy was developed before she had any acquaintance either withthem or their books. She wrote concerning John Stuart Mill, [Footnote:Elizabeth Stuart Phelps' "Last words from George Eliot, " is Harper Magazinefor March 1882. The names of Mill and Spencer are not given in thisarticle, but the words from her letters so plainly refer to them that theyhave been quoted here as illustrating her relations to these men. ]--

 I never had any personal acquaintance with him, never saw him to my knowledge except in the House of Commons; and though I have studied his books, especially his _Logic_ and _Political Economy_ with much benefit, I have no consciousness of their having made any marked epoch in my life. 

Concerning another leading positivist she has said, --

 Of [Herbert Spencer's] friendship I have had the honor and advantage for twenty years, but I believe that every main bias of my mind had been taken before I knew him. Like the rest of his readers, I am, of course, indebted to him for much enlargement and clarifying of thought. 

Not long previous to her death, in reading Bridges' version of _The GeneralView of Positivism_, she expressed her dissent more often than her assent, and once she said, --

 I cannot submit my intellect or my soul to the guidance of Comte. 

George Eliot did not take up her residence in London until herthirty-second year, and previous to that time her acquaintance with thepositivist leaders must have been slight. Before that age the opinions ofmost persons are formed, and such was the case with George Eliot. It islikely her opinions underwent many changes after this date, but only in thedirection of those already established and in modification of thephilosophy already accepted. She became an evolutionist without the aid ofthose men who are supposed to be the originators of this theory. Every newidea or new way of interpreting nature and life grows into form gradually, and under the influence of many different minds. The evolution philosophywas long accepted before it became a doctrine or was formulated into aphilosophy. The same influences worked in many quarters to produce the sameconclusions. It was given to George Eliot to come under a set of influenceswhich led her to accept all the leading ideas of evolution before she hadany opportunity to know that philosophy as it has been elaborated by themen whose names are most often connected with it. A brief account of thesuccessive philosophic influences which most directly and personallytouched her mind will largely help towards the comprehension of herteachings. 

The most intimate friend of her youth, who gave her a home when troublecame with her family, and stimulated her mind to active inquiry aftertruth, was a philosopher of no mean ability. Charles Bray not only was thefirst philosopher she knew, but her opinions of after years were mainly inthe direction he marked out for her. In his _Philosophy of Necessity_, published in 1841, he maintained that the only reality is the _GreatUnknown_ which we name God, that all natural laws are actions of the firstcause. He taught that the world is created in our own minds, the result ofsome unknown cause without us, which we call matter; but it is thus Godmirrors himself to us. "All we see is but the vesture of God, and what wecall laws of nature are but attributes of Deity. " Matter is known to usonly as the cause of sensations, while the soul is the principle ofsensation, dependent upon the nervous system; the nervous system dependingupon life, and life upon organization. All knowledge comes to man throughthe action of the external world upon the senses; all truth, all progress, come to us out of experience. "Reason is dependent for its exercise uponexperience, and experience is nothing more than the knowledge of theinvariable order of nature, of the relations of cause and effect. " All actsof men are ruled by necessity. Pain produces our ideas of right and wrong, and happiness is the test of all moral action. There are no such thingsas sin and evil, only pains and pleasures. Evil is the natural andnecessary limitation of our faculties, and our consequent liability toerror; and pain, which we call evil, is its corrective. Nothing, under thecircumstances, could have happened but that which did happen; and theactions of men, under precisely the same circumstances, must always issuein precisely the same results. Death, treated of in a separate chapter, isshown to be good, and a necessary aid to progress. Society is regarded asan organism, and man is to find his highest life in the life of others. "The great body of humanity (considered as an individual), with its soul, the principle of sensation, is ever fresh and vigorous and increasing inenjoyment. Death and birth, the means of renewal and succession, bearthe same relation to this body of society as the system of waste andreproduction do to the human body; the old and useless and decayed materialis carried out, and fresh substituted, and thus the frame is renovatedand rendered capable of ever-increasing happiness.... The minds, that isto say, the ideas and feelings of which they were composed, of Socrates, Plato, Epicurus, Galileo, Bacon, Locke, Newton, are thus forever inexistence, and the immortality of the soul is preserved, not inindividuals, but in the great body of humanity.... To the race, thoughnot to individuals, all beautiful things are preserved forever; all thatis really good and profitable is immortal. "

Nearly every idea here presented was accepted by George Eliot andre-appears in her writings. In Bray's later books much also is to be foundwhich she embraced. He therein says that all outside of us is a delusion ofthe senses. [Footnote: This summary of Bray's philosophy is condensed froman article in the Westminster Review for April, 1879. ] The senses conspirewith the intellect to impose upon us. The constitution of our facultiesforces us to believe in an external world, but it has no more reality thanour dreams. Each creature is the creator of its own separate, differentworld. The unity of outward things is imposed on them by the faculty ofindividuality, and is a mere fiction of the mind. Matter is a creature ofthe imagination, and is a pure assumption. It is the centre of force, asimmaterial as spirit, as ethereal and unsubstantial. As centres of forceimply locality, and locality space, so space must have an extension of itsown. Not so; it is a pure creation of the mind. The same holds true oftime. The world of mind, the moral world as well, are our own creations. Man has no power over himself; nothing could have been otherwise than asit is. Repentance and remorse are foolish regrets over what could not havebeen otherwise. All actions and motives are indifferent; only in theirconsequences can any distinction be observed between them. Such as ministerto man's pleasure he calls good; such as produce pain he calls evil. Thereis no good but pleasure, and no evil but pain. Hence there is nodistinction between moral and physical evil. Morality is the chemistry ofthe mind, its attractions and repulsions, likes and dislikes. God is anillusion, as are all moral conclusions based on his existence, Nor hasman any reality; he is the greatest illusion and delusion of all. Thefaculty of individuality gives us all our ideas and feelings, and createsfor us what we call our minds. A mind is an aggregate of a stream ofconsciousness. Ideas, feelings, states of consciousness, do not inhere inanything; each is a distinct entity. "Thinking is, " is what we should say, not "I think. " Here we are at the ground fact of what constitutes being, onsolid footing; consciousness cannot deceive us. Thinking is, even if mindand matter, self and not-self, are illusory. It is, even if we deny boththe external and internal causes of consciousness. We know our ownconsciousness, that alone. All is inference beside. When we consider whatinferences are most probable, we are led to build up a constructivephilosophy. Consciousness says we have a body, body a brain, and pressureon the brain stops consciousness; hence a close connection between thebrain and consciousness. The two go together, and in the brain we must laythe foundation of our philosophy. The mental faculties create the world ofindividual consciousness, it the outside world. We know only what isrevealed in consciousness. Matter and mind are one. Life and mind arecorrelates of physical force; they are the forms assumed by physical forcewhen subjected to organic conditions. Yet there is no such thing as merephysical force. Every atom of matter acts intelligently; it has so actedalways. The conscious intelligence of the universe has subsided intonatural law, and acts automatically. This universal agent of life in allthings is God. All consciousness and physical force are but "the variedGod. " There is in reality no agent but mind, conscious or unconscious. Godis nature; matter is mind solidified. Matter is force as revealed by thesenses. It is the body, force is the soul. In nature, as in man, body andsoul are one and indivisible. Mind builds up organisms. There is a livingwill, conscious or unconscious, in all things. The One and All requires theresignation of the individual and personal, of all that is selfish, to theInfinite whole. 

The basis of Bray's philosophy was idealism and pantheism, assuming formunder the influence of modern science. He quoted Emerson frequently, andthe school of thought Emerson represents affected him greatly. On the otherhand, he was then a strong phrenologist, had imbibed much of the teachingof Combe's _Constitution of Man_, and he eagerly embraced those notions ofthe relations of body and mind which have been propagated in the name ofphysical science. 

The same double influence is to be seen at work upon the next thinker whowas destined to give direction to George Eliot's philosophy. Feuerbach wasa disciple of Hegel, whose influence is deeply marked through all hisearlier writings. He also was affected by physical science, and he found insensationalism an element for his system. To him all thought is the productof experience; he founded his ideas on materials which can be appropriatedonly through the activity of the senses. The external world affects thesenses and generates feeling, feeling produces ideas. Feeling re-acts uponthe external world, interprets it according to its own wants. Feeling isthus the source of all knowledge; feeling is the basis alike of religionand philosophy. Feuerbach, as well as Bray, finds that man creates theoutward world in consciousness; all that is out of man which he can know, is but a reflection of what is in him. This conception of consciousness, this pure idealism, becomes the source of Feuerbach's philosophy ofreligion. He says that religion is based on the differences between man andthe brute; man has consciousness, which is only present in a being to whomhis species, his essential nature, is an object of thought. Man thinks, converses with himself, is at once I and Thou, can put himself in the placeof another. Religion is identical with self-consciousness, and expressesman's sense of the infinitude of his own faculties. Man learns abouthimself through what is objective to him, but the object only serves tobring out what is in him; his own nature becomes the absolute to him. Consciousness marks the self-satisfaction, self-perfection of man, thatall truth is in him. As feeling is the cause of the outward world, or ofthat notion of it man has, it becomes the organ of religion. The nature ofGod is nothing else than an expression of the nature of feeling. As manlives mainly in feeling, finds there the sources of all his mental andmoral life, he comes to regard feeling as the divinest part of his nature, the noblest and most excellent; so it becomes to him the organ of thedivine. When man thinks what is infinite he in reality does nothing morethan to perceive and affirm that to him feeling has an infinite power. If you feel the infinite, you feel and affirm the infinitude of the powerof feeling. The object of the intellect is intellect objective to itself;the object of feeling is feeling objective to itself. God is pure, unlimited, free feeling. In religion, consciousness of the object andself-consciousness coincide. The object of any subject is nothing else thanthe subject's own nature taken objectively. God is like our thoughts anddispositions; consciousness of God is self-consciousness, knowledge of Godis self-knowledge. Religion is the unveiling of a man's hidden treasures, the revelation of his intimate thoughts, the open confession of his lovesecrets. It is to the understanding Feuerbach attributes man's capacity forobjectifying himself or of attributing to the outward world those qualitieswhich really exist only within. Man's consciousness of God is nothing elsethan his consciousness of his species. "Man has his highest being, his God, in himself; not in himself as an individual, but in his essential nature, his species. No individual is an adequate representative of his species, but only the human individual is conscious of the distinction between thespecies and the individual. In the sense of this distinction lies the rootof religion. The yearning of man after something above himself is nothingelse than the longing after the perfect type of his nature, the yearning tobe free from himself, _i. E. _, from the limits and defects of hisindividuality. Individuality is the self-conditioning, the self-limitationof the species. Thus man has cognizance of nothing above himself, ofnothing beyond the nature of humanity; but to the individual man thisnature presents itself under the form of an individual man. All feelingswhich man experiences towards a superior man, nay, in general, all moralfeelings which man has towards man, are of a religious nature. Man feelsnothing towards God which he does not also feel towards man. " The dogmas ofChristianity are interpreted by Feuerbach from this standpoint ofconceiving religion as a projection of feeling upon the outward world. Sohe explains the incarnation as man's love for man, man's yearning to helphis fellows, the renunciation and suffering man undergoes for man. Thepassion of Christ represents freely accepted suffering for others in loveof them. The trinity typifies the participated, social life of the species;it shows the father, mother and son as the symbols of the race. The _logos_or son is the nature of the imagination made objective, the satisfaction ofthe need for mental images, the reflected splendor of the imagination. Faith in providence is faith in one's own worth; it indicates the divinereality and significance of our own being. Prayer is an expression of thepower of feeling, a dialogue of man with his own heart. Faith is confidencein the reality of the subjective in opposition to the limitations or lawsof nature and reason. Its specific object is miracle; faith and miracle areabsolutely inseparable. That which is objectively miracle is subjectivelyfaith. Faith is the miracle of feeling; it is nothing else than belief inthe absolute reality of subjectivity. The power of miracle is the power ofthe imagination, for imagination corresponds to personal feeling; it setsaside all limits, all laws painful to the feelings, and thus makesobjective to man the immediate, absolutely unlimited satisfaction of hissubjective wishes. The belief in miracle accepts wishes as realities. Infact, the fundamental dogmas of Christianity are simply realized wishes ofthe heart. This is true, because the highest law of feeling is theimmediate unity of will and deed, of wishing and reality. To religion, whatis felt or wished is regarded as real. In the Redeemer this is realized, wish becomes fact. All things are to be wrought, according to religion, bybelief. Thus the future life is a life where feeling realizes every desire. Its whole import is that of the abolition of the discordance which existsbetween wish and reality. It is the realization of a state whichcorresponds to the feelings, in which man is in unison with himself. Theother world is nothing more than the reality of a known idea, thesatisfaction of a conscious desire, the fulfilment of a wish. "The sum ofthe future life is happiness, the everlasting bliss of personality, whichis here limited and circumscribed by nature. Faith in the future life istherefore faith in the freedom of subjectivity from the limits of nature;it is faith in the eternity and infinitude of personality, and not ofpersonality viewed in relation to the idea of the species, in which itforever unfolds itself in new individuals, but of personality as belongingto already existing individuals; consequently, it is the faith of man inhimself. But faith in the kingdom of heaven is one with faith in God; thecontext of both ideas is the same; God is pure absolute subjectivityreleased from all natural limits; he is what individuals ought to be andwill be; faith in God is therefore the faith of man in the infinitude andtruth of his own nature; the Divine Being is the subjective human being inhis absolute freedom and unlimitedness. "

It is not probable that George Eliot confined her philosophic studies tothe writings of Charles Bray and Feuerbach, but it is quite certain that intheir books which she did faithfully study, are to be found some of theleading principles of her philosophy. What gives greater confirmation tothe supposition that her philosophy was largely shaped under theirinfluence is the fact that her intimate friend, Sara Hennell, drew from thesame sources for the presentation of theories quite identical with hers. Sara Hennell's _Thoughts in Aid of Faith_, published in 1860, is an attemptto show that the religious sentiments may be retained when the doctrines oftheology are intellectually rejected, that a disposition of the heart akinto Paul's may be present though conviction be extinct. In securing thisresult, she too takes Feuerbach as her guide, and his teachings she claimsare fully corroborated by the philosophy of Herbert Spencer. Religion sheregards as the result of the tendency of man's mind towards philosophy, theoutgrowth of the activity of his mental faculties seeking satisfaction forthemselves in explaining the world given for his contemplation and study. "The growth of religion in the human intelligence (thereby distinguishedfrom mere blind emotion), is coincident with, or rather immediatelyconsequent upon, the power of forming abstract ideas; that is to say, it isa generalization effected by the operation of the intellect upon thesentiments and emotions, when these have attained to so great extent anddistinctness as to become self-conscious. " Man early objectifies thequalities he finds in himself and his fellows, regards them as entities, isprostrated in awe and worship before them, conceives them to be gods. Heattributes to outward objects his subjective states, and regards them aslike himself, only infinitely more powerful. His emotions he believes arecaused by these objective beings, and he thinks he is inspired, that thegods are at work within him. Feeling becomes the voice of God, therevelator of religions and theologies. Christianity Miss Hennell regards as"the form in which the religious affections, struggling against earthlylimitations, have created for themselves the satisfaction they demand, and, therefore, in so far, real, just as the affections are real. " Feeling, shesays, is real as logic, and must equally have its real foundation. That is, feeling gives us the truth, actually answers to the realities of things asman can know them. She is here an ontologist, and she is convinced thatfeeling is a direct witness of the deeper knowledge and reality which manseeks in religion. The permanency and validity of religion she believes in, and she testifies to its wholesome and ennobling effect upon the race. "Christianity, having formed an actual portion of the composition both ofour own individual experience and of the world's history, can no more beannihilated out of them than the sum of what we learned during a certainnumber of years of our childhood, from the one, or the effects of anynotable occurrence, such as the fall of the Roman Empire, or the Normaninvasion, from the other;--Christianity on every view, whether of its truthor falsity, and consequently of its good or bad effect, has undoubtedlycontributed to make us what we are; without it we should have grown intosomething incalculably different from our present selves.... And how can itbe otherwise than real to us, this belief that has nourished the soulsof us all, and seems to have moulded actually anew their internalconstitution, as well as stored them up with its infinite variety ofexternal interests and associations? What other than a very real thing hasit been in the life of the world, sprang out of, and again causing tospring forth, such volumes of human emotion? making a current, as it were, of feeling, that has drawn within its own sphere all the moral vitality ofso many ages. In all this reality of influence there is indeed thetestimony of Christianity having truly formed an integral portion of theorganic life of humanity. "

Though Miss Hennell is so earnest a believer in Christianity, yet shetotally rejects the idea of any objective reality corresponding to itsdogmas. This conclusion is based on the philosophic notion, which sheshares with Bray, Feuerbach, George Eliot, Spencer and Lewes, that man hasno real knowledge whatever except that which is given in consciousness. This philosophy, shared in common by these persons, is called by Lewes"reasoned realism, " and by Spencer "transfigured realism. " It accepts thereality of an outward world, but says that all man knows of it is, that itproduces impressions on his senses which are transmuted into sensations. Sensations produce feelings, and feelings become ideas. According toSpencer, the steps of knowledge are three: the co-ordinating of sensationsin a living organism; the registering of impressions within the organism insuch a way as to build up a store of experiences; the transmission of theorganism and its susceptibilities to offspring. Miss Hennell acceptsSpencer's theory that feeling is the source of all our knowledge. Not only, as she says, does it "constitute the essential and main vitality of ournature, " but when it is stored up in the human organism and inherited, itbecomes the vital source out of which all moral and religious truth isbuilt up. Experience, transformed into inherited feeling, takes on the formof those intuitions which "are the only reliable ground of solid belief. ""These sentiments which are born within us, slumbering as it were in ournature, ready to be awakened into action immediately they are roused byhint of corresponding circumstances, are drawn out of the whole of previoushuman existence. They constitute our treasured inheritance out of all thelife that has been lived before us, to which no age, no human being who hastrod the earth and laid himself to rest with all his mortal burden upon hermaternal bosom, has failed to add his contribution. No generation has hadits engrossing conflict, surely battling out the triumphs of mind overmaterial force, and through forms of monstrous abortions concurrent withits birth, too hideous for us now to bear in contemplation, moulding theearly intelligence by every struggle, and winning its gradual powers, --nosingle soul has borne itself through its personal trial, --withoutbequeathing to us of its fruit. There is not a religious thought that wetake to ourselves for secret comfort in our time of grief, that has notbeen distilled out of the multiplicity of the hallowed tears of mankind;not an animating idea is there for our fainting courage that has notgathered its inspiration from the bravery of the myriad armies of theworld's heroes. All this best of humanity's hard earnings has been hoardedwith generous care by our _alma natura naturans_; so that at last, in ourrich ages, the _mens naturafa_ opens its gaze with awful wonder upon itsenvironment of spiritual possessions. "

The intimate sympathy of George Eliot and Miss Hennell indicates that theyfollowed much the same studies, and it is certain they arrived at verysimilar conclusions. That the one was directly influenced or led by theother there seem to be no reasons for believing. All that is probable is, that there was a close affinity of thought and purpose between them, andthat they arrived at similar philosophical conclusions. The same is to besaid in regard to George Eliot's relations to George Henry Lewes. Hertheories of life, as has been already clearly indicated, were firmly fixedbefore she knew him, and her philosophical opinions were formed. Thesimilarity of their speculative opinions doubtless had something to do withbringing them together; and it is certain that the tenor of their thoughts, their views about life, and their spiritual aspirations, were very muchalike, giving promise of a most thorough sympathy in all their intellectualand moral pursuits. If she was influenced by him, he was quite as muchinfluenced by her. Lewes accepted the philosophical side of Comte'sPositive Philosophy, but the religious side of it he rejected and stronglycondemned. In his _History of Philosophy_, he says, "Antagonism to themethod and certain conclusions of the _Politique positive_ led me for manyyears to regard that work as a deviation from the Positive Philosophy inevery way unfortunate. My attitude has changed now that I have learned(from the remark of one very dear to me) to regard it as an Utopia, presenting hypotheses rather than doctrines, suggestions for inquirersrather than dogmas for adepts--hypotheses carrying more or less of truth, and serviceable as a provisional mode of colligating facts, to be confirmedor contradicted by experience. " It is altogether probable, as in this case, that George Eliot gave Lewes the suggestive aid of her acute mind. If shewas aided by him, it was only as one strong mind aids another, by collisionand suggestion rather than by direct teaching. 

Lewes may have had the effect to deepen and establish firmly theconclusions already reached by George Eliot, and a consideration of hisphilosophy must confirm this conjecture. He, too, makes feeling the basisof all knowing. From this point, however, he diverges widely from HerbertSpencer and the other English empiricists. Spencer regards matter and mindas two phases of an underlying substance, which he presents as the unknownand unknowable. Lewes at once denies the duality implied in the wordsmatter and mind, motion and feeling, and declares these are one and thesame thing, objectively or subjectively presented. Feeling is motion, andmotion is feeling; mind is the spiritual aspect of the material organism, and matter is the objective aspect of feeling. Feeling is not the cause ofmotion, as idealism would suggest; and motion does not cause or turn intofeeling, as materialism teaches. The two are absolutely identical; there isno dualism or antithesis. In the same way, cause and effect are but twoaspects of one phenomenon; there is no separation between them, but one andthe same thing before and after. He applies this idea to the conception ofnatural law, and declares it to be only the persistence of phenomena; thatis, the persistence of feeling. He denies that there is any absolute behindphenomena; the absolute is in the phenomena, which is the only reality. Thephenomenal universe is simply a group of relations, nothing more; and whatseems to be, really exists, because the relations are real. 

It is not necessary here to enter into a full presentation of Lewes'sphilosophy, but his theories about the functions of feeling are ofimportance, in view of George Eliot's acceptance of them. They have beensummarized into the statement that "all truths are alike feelings, ideallydistinguishable according to the aspects under which they are viewed. Thereis no motion apart from feeling, for the motion _is_ the feeling; there isno force apart from matter which compels it to moves for the force _is_ thematter, as matter is motion--differently viewed; there is no essence orsubstance which determines the properties, for the substance is the wholegroup of properties; there are no causes outside of effects, no lawsoutside the processes, no reality outside the phenomena, no absoluteoutside the relative, which determine things to be as they are and nototherwise, for all these are but different sides of one and the samething. " The central thought presented by Lewes is, that "for us there isnothing but feeling, whose subjective side is sensations, perceptions, memories, reasonings, the ideal constructions of science and philosophy, emotions, pleasures, pains; whose objective side is motion, matter, force, cause, the absolute. " The outcome of this theory is, it enables Lewes tobelieve that the inner and outer practically agree, that our feelings givea sufficiently correct picture of the universe. In reality, the two do notagree, and even "science is in no respect a plain transcript of reality;"but so intimate are feeling and the outer world, that the inward report isto be regarded as practically a correct one. 

In many ways Lewes differed from his contemporaries, disagreeing again andagain with Spencer, Bain and Huxley. He often seems much nearer Schellingthan Haeckel. He differs from Schelling in his demand for verification andthe inductive method, and in claiming that all his conclusions are theresult of scientific experiments and deductions. He agrees with Schellingin his rejection of mechanical processes and in his acceptance of a vital, organic method in nature and in social development. He differs from many ofthe other leaders of speculative science in his rejection of reflex action, maintaining that the brain is not the only seat of sensation, and that allcerebral processes are mental processes. With equal vigor he rejects thetheory of animal automatism, and the assertion that animal actions can becompletely expressed and accounted for in terms of nervous matter andmotion. The laws of the mind, he maintained, are not to be deduced fromphysiological processes, but with them must be joined the psychicalprocesses of the individual and the social man. He separates man by animpassable barrier from the lower animals, this gulf between them being dueto human society and to the social acquisition of language. In the socialfactor he finds an important element of psychology, and one that mustalways come in to overturn any mechanical theories of mental activity. 

It has been very truly said, that Lewes must be credited with the doctrineof the dependence of the human mind on the social medium. Others had hitupon this idea, and it had been very well developed by Spencer and Comte;but Lewes gave it a wider and profounder interpretation than any other. Oneof his critics says that Lewes "has the sort of claim to have originatedthis theory that Bacon has to be considered the discoverer of the inductivemethod. " He not only held with Spencer and other evolutionists, that thehuman mind is the product of experience in contact with the outer world, that experience transmitted by heredity and built up into mental processesand conclusions; but he maintained that the social medium is a much greaterand more important factor. The past makes the present; the social lifedevelops the individual. Our language, our thought, as individuals, are theproduct of the collective life of the race. "We are to seek in the socialorganism for all the main conditions of the higher functions, and in thesocial medium of beliefs, opinions, institutions, &c. , for the atmospherebreathed by the intellect. Man is no longer to be considered simply as anassemblage of organs, but also as an organ in a collective organism. Fromthe former he derives his sensations, judgments, primary impulses; from thelatter, his conceptions, theories and virtues. This is very clear when welearn how the intellect draws both its inspiration and its instrument fromthe social needs. All the materials of intellect are images and symbols, all its processes are operations on images and symbols. Language--which iswholly a social product for a social need--is the chief vehicle ofsymbolical operation, and the only means by which abstraction isaffected.... Language is the creator and sustainer of that ideal world inwhich the noblest part of human activity finds a theatre, the world ofthought and spiritual insight, of knowledge and duty, loftily elevatedabove that of sense and appetite. Into this ideal world man absorbs theuniverse as in a transfiguration. It is here that he shapes the programmeof his existence; and to that programme he makes the real world conform. It is here he forms his highest rules of conduct. It is here he plantshis hopes and joys. It is here he finds his dignity and power. The idealworld becomes to him the supreme reality. " Lewes said that what a manthinks "is the necessary product of his organism and external conditions. "The "organism itself is the product of its history; it is what it hasbecome; it is a part of the history of the race. " Because man is a creatureof feeling he is susceptible to the influences of the outer world, andfrom the influences and experiences thus received the foundations of hismental life are laid. The structure erected on this foundation, however, isthe product of man's social environment. As a social being, he inheritsmental capacities, and all the instruments of mental, moral and socialdevelopment, as these have been produced in the past. The social structuretakes up and preserves the results of individual effort; and socialcapacity enlarges mental and moral power quite beyond what mere inheritanceproduces. 

Lewes assigned as high a value to introspection as to observation inpsychology, and said that whatever place is assigned to the one inscientific method must be assigned to the other. He therefore accorded ahigh value to imagination and intuition, and to all ideal constructions oflife and its meanings which are based on science. All knowledge grows outof feeling, and must be expressible again in feeling, if it is to have anyvalue. Accordingly, man's life is of little value apart from sentiment, andthe emotional nature must always be satisfied. As Lewes begins hisphilosophy in feeling, he holds that the final object of philosophy is todevelop feeling into a perfect expression, in accordance with the idealwants of man's nature. In other words, the final and supreme object ofphilosophy is the expression of religion and the founding of a moral andspiritual system of life. He believed that religion will continue toregulate the evolution of humanity, and in "a religion founded on scienceand expressing at each stage what is known of the world and of man. " Asmuch as any zealous Christian believer he accepted man's need of spiritualculture and religious development. At the same time, his philosophyrejected a substantive absolute, or any other spiritual realities orexistences apart from the universe given in feeling and consciousness. Accordingly, man must find his ideal satisfactions, his spiritual realitiesand moral ideals, within the limits of the universe as known to philosophy, and in the organic life of the race. 

George Eliot was also largely influenced by the teachings of Auguste Comte. The place he assigned to positive knowledge and the inductive method, tofeeling, to development and the influence of the past upon the present, were all accepted by her in an enthusiastic spirit. Altruism commanded herhearty belief, and to its principles she devoted her life. Comte'sconceptions in regard to sentiment, and the vital importance of religionand social organization, had her entire assent. She differed from him inregard to spiritual and social organization, and she could not accept hisarbitrary and artificial methods. One of the leaders of positivism inEngland [Footnote: Some Public Aspects of Positivism, the annual addressbefore the Postivist Society, London, January 1, 1881, by Professor E. G. Beesley, of University College. ] has given this account of her relations toits organized movements and to its founder:

"Her powerful intellect had accepted the teaching of Auguste Comte, and shelooked forward to the reorganization of belief on the lines which he hadlaid down. Her study of his two great works was diligent and constant. Thelast time I saw her--a few days before her death--I found that she had justbeen reading over again, with closest attention, that wonderful treatise, _The General View of Positivism_, a book which always seems full of freshwisdom, however often one comes back to it. She had her reservations, nodoubt. There were details in Comte's work which did not satisfy her. Butall who knew her were aware--and I speak from an acquaintance of eighteenyears--that she had not only cast away every shred of theology andmetaphysics, but that she had found refuge from mere negativism in thesystem of Comte. She did not write her positivism in broad characters onher books. Like Shakspere, she was first an artist and then a philosopher;and I imagine she thought it to be her business as an artist rather topaint humanity as it is than as she would have it to be. But she could notconceal her intellectual conviction, and few competent persons read herbooks without detecting her standpoint. If any doubt could have existed, itwas set at rest by that noble poem on 'Subjective Immortality, ' theclearest, and at the same time the most beautiful, expression that has yetbeen given to one of the most distinctive doctrines of positivism; acomposition of which we can already say with certainty that it will enterinto the positivist liturgies of all countries and through all time. Towards positivism as an organization, a discipline, --in short, as achurch, --her attitude must be plainly stated. She had much sympathy withit, as she showed by regularly subscribing to positivist objects, as, forinstance, to the fund of the central organization in Paris presided over byM. Laffitte. But she sought membership neither in that nor any otherchurch. Like most of the stronger and thoroughly emancipated minds in thisperiod of transition and revolutionary disturbance, she looked not beyondher own conscience for guidance and authority, but judged for herself, appealing to no external tribunal from the solitary judgment-seat within. Ido not for a moment suppose that she looked on the organization of a churchas unattainable; but she did not regard it as attained. "

Another of her friends [Footnote: W. M. W. Call in the Westminster Reviewfor July, 1881. ] has indicated very clearly the nature and extent of herdissent from Comte. He remarks that "her apologetic representation of the_Politique_ as an _Utopia_ evinces that she did not admit the cogency ofits reasoning, or regard the entire social reconstruction of Comte asdemonstrably valid. Her dissatisfaction with some of his speculations, asexpressed to ourselves in the spring of 1880, was very decided.... Allmembership with the positivist community she steadily rejected. That aphilosophy originally so catholic as that of Comte should assume asectarian character, was a contingency she foreboded and deprecated. " Inthis last remark we doubtless have the explanation of George Eliot'sdissent from Comte. She believed in an organic, vital development of ahigher social structure, which will be brought about in the gradualevolution of humanity. Comte's social structure was artificial, theconception of one mind, and therefore as ill adapted to represent the wantsof mankind as any other system devised by an individual thinker. Hisphilosophy proper, his system of positive; thought, she accepted with butfew reservations. Her views in this direction, as in many others, weresubstantially those presented by Lewes in his many works bearing onpositivism. She was profoundly indebted to Comte, although in her lateryears she largely passed beyond his influence to the acceptance of the newevolution philosophy. In fact, she belonged to that school of Englishpositivists which has only accepted the positive philosophy of Comte, andwhich has rejected his later work in the direction of social and religiousconstruction. Lewes was the earliest of English thinkers to look at Comtein this way; but other representative members of the school are John StuartMill, George Eliot, Frederic Harrison and John Morley. Zealously acceptingComte's position that philosophy must limit itself to positive data andmethods, they look upon the "Religion of Humanity, " with Prof. Tyndall, asCatholicism minus Christianity, and reject it. 

She certainly came nearer to Comte in some directions than to HerbertSpencer, for the latter has not so fully recognized those elements of themental and social life which most attracted her attention. Her theory ofduty is one which he does not accept. He insists in his _Data of Ethics_that duty will become less and less _obligatory_ and necessary in thefuture, because all action will be in harmony with the impulses of theinner man and with the conditions of the environment. This conclusion isentirely opposed to the moral-theory of George Eliot, and is but oneinstance of their wide divergence. He insists, in his _Study of Sociology_, that the religious consciousness will not change its lines of evolution. Hedistinctly rejects the conclusion arrived at by George Eliot, that there isno Infinite Reality knowable to man, and that the substance and reality ofreligion is purely subjective. "That the object-matter of religion, " hesays, "can be replaced by another object-matter, as supposed by those whothink the 'religion of humanity' will be the religion of the future, is abelief countenanced neither by induction nor by deduction. However dominantmay become the moral sentiment enlisted on behalf of humanity, it can neverexclude the sentiment alone properly called religious, awakened by thatwhich is behind humanity and behind all other things. " George Eliot wascontent with humanity, and believed that all religion arises out of thesubjective elements of human life. At the same time that she made religiona development from feeling, she limited the moral law to emotionalsanctions. On the contrary, Spencer is much more a rationalist, and insistson the intellectual basis both of morals and of religion. He makes less offeeling than she; and in this fact is to be found a wide gulf of separationbetween them. She could have been no more content with his philosophy thanshe was indebted to it in the construction of her own. As much one as theyare in their philosophic basis and general methods, they are antagonisticin their conceptions about man and in the place assigned to nature in thedevelopment of religion. To George Eliot, religion is the development offeeling. To Spencer, it is the result of our "_thought_ of a power of whichhumanity is but a small and fugitive product. " In these, as in otherdirections, they were not in sympathy. Her realism, her psychologic method, her philosophic theories, her scientific sympathies, she did not derivefrom him, diligently as she may have studied his books. 

George Eliot agreed with Comte and all other positivists in setting asideevery inquiry into causes, and limiting philosophy to the search afterlaws. The idea of causes is idealistic, and a cause of any kind whateveris, according to these thinkers, not to be found. "The knowledge of laws, "says Comte, "is henceforth to take the place of the search after causes. "In other words, it is impossible for man to find out _why_ anything is, hecan only know _how_ it is. George Eliot entirely agreed with Comte as tothe universal dominion of law. She also followed him in his teachings aboutheredity, which he held to be the cause of social unity, morality, and thehigher or subjective life. His conception of feeling as the highestexpression of human life confirmed the conclusions to which she had alreadyarrived from the study of Feuerbach. She was an enthusiastic believer inthe Great Being, Humanity; she worshipped at that shrine. More to her thanall other beliefs was her belief that we are to live for others. With Comteshe said, "Altruism alone can enable us to live in the highest and truestsense. " She would have all our doctrines about _rights_ eliminated frommorality and politics. They are as absurd, says Comte, as they are immoral. 

George Eliot had a strong tendency towards philosophical speculations. While yet a student she expressed an ardent desire that she might live toreconcile the philosophy of Locke with that of Kant. In positivism, asdeveloped and modified by Lewes, she found that reconciliation. She wentfar towards accepting the boldest speculations of the agnostic science ofthe time, but she modified it again and again to meet the needs of her ownbroader mind and heart. Yet it is related of her that in parting with oneof the greatest English poets, probably Tennyson, when he said to her, "Well, good-by, you and your molecules, " she replied, "I am quite contentwith my molecules. " Her speculations led to the rejection of anything likea positive belief in God, to an entire rejection of faith in a personalimmortality, and to a repudiation of all idealistic conceptions ofknowledge derived from supersensuous sources. Her theories are bestrepresented by the words environment, experience, heredity, development, altruism, solidarité, subjective immortality. These speculations confrontthe reader in nearly every chapter of her novels, and they gave existenceto all but a very few of her poems. 

X. 

DISTINCTIVE TEACHINGS. 

Science was accepted by George Eliot as furnishing the method and the prooffor her philosophic and religious opinions. She was in hearty sympathy withSpencer and Darwin in regard to most of their speculations, and thedoctrine of evolution was one which entirely approved itself to her mind. All her theories were based fundamentally on the hypothesis of universallaw, which she probably interpreted with Lewes, in his _Foundations of aCreed_, as the uniformities of Infinite Activity. Not only in the physicalworld did she see law reigning, but also in every phase of the moral andspiritual life of man. In reviewing Lecky's _Rationalism in Europe_, sheused these suggestive words concerning the uniformity of sequences shebelieved to be universal in the fullest sense:

 The supremely important fact that the gradual reduction of all phenomena within the sphere of established law, which carries as a consequence the rejection of the miraculous, and has its determining current in the development of physical science, seems to have engaged comparatively little of his attention; at least he gives it no prominence. The great conception of uniform regular sequence, without partiality and without caprice--the conception which is the most potent force at work in the modification of our faith, and of the practical form given to our sentiments--could only grow out of that patient watching of external fact, and that silencing of preconceived notions, which are urged upon the mind by the problems of physical science. [Footnote: Fortnightly Review, May, 1865. ]

The uniformities of nature have the effect upon man, through his nervousorganization, of developing a responsive feeling and action. He learns torespond to that uniformity, to conform his actions to it. The habits thusacquired are inherited by his children, and moral conduct is developed. Heredity has as conspicuous a place in the novels of George Eliot as in thescientific treatises of Charles Darwin. She has attempted to indicate themoral and social influences of heredity, that it gives us the better partof our life in all directions. Heredity is but one phase of the uniformityof nature and the persistence of its forces. That uniformity never changesfor man; his life it entirely ignores. He is crushed by its forces; he isgiven pain and sorrow through its unpitying disregard of his tender nature. Not only the physical world, but the moral world also, is unfailing in thedevelopment of the legitimate sequences of its forces. There is nocessation of activity, no turning aside of consequences, no delay in thetransformation of causes into necessary effects. 

George Eliot never swerves from this conception of the universe, physicaland moral; everywhere cause is but another name for effect. The unbendingorder adopts man into its processes, helps him when he conforms to them, and gives him pain when he disregards them. The whole secret of man'sexistence is to be found in the agreement of his life with the invariablesequences of nature and moral activity; harmony with them brings truedevelopment, discord brings pain and sorrow. The unbending nature of law, and man's relations to it, she has portrayed in "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story, "when describing Tina's sorrows. 

 While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavy for it, Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and terrible beauty. The stars were rushing in their eternal courses; the tides swelled to the level of the last expectant weed; the sun was making brilliant day to busy nations oil the other side of the expectant earth. The stream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broadening onward. The astronomer was at his telescope; the great ships were laboring over the waves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the fierce spirit of revolution, were only ebbing in brief rest, and sleepless statesmen were dreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina and her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown to another? Lighter than the smallest centre of quivering life in the water-drop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breast of the tiniest bird that has fluttered down to its nest with the long-sought food, and has found the nest torn and empty. 

The effect of the uniformities of nature upon man, as George Eliot regardedthem, is not quite that which would be inferred from these words alone. While she believed that nature is as unbending and pitiless as is hereindicated, yet that unbending uniformity, which never changes its directionfor man, is a large influence towards the development of his higher life. It has the effect on man to develop feeling which is the expression of allthat is best and most human in his life. 

George Eliot believed that the better and nobler part of man's life is tobe found in feeling. It is the first expression which he makes as asentient being, to have emotions; and his emotions more truly represent himthan the purely intellectual processes of the mind. She would have usbelieve that feeling is rather to be trusted than the intellect, that it isboth a safer and a surer guide. In _Middlemarch_ she says that "our gooddepends on the quality and breadth of our emotions. " Her conception of thecomparative worth of feeling and logic is expressed in _Romola_ with acharacteristic touch. 

 After all has been said that can be said about the widening influence of ideas, it remains true that they would hardly be such strong agents unless they were taken in a solvent of feeling. The great world-struggle of developing thought is continually foreshadowed in the struggle of the affections, seeking a justification for love and hope. 

In _Daniel Deronda_, when considering the causes which prevent men fromdesecrating their fathers' tombs for material gain, she says, "The onlycheck to be alleged is a sentiment, which will coerce none who do not holdthat sentiments are the better part of the world's wealth. " To the sameeffect is her saying in _Theophrastus Such_, that "our civilization, considered as a splendid material fabric, is helplessly in peril withoutthe spiritual police of sentiments or ideal feelings. " She expresses theconviction in _Adam Bede_, that "it is possible to have very erroneoustheories and very sublime feelings;" and she does not hesitate throughall her writings to convey the idea, that sublime feelings are much tobe preferred to profound thoughts or the most perfect philosophy. Shemakes Adam Bede say that "it isn't notions sets people doing the rightthing--it's feelings, " and that "feeling's a sort o' knowledge. " Feelinggives us the only true knowledge we have of our fellow-men, a knowledgein every way more perfect than that which is to be derived from ourintellectual inquiries into their natures and wants. In _Janet'sRepentance_ this power of feeling to give us true knowledge of others, to awaken us to the deeper needs of our own souls, when we come in contactwith those who are able to move and inspire us, is eloquently presented. 

 Blessed influence of one true loving human soul on another! Not calculable by algebra, not deducible by logic, but mysterious, effectual, mighty as the hidden process by which the tiny seed is quickened, and bursts forth into tall stem and broad leaf, and glowing tasselled flower. Ideas are often poor ghosts; our sun-filled eyes cannot discern them; they pass athwart us in thin vapor, and cannot make themselves felt. But sometimes they are made flesh; they breathe upon us with warm breath; they touch us with soft responsive hands; they look at us with sad, sincere eyes, and speak to us in appealing tones; they are clothed in a living human soul, with all its conflicts, its faith and its love. Then their presence is a power; then they shake us like a passion, and we are drawn after them with gentle compulsion, as flame is drawn to flame. [Footnote: Chapter XIX. ]

She returns to the same subject when considering the intellectual theoriesof happiness and the proportion of crime there is likely to occur in theworld. She shows her entire dissent from such a method of dealing withhuman woe, and she pleads for that sympathy and love which will enable usto feel the pain of others as our own. This fellow-feeling gives us themost adequate knowledge we can have. 

 It was probably a hard saying to the Pharisees, that "there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance. " And certain ingenious philosophers of our own day must surely take offence at a joy so entirely out of correspondence with arithmetical proportion. But a heart that has been taught by its own sore struggles to bleed for the woes of another--that has "learned pity through suffering"--is likely to find very imperfect satisfaction in the "balance of happiness, " "doctrine of compensations, " and other short and easy methods of obtaining thorough complacency in the presence of pain; and for such a heart that saying will not be altogether dark. The emotions I have observed are but slightly influenced by arithmetical considerations: the mother, when her sweet lisping little ones have all been taken from her one after another, and she is hanging over her last dead babe, finds small consolation in the fact that the tiny dimpled corpse is but one of a necessary average, and that a thousand other babes brought into the world at the same time are doing well, and are likely to live; and if you stood beside that mother--if you knew her pang and shared it--it is probable you would be equally unable to see a ground of complacency in statistics. Doubtless a complacency resting on that basis is highly rational; but emotion, I fear, is obstinately irrational; it insists on caring for individuals; it absolutely refuses to adopt the quantitative view of human anguish, and to admit that thirteen happy lives are a set-off against twelve miserable lives, which leaves a clear balance on the side of satisfaction. This is the inherent imbecility of feeling, and one must be a great philosopher to have got quite clear of all that, and to have emerged into the serene air of pure intellect, in which it is evident that individuals really exist for no other purpose than that abstractions maybe drawn from them--abstractions that may rise from heaps of ruined lives like the sweet savor of a sacrifice in the nostrils of philosophers, and of a philosophic Deity. And so it comes to pass that for the man who knows sympathy because he has known sorrow, that old, old saying about the joy of angels over the repentant sinner outweighing their joy over the ninety-nine just, has a meaning which does not jar with the language of his own heart. It only tells him that for angels too there is a transcendent value in human pain which refuses to be settled by equations; that the eyes of angels too are turned away from the serene happiness of the righteous to bend with yearning pity on the poor erring soul wandering in the desert where no water is; that for angels too the misery of one casts so tremendous a shadow as to eclipse the bliss of ninety-nine. [Footnote: Chapter XXII. ]

Again, she says in the same story, --

 Surely, surely the only true knowledge of our fellow-man is that which enables us to feel with him--which gives us a fine ear for the heart-pulses that are beating under the mere clothes of circumstance and opinion. Our subtlest analogies of schools and sects must miss the essential truth, unless it be lit up by the love that sees in all forms of human thought and-work the life-and-death struggles of separate human beings. 

George Eliot would have us believe, that until we can feel with man, enter sympathetically into his emotions and yearnings, we cannot knowhim. It is because we have common emotions, common experiences, commonaspirations, that we are really able to understand man; and not because ofstatistics, natural history, sociology or psychology. The objective factshave their place and value, but the real knowledge we possess of mankind issubjective, grows out of fellow-feeling. 

The mental life of man, according to George Eliot, is simply an expansionof the emotional life. At first the mental life is unconscious, it isinstinctive, simply the emotional response of man to the sequences ofnature. This instinctive life of the emotions always remains a better partof our natures, and is to be trusted rather than the more formal activitiesof the intellectual faculties. In the most highly developed intellectseven, there is a subconscious mental activity, an instinctive life offeeling, which is rather to be trusted than reason itself. This is afrequently recurring statement, which George Eliot makes in the firmestconviction of its truthfulness. It appears in such a sentence as this, in_The Mill on the Floss_: "Watch your own speech, and notice how it isguided by your less conscious purposes. " In _Daniel Deronda_ it findsexpression in the assertion that "there is a great deal of unmapped countrywithin us which would have to be taken into account in an explanation ofour gusts and storms. " It is more explicitly presented in _Adam Bede_. 

 Do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulses by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must still say that our highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us. 

George Eliot puts into the mouth of Mordecai the assertion that love liesdeeper than any reasons which are to be found for its exercise. In the sameway, she would have us believe that feeling is safer than reason. DanielDeronda questions Mordecai's visions, and doubts if he is worth listeningto, except for pity's sake. On this the author comments, in defence of thevisions, as against reason. 

 Suppose he had introduced himself as one of the strictest reasoners: do they form a body of men hitherto free from false conclusions and illusory speculations? The driest argument has its hallucinations, too hastily concluding that its net will now at last be large enough to hold the universe. Men may dream in demonstrations, and cut out an illusory world in the shape of axioms, definitions and propositions, with a final exclusion of fact signed Q. E. D. No formulas for thinking will save us mortals from mistake in our imperfect apprehension of the matter to be thought about. And since the unemotional intellect may carry us into a mathematical dream-land where nothing is but what is not, perhaps an emotional intellect may have absorbed into its passionate vision of possibilities some truth of what will be--the more comprehensive massive life feeding theory with new material, as the sensibility of the artist seizes combinations which science explains and justifies. At any rate, presumptions to the contrary are not to be trusted. [Footnote: Chapter XLI. ]

As explicit is a passage in _Theophrastus Such_, wherein imagination isregarded as a means of knowledge, because it rests on a subconsciousexpression of experience. 

 It is worth repeating that powerful imagination is not false outward vision, but intense inward representation, and a creative energy constantly fed by susceptibility to the veriest minutiae of experience, which it reproduces and constructs in fresh and fresh wholes; not the habitual confusion of probable fact with the fictions of fancy and transient inclination, but a breadth of ideal association which informs every material object, every incidental fact, with far-reaching memories and stored residues of passion, bringing into new light the less obvious relations of human existence. [Footnote: Chapter XIII. ]

Imagination, feeling and the whole inward life are being constantly shapedby our actions. Experience gives new character to the inward life, and atthe same time determines its motives and its inclinations. The musclesdevelop as they are used; what has been once done it is easier to do again. In the same way, our deeds influence our lives, and compel us to repeat ouractions. At least this is George Eliot's opinion, and one she is fond ofre-affirming. After Arthur had wronged Hetty, his life was changed, and ofthis change wrought in his character by his conduct, George Eliot says, --

 Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds; and until we know what has been or will be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts which constitute a man's critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in our deeds which may at first turn the honest man into a deceiver, and then reconcile him to the change; for this reason--that the second wrong presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The action which before commission has been seen with that blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the soul, is looked at afterward with the lens of apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a _fait accompli_, and so does an individual character--until the placid adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution. [Footnote: Chapter XXIX. ]

What we have done, determines what we shall do, even in opposition toour wills. After Tito Melema had done his first act towards denying hisfoster-father, we have this observation of the author's:

 Our deeds are like children that are born to us; they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never; they have an indestructible life both in and out of our consciousness; and that dreadful vitality of deeds was pressing hard on Tito for the first time. 

When Tito had openly denied that father, at an unexpected moment, we hearthe ever-present chorus repeating this great ethical truth:

 Tito was experiencing that inexorable law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds by the reiterated choice of good or evil that gradually determines character. 

As a river moves in the channel made for it, as a plant grows towards thesunlight, so man does again what he has once done. The impression of hisact is left upon his nature, it is taken up into his motives, it leads tofeeling and impulse, it repeats itself in future conduct. His deed lives inmemory, it lives in weakness or strength of impulse, it lives in disease orin health, it lives in mental listlessness or in mental vigor. What isdone, determines our natures in their character and tendency for thefuture. "A man can never separate himself from his past history, " saysGeorge Eliot in one of the mottoes of _Felix Holt_. We cannot rid ourselvesof the effects of our actions; they follow us forever. This truth takesshape in _Romola_ in these words:

 Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the life of mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to have once acted greatly, seems a reason why we should always be noble. But Tito was feeling the effect of an opposite tradition: he had now no memories of self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could have a sense of falling. 

A motto in _Daniel Deronda_ reiterates this oft-repeated assertion. 

 Deeds are the pulse of Time, his beating life, And righteous or unrighteous, being done, Must throb in after-throbs till Time itself Be laid in stillness, and the universe Quiver and breathe upon no mirror more. 

Feeling is to be preferred to logic, according to George Eliot, because itbrings us the results of long-accumulating experiences, because it embodiesthe inherited experiences of the race. She was an earnest believer in"far-reaching memories and stored residues of passion, " for she wasconvinced that the better part of all our knowledge is brought to us byinheritance. The deeds of the individual make the habits of his life, theyremain in memory, they guide the purposes of the will, and they givemotives to action. Deeds often repeated give impulse and direction tocharacter, and these appear in the offspring as predispositions of bodyand mind. In this way our deeds "throb in after-throbs" of our children;and in the same manner the deeds of a people live in the life of the raceand become guiding motives in its future deeds. As the deeds of a persondevelop into habits, so the deeds of a people develop into nationaltendencies and actions. 

George Eliot was a thorough believer in the Darwinian theories of heredity, and she has in all her books shown the effects of hereditary conditions onthe individual and even upon a people. Family and race are made to play avery important part in her writings. Other novelists disregard theconditions and limitations imposed by heredity, and consider the individualas unrestricted by other laws than those of his own will; but George Eliotgives conspicuous prominence to the laws of heredity, both individual andsocial. Felix Holt never ceases in her pages to be the son of his mother, however enlarged his ideas may become and broad his culture. Rosamond Vincyalso has a parentage, and so has Mary Garth. Daniel Deronda is a Jew bybirth, the son of a visionary mother and a truth-seeking father. Thisparentage expresses itself throughout his life, even in boyhood, in all histhought and conduct. Heredity shapes the destiny of Tito Melema, Romola, Fedalma, Maggie Tulliver, Will Ladislaw, Gwendolen Harleth and many anothercharacter in George Eliot's novels. It is even more strongly presented inher poems. In _The Spanish Gypsy_ she describes Fedalma as a genuinedaughter of her father, as inheriting his genius and tendencies, which arestronger than all the Spanish culture she had received. When Fedalma saysshe belongs to him she loves, and that love

 is nature too, Forming a fresher law than laws of birth, --

Zarca replies, --

 Unmake yourself, then, from a Zincala-- Unmake yourself from being child of mine! Take holy water, cross your dark skin white; Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks; Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe: Unmake yourself--doff all the eagle plumes And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his That you should prattle o'er his words again!

Fedalma cannot unmake herself; she has already danced in the plaza, and sheis soon convinced that she is a Zincala, that her place is with her fatherand his tribe. The Prior had declared, --

 That maiden's blood Is as unchristian as the leopard's, and it so proves. His statement of reasons for this conviction expressesthe author's own belief. 

 What! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips Descend through generations, and the soul That moves within our frame like God in worlds-- Convulsing, urging, melting, withering-- Imprint no record, leave no documents, Of her great history? Shall men bequeath The fancies of their palates to their sons, And shall the shudder of restraining awe, The slow-wept tears of contrite memory, Faith's prayerful labor, and the food divine Of fasts ecstatic--shall these pass away Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly? Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain, And god-enshrining symbols leave no trace Of tremors reverent?

This larger or social heredity is that which claims much the larger shareof George Eliot's attention, and it is far more clearly and distinctivelypresented in her writings. She gives a literary expression here to theteachings of the evolutionists, shows the application to life of what hasbeen taught by Spencer, Haeckel and Lewes. In his _Foundations of a Creed_, Lewes has stated this theory in discussing "the limitations of knowledge. ""It is indisputable, " he says, "that every particular man comes into theworld with a heritage of organized forms and definite tendencies, whichwill determine his feeling and thinking in certain definite ways, wheneverthe suitable conditions are present. And all who believe in evolutionbelieve that these forms and tendencies represent ancestral experiences andadaptations; believe that not only is the pointer born with an organizedtendency to point, the setter to set, the beaver to build, and the bird tofly, but that the man is born with a tendency to think in images andsymbols according to given relations and sequences which constitute logicallaws, that _what_ he thinks is the necessary product of his organism andthe external conditions. This organism itself is a product of its history;it _is_ what it has _become_; it is a part of the history of the humanrace; it is also specially individualized by the particular personalconditions which have distinguished him from his fellow-men. Thusresembling all men in general characters, he will in general feel asthey feel, think as they think; and differing from all men in specialcharacters, he will have personal differences of feeling and shades offeeling, thought and combinations of thought.... The mind is built upout of assimilated experiences, its perceptions being shaped by itspre-perceptions, its conceptions by its pre-conceptions. Like the body, the mind is shaped through its history. " In other words, experience isinherited and shapes the mental and social life. What some philosophershave called intuitions, and what Kant called the categories of the mind, Lewes regarded as the inherited results of human experience. By a slowprocess of evolution the mind has been produced and shaped into harmonywith its environment; the results of inherited experience take the form offeelings, intuitions, laws of thought and social tendencies. Its intuitionsare to be accepted as the highest knowledge, because the transmittedresults of all human experience. 

As the body performs those muscular operations most easily to which itis most accustomed, so men as social beings perform those acts and thinkthose thoughts most easily and naturally to which the race has been longestaccustomed. Man lives and thinks as man has lived and thought; he inheritsthe past. In his social life he is as much the child of the past as he isindividually the son of his father. If he inherits his father's physiognomyand habits of thought, so does he socially inherit the characteristics ofhis race, its social and moral life. George Eliot was profoundly convincedof the value of this fact, and she has presented it in her books in allits phases. In her _Fortnightly Review_ essay on "The Influence ofRationalism, " she says all large minds have long had "a vague sense" "thattradition is really the basis of our best life. " She says, "Our sentimentsmay be called organized traditions; and a large part of our actions gatherall their justification, all their attractions and aroma, from the memoryof the life lived, of the actions done, before we were born. " Tradition isthe inherited experience of the race, the result of its long efforts, itsmany struggles, after a larger life. It lives in the tendencies of ouremotions, in the intuitions and aspirations of our minds, as the wisdomwhich our minds hold dear, as the yearnings of our hearts after a widersocial life. These things are not the results of our own reasonings, butthey are the results of the life lived by those who have gone before us, and who, by their thoughts and deeds, have shaped our lives, our minds, towhat they are. Tradition is the inherited experience, feeling, yearning, pain, sorrow and wisdom of the ages. It furnishes a great system ofcustoms, laws, institutions, ideas, motives and feelings into which we areborn, which we naturally adopt, which gives shape and strength to ourgrowing life, which makes it possible for us to take up life at that stageit has reached after the experiences of many generations. George Eliot saysin _Middlemarch_ that "a kind Providence furnishes the limpest personalitywith a little gum or starch in the form of tradition. " We come into a worldmade ready for us, and find prepared for our immediate use a vast complexof customs and duties and ideas, the results of the world's experience. George Eliot believed, with Comte, that with each generation the influenceof the past over the present becomes greater, and that men's lives are moreand more shaped by what has been. In _The Spanish Gypsy_ she makes DonSilva say that

 The only better is a Past that lives On through an added Present, stretching still In hope unchecked by shaming memories To life's last breath. 

This deep conviction of the blessed influence of the past upon us is wellexpressed in the little poem on "Self and Life, " one of the most fullyautobiographical of all her poems, where she makes Life bid Self remember

 How the solemn, splendid Past O'er thy early widened earth Made grandeur, as on sunset cast Dark elms near take mighty girth. Hands and feet were tiny still When we knew the historic thrill, Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, Tasted the immortals' bread. 

In expressive sentences, in the development of her characters, and in manyother ways, she affirms this faith in tradition. In one of the mottoesin _Felix Holt_ she uses a fine sentence, which is repeated in "A MinorProphet. "

 Our finest hope is finest memory. 

The finest hope of the race is to be found in memory of its great deeds, asits saddest loss is to be found in forgetfulness of a noble past. In _TheMill on the Floss_, when describing St. Ogg's, she attributes its sordidand tedious life to its neglect of the past and its inspiring memories. 

 The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensively before or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and had no eyes for the spirits that walk the streets, Since the centuries when St. Ogg with his boat, and the Virgin Mother at the prow, had been seen on the wide water, so many memories had been left behind, and had gradually vanished like the receding hill-tops! And the present time was like the level plain where men lose their belief in volcanoes and earthquakes, thinking to-morrow will be as yesterday, and the giant forces that used to shake the earth are forever laid to sleep. The days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon by their faith, still less change it: the Catholics were formidable because they would lay hold of government and property, and burn men alive; not because any sane and honest parishioner of St. Ogg's could be brought to believe in the Pope. One aged person remembered how a rude multitude had been swayed when John Wesley preached in the cattle-market; but for a long while it had not been expected of preachers that they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burst of fervor in Dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism was the only symptom of a zeal unsuited to sober times when men had done with change. Protestantism sat at ease, unmindful of schisms, careless of proselytism; Dissent was an inheritance along with a superior pew and a business connection; and Churchmanship only wondered contemptuously at Dissent as a foolish habit that clung greatly to families in the grocery and chandlering lines, though not incompatible with prosperous wholesale dealing. [Footnote: Chapter XII. ]

This faith in tradition, as giving the basis of all our best life, isperhaps nowhere so expressively set forth by George Eliot as in _TheSpanish Gypsy_. It is distinctly taught by all the best characters in thewords they speak, and it is emphatically taught in the whole purpose andspirit of the poem. Zarca says his tribe has no great life because it hasno great national memories. He calls his people

 Wanderers whom no God took knowledge of To give them laws, to fight for them, or blight Another race to make them ampler room; Who have no whence or whither in their souls, No dimmest lure of glorious ancestors To make a common breath for piety. 

As his people are weak because they have no traditional life, he proposesby his deeds to make them national memories and hopes and aims. 

 No lure Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake The meagre wandering herd that lows for help-- And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. Because our race has no great memories, I will so live, it shall remember me For deeds of such divine beneficence As rivers have, that teach, men what is good By blessing them. I have been schooled--have caught Lore from Hebrew, deftness from the Moor-- Know the rich heritage, the milder life, Of nations fathered by a mighty Past. 

The way in which such a past is made is suggested by Zarca, in answer to aquestion about the Gypsy's faith; it is made by a common life of faith andbrotherhood, that gives origin to a common inheritance and memories. 

 O, it is a faith Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts Faith to each other: the fidelity Of fellow-wanderers in a desert place Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share The scanty water: the fidelity Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, The speech that even in lying tells the truth Of heritage inevitable as birth, Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel The mystic stirring of a common life Which makes the many one: fidelity To that deep consecrating oath our sponsor Fate Made through our infant breath when we were born The fellow-heirs of that small island, Life, Where we must dig and sow and reap with brothers. Fear thou that oath, my daughter--nay, not fear, But love it; for the sanctity of oaths Lies not in lightning that avenges them, But in the injury wrought by broken bonds And in the garnered good of human trust. And you have sworn--even with your infant breath You too were pledged. 

George Eliot's faith in tradition, as furnishing the basis of our bestlife, and the moral purpose and law which is to guide it, she hasconcentrated into one question asked by Maggie Tulliver. 

 If the past is not to bind us, where can duty lie? We should have no law but the inclination of the moment. 

Although this question is asked in regard to an individual's past, theanswer to it holds quite as good for the race as for the individual. Sherepudiates all theories which give the individual authority to followinclination, or even to follow some inner or personal guide. The truewisdom is always social, always grows out of the experiences of the race, and not out of any personal inspiration or enlightenment. Traditionfurnishes the materials for reason to use, but reason does not penetrateinto new regions, or bring to us wisdom apart from that we obtain throughinherited experiences. George Eliot compares these two with each other in_The Spanish Gypsy_ in the words of Sephardo. 

 I abide By that wise spirit of listening reverence Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. For Truth, to us, is like a living child Born of two parents: if the parents part And will divide the child, how shall it live? Or, I will rather say: Two angels guide The path of man, both aged and yet young, As angels are, ripening through endless years. On one he leans: some call her Memory, And some, Tradition; and her voice is sweet, With deep mysterious accords: the other, Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams A light divine and searching on the earth, Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked But for Tradition; we walk evermore To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp. 

Man leans on tradition, it is the support of his life, by its strength heis able to move forward. Reason is a lamp which lights the way, givesdirection to tradition; it is a beacon and not a support. Tradition notonly brings us the wisdom of all past experience, but it develops into aspiritual atmosphere in which we live, move and have our being. This wasComte's idea, that the spiritual life is developed out of tradition, thatthe world's experiences have produced for us intangible hopes, yearningsand aspirations; awe, reverence and sense of subtle mystery: mystic trust, faith in invisible memories, joy in the unseen power of thought and love;and that these create for us a spiritual world most real in its nature, andmost powerful in its influence. On every hand man is touched by theinvisible, mystical influences of the past, spiritual voices call to himout of the ages, unseen hands point the way he is to go. He breathes thisatmosphere of spiritual memories, he is fed on thoughts other men have madefor his sustenance, he is inspired by the heroisms of ages gone before. Inan article in the _Westminster Review_ in July, 1856, on "The NaturalHistory of German Life, " in review of W. H. Riehl's books on the Germanpeasant, and on land and climate, she presents the idea that a people canbe understood only when we understand its history. Society, she says, hasdeveloped through many generations, and has built itself up in manymemories and associations. To change it we must change its traditions. Nothing can be done _de novo_; a fresh beginning cannot be had. The dreamof the French Revolution, that a new nation, a new life, a new morality, was to be created anew and fresh out of the cogitations of philosophers, isnot in any sense to be realized. Tradition forever asserts itself, the pastis more powerful than all philosophers, and new traditions must be madebefore a new life can be had for society. These ideas are well expressed byGeorge Eliot in her review of Riehl's books. 

 He sees in European society _incarnate history_, and any attempt to disengage it from its historical elements must, he believes, be simply destruction of social vitality. What has grown up historically can only die out historically, by the gradual operation of necessary laws. The external conditions which society has inherited from the past are but the manifestation of inherited internal conditions in the human beings who compose it; the internal conditions and the external are related to each other as the organism and its medium, and development can take place only by the gradual consentaneous development of both. As a necessary preliminary to a purely rational society, you must obtain purely rational men, free from the sweet and bitter prejudices of hereditary affection and antipathy; which is as easy as to get running streams without springs, or the leafy shade of the forest without the secular growth of trunk and branch. 

 The historical conditions of society may be compared with those of language. It must be admitted that the language of cultivated nations is in anything but a rational state; the great sections of the civilized world are only approximately intelligible to each other, and even that, only at the cost of long study; one word stands for many things, and many words for one thing; the subtle shades of meaning, and still subtler echoes of association, make language an instrument which scarcely anything short of genius can wield with definiteness and certainty. Suppose, then, that the effort which has been again and again made to construct a universal language on a rational basis has at length succeeded, and that you have a language which has no uncertainty, no whims of idiom, no cumbrous forms, no fitful shimmer of many-hued significance, no hoary archaisms "familiar with forgotten years, "--a patent deodorized and non-resonant language, which effects the purpose of communication as perfectly and rapidly as algebraic signs. Your language may be a perfect medium of expression to science, but will never express _life_, which is a great deal more than science. With the anomalies and inconveniences of historical language, you will have parted with its music and its passion, with its vital qualities as an expression of individual character, with its subtle capabilities of wit, with everything that gives it power over the imagination; and the next step in simplification will be the invention of a talking watch, which will achieve the utmost facility and despatch in the communication of ideas by a graduated adjustment of ticks, to be represented in writing by a corresponding arrangement of dots. A "melancholy language of the future!" The sensory and motor nerves that run in the same sheath are scarcely bound together by a more necessary and delicate union than that which binds men's affections, imagination, wit and humor with the subtle ramifications of historical language. Language must be left to grow in precision, completeness and unity, as minds grow in clearness, comprehensiveness and sympathy. And there is an analogous relation between the moral tendencies of men and the social conditions they have inherited. The nature of European men has its roots intertwined with the past, and can only be developed by allowing those roots to remain undisturbed while the process of development is going on, until that perfect ripeness of the seed which carries with it a life independent of the root.... 

 It has not been sufficiently insisted on, that in the various branches of social science there is an advance from the general to the special, from the simple to the complex, analogous with that which is found in the series of the sciences, from mathematics to biology. To the laws of quantity comprised in mathematics and physics are superadded, in chemistry, laws of quality; to those again are added, in biology, laws of life; and lastly, the conditions of life in general branch out into its special conditions, or natural history, on the one hand, and into its abnormal conditions, or pathology, on the other. And in this series or ramification of the sciences, the more general science will not suffice to solve the problems of the more special. Chemistry embraces phenomena which are not explicable by physics; biology embraces phenomena which are not explicable by chemistry; and no biological generalization will enable us to predict the infinite specialties produced by the complexity of vital conditions. So social science, while it has departments which in their fundamental generality correspond to mathematics and physics, namely, those grand and simple generalizations which trace out the inevitable march of the human race as a whole, and, as a ramification of these, the laws of economical science, has also, in the departments of government and jurisprudence, which embrace the conditions of social life in all their complexity, what may be called its biology, carrying us on to innumerable special phenomena which outlie the sphere of science, and belong to natural history. And just as the most thorough acquaintance with physics, or chemistry, or general physiology, will not enable you at once to establish the balance of life in your private vivarium, so that your particular society of zoophytes, molluscs and echinoderms may feel themselves, as the Germans say, at ease in their skins; so the most complete equipment of theory will not enable a statesman or a political and social reformer to adjust his measures wisely, in the absence of a special acquaintance with the section of society for which he legislates, with the peculiar characteristics of the nation, the province, the class whose well-being he has to consult. In other words, a wise social policy must be based not simply on abstract social science but on the natural history of social bodies. 

Her conception of the corporate life of the nice has been clearly expressedby George Eliot in the concluding essay in _Theophrastus Such_. In thatessay she writes of the powerful influence wrought upon national life by"the divine gift of memory which inspires the moments with a past, apresent and a future, and gives the sense of corporate existence thatraises man above the otherwise more respectable and innocent brute. " Thenations which lead the world on to a larger civilization are not merelythose with most genius, originality, gift of invention or talent forscientific observation, but those which have the finest traditions. As amember of such a nation, the individual can be noble and great. We shouldalmost be persuaded, reading George Eliot's eloquent rhetoric on thissubject, that personal genius is of little moment in comparison with a richinheritance of national memories. It is indeed true that Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton and Shakspere have used the traditions of their people forthe materials of their immortal works, but what would those traditions havebeen without the genius of the men who deal with the traditions in afashion quite their own, giving them new meaning and vitality! The poet, however, needs materials for his song, and memories to inspire it. Theinfluence of these George Eliot well understands in calling them "the deepsuckers of healthy sentiment. "

 The historian guides us rightly in urging us to dwell on the virtues of our ancestors with emulation, and to cherish our sense of a common descent as a bond of obligation. The eminence, the nobleness of a people, depends on its capability of being stirred by memories, and for striving for what we call spiritual ends--ends which consist not in an immediate material possession, but in the satisfaction of a great feeling that animates the collective body as with one soul. A people having the seed of worthiness in it must feel an answering thrill when it is adjured by the deaths of its heroes who died to preserve its national existence; when it is reminded of its small beginnings and gradual growth through past labors and struggles, such as are still demanded of it in order that the freedom and well-being thus inherited may be transmitted unimpaired to children and children's children; when an appeal against the permission of injustice is made to great precedents in its history and to the better genius breathing in its institutions. It is this living force of sentiment in common which makes a national consciousness. Nations so moved will resist conquest with the very breasts of their women, will pay their millions and their blood to abolish slavery, will share privation in famine and all calamity, will produce poets to sing "some great story of a man, " and thinkers whose theories will bear the test of action. An individual man, to be harmoniously great, must belong to a nation of this order, if not in actual existence yet existing in the past--in memory, as a departed, invisible, beloved ideal, once a reality, and perhaps to be restored.... Not only the nobleness of a nation depends on the presence of this national consciousness, but also the nobleness of each individual citizen. Our dignity and rectitude are proportioned to our sense of relationship with something great, admirable, pregnant with high possibilities, worthy of sacrifice, a continual inspiration to self-repression and discipline by the presentation of aims larger and more attractive to our generous part than the securing of personal ease or prosperity. [Footnote: Theophrastus Such, chapter XVIII. ]

Zealous as is George Eliot's faith in tradition, she is broad-minded enoughto see that it is limited in its influence by at least two causes, --byreason and by the spirit of universal brotherhood. We have already seenthat she makes reason one of man's guides. In _Romola_ the right of theindividual to make a new course for action is distinctly expressed. Romolahad "the inspiring consciousness, " we are told, "that her lot was vitallyunited with the general lot which exalted even the minor details ofobligation into religion, " and so "she was marching with a great army, shewas feeling the stress of a common life. " Yet she began to feel that shemust not merely repeat the past; and the influence of Savonarola, inbreaking with Rome for the sake of a pure and holy life, inspired her. 

 To her, as to him, there had come one of those moments in life when the soul must dare to act on its own warrant, not only without external law to appeal to, but in face of a law which is not unarmed with divine lightnings--lightnings that may yet fall if the warrant has been false. 

It is reason's lamp by which "we walk evermore to higher paths;" and by itsaid, new deeds are to be done, new memories created, fresher traditionswoven into feeling and hope. National memories are to be superseded by thespirit of brotherhood, for, as the race advances, nations are broughtcloser to each other, have more in common, and development is made ofworld-wide traditions. Theophrastus Such, in the last of his essays, tellsus that "it is impossible to arrest the tendencies of things towards thequicker or slower fusion of races. "

The environment of her characters George Eliot makes of very greatimportance. She dwells upon the natural scenery which they love, butespecially does she magnify the importance of the social environment, andthe perpetual influence it has upon the whole of life. Mr. James Sully hasclearly interpreted her thought on this subject, and pointed out itsengrossing interest for her. 

"A character divorced from its surroundings is an abstraction. Apersonality is only a concrete living whole, when we attach it by a networkof organic filaments to its particular environment, physical and social. Our author evidently chooses her surroundings with strict regard to hercharacters. She paints nature less in its own beauty than in its specialaspect and significance for those whom she sets in its midst. 'The bushyhedgerows, ' 'the pool in the corner of the field where the grasses weredank, ' 'the sudden slope of the old marl-pit, making a red background forthe burdock'--these things are touched caressingly and lingered overbecause they are so much to the 'midland-bred souls' whose history is hererecorded; so much because of cumulative recollection reaching back to thetime when they 'toddled among' them, or perhaps 'learnt them by heartstanding between their father's knees while he drove leisurely. ' And whatapplies to the natural environment applies still more to those narrowersurroundings which men construct for themselves, and which form their dailyshelter, their work-shop, their place of social influence. The humaninterest which our author sheds about the mill, the carpenter's shop, thedairy, the village church, and even the stiff, uninviting conventicle, shows that she looks on these as having a living continuity with the peoplewhom she sets among them. Their artistic value is but a reflection of allthat they mean to those for whom they have made the nearer and habituallyenclosing world. " The larger influence in the environment of any person, according to George Eliot, is that which arises from tradition. Cut offfrom the sustenance given by tradition, the person loses the motives, thesupports of his life. This is well shown in the case of Silas Marner, whohad fled from his early home and all his life held dear. George Eliotdescribes the effect of such a change of environment. 

 Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible--nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas--where their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their souls have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old faith and love, have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with no memories. [Footnote: Chapter II. ]

She delights to return again and again to the influences produced upon usby the environment of childhood. In _The Mill on the Floss_ she tells ushow dear the earth becomes by such associations. 

 We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, --if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass--the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows--the same redbreasts that we used to call "God's birds, " because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, and _loved_ because it is known?

 The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet--what grove of tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home-scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricious hedgerows--such things as these are the mother tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, and transform our perception into love. [Footnote: Chapter V. ]

In the backward glance of _Theophrastus Such_ this anchorage of the life infamiliar associations is described as a source of our faith in thespiritual, even when all the childhood thoughts about those associationscannot be retained. 

 The illusions that began for us when we were less acquainted with evil have not lost their value when we discern them to be illusions. They feed the ideal better, and in loving them still, we strengthen, the precious habit of loving something not visibly, tangibly existent, but a spiritual product of our visible, tangible selves. 

In the evolution philosophy she found the reconciliation between Locke andKant which she so earnestly desired to discover in girlhood. The old schoolof experimentalists did not satisfy her with their philosophy; she sawthat the dictum that all knowledge is the result of sensation was notsatisfactory, that it was shallow and untrue. On the other hand, theintellectual intuition of Schelling was not acceptable, nor even Kant'scategories of the mind. She wished to know why the mind instinctivelythrows all experiences and thoughts under certain forms, and why it mustthink under certain general methods. She found what to her was a perfectlysatisfactory answer to these questions in the theory of evolution asdeveloped by Darwin and Spencer. Through the aid of these men she found thereconciliation between Locke and Kant, and discovered that both were wrongand both right. So familiar has this reconciliation become, and so wide isits acceptance, that no more than a mere hint of its meaning will be neededhere. This philosophy asserts, with Locke, that all knowledge begins insensation and experience; but with Kant, it affirms that knowledge passesbeyond experience and becomes intuitional. It differs from Kant as to thesource of the intuitions, pronouncing them the results of experience builtup into legitimate factors of the mind by heredity. Experience is inheritedand becomes intuitions. The intuitions are affirmed to be reliable, and, toa certain extent, sure indications of truth. They are the results, to usethe phrase adopted by Lewes, of "organized experience;" experience verifiedin the most effective manner in the organism which it creates and modifies. According to this philosophy, man must trust the results of experience, buthe can by no means be certain that those results correspond with actuality. They are actual for him, because it is impossible for him to go beyondtheir range. Within the little round created by "organized experience, "which is also Lewes's definition of science, man may trust his knowledge, because it is consistent with itself; but beyond that strict limit he canobtain no knowledge, and even knows that what is without it does notcorrespond with what is within it. In truth, man knows only the relative, not the absolute; he must rely on experience, not on creative reason. 

George Eliot would have us believe that the sources of life are not inward, but outward; not dependent on the deep affirmations of individual reason, or on the soul's inherent capacity to see what is true, but on the effectsof environment and the results of social experience. Man is not related toan infinite world of reason and spiritual truth, but only to a world ofuniversal law, hereditary conditions and social traditions. Invariable law, heredity, feeling, tradition; these words indicate the trend of GeorgeEliot's mind, and the narrow limitations of her philosophy. Man is not onlythe product of nature, but, according to this theory, nature limits hismoral capacity and the range of his mental activity. Environment isregarded as all-powerful, and the material world as the _source_ of suchtruth as we can know. In her powerful presentation of this philosophy oflife George Eliot indicates her great genius and her profound insight. Atthe same time, her work is limited, her genius cramped, and her imaginationcrippled, by a philosophy so narrow and a creed so inexpansive. 

XI. 

RELIGIOUS TENDENCIES. 

As a great literary creator, George Eliot holds a singular position inreference to religious beliefs. To most literary artists religion is avital part of life, which enters as a profound element into their teachingsor into their interpretations of character and incident. Religion deeplyaffects the writings of Tennyson, Browning and Ruskin; its problems, itshopes, its elements of mystery and infinity touch all their pages. In anequal degree, though with a further departure from accredited beliefs, andwith a greater effect from philosophical or humanitarian influences, has itwrought itself into the genius of Goethe, Carlyle and Hugo. Even the pagesof Voltaire, Shelley and Heine have been touched by its magic influence;their words glow with its great interests, and bloom into beauty throughits inspiration. None of these is more affected by religion than GeorgeEliot has been; nor does it form a greater element in their writings thanin hers. 

What is singular about George Eliot's position is, that she both affirmsand denies; she is deeply religious and yet rejects all religiousdoctrines. No writer of the century has given religion a more importantrelation to human interests or made it a larger element in his creativework; and yet no other literary artist has so completely rejected allpositive belief in God and immortality. In her books she depicts everyphase of religious belief and life, and with sympathy and appreciation. Avery large proportion of her characters are clergymen or other religiouspersons, who are described with accuracy and sympathy. Her own faith, thetheory of religion she accepts, is not given to any of her characters. Whatshe believes, appears only in her comments, and in the general effect whichlife produces on the persons she describes. She believed Christianity issubjectively true, that it is a fit expression of the inner nature and ofthe spiritual wants of the soul. She did not propagate the pantheism ofSpinoza or the theism of Francis Newman, because she did not regard them asso near the truth as the Christianity of Paul. As intellectual theoriesthey may have been preferable to her, but from the outlook of feeling whichshe ever occupied, Paul was the truer teacher, and especially because histeachings are linked with the spiritual desires and outpourings of manygenerations. The spontaneous movements of the human mind, which have takenpossession of vast numbers of people through long periods of time, have adepth of meaning which the speculations of no individual theorizer can everpossess. Especially did she regard Christianity as a pure and nobleexpression of the soul's inner wants and aspirations. It is an objectiverealization of feeling and sentiment, it gives purpose and meaning to man'scravings for a diviner life, it links generation to generation in acontinued series of beautiful traditions and noble inspirations. Herintellectual view of the subject was expressed to a friend in these words:

 Deism seems to me the most incoherent of all systems, but to Christianity I feel no objection but its want of evidence. 

She also expressed more sympathy with the simple faith of the multitudethan with the intellectual speculations of philosophers and theologians;and again, she said that she felt more sympathy with than divergence fromthe narrowest and least cultivated believer in Christianity. As a vehicleof the accumulated hopes and traditions of the world's feeling and sorrowshe appreciated Christianity, saw its beauty, felt deeply in sympathy withits spirit of renunciation, accepted its ideal of a divine life. Shelearned from Feuerbach that religion, that Christianity, gives fitexpression to the emotional life and spiritual aspirations of man, and thatwhat it finds within in no degree corresponds with that which surrounds manwithout. 

Barren and lifeless as this view must seem to most persons, it was a sourceof great confidence and inspiration to George Eliot. It enabled her toappreciate the religious experiences of men, to portray most accurately andsympathetically a great variety of religious believers, and to give thisside of life its place and proportion. At the same time, it was a personalsatisfaction to her to be able to keep in unbroken sympathy with thereligious experiences of her childhood and youth while intellectuallyunable to accept the beliefs on which these experiences rested. More thanthis, she believed that religion and spirituality of life are necessaryelements of human existence, that man can never cast them off, and that manwill lead a happy and harmonious life only when they have a true andfitting expression in his culture and civilization. She maintained, withSara Hennell, that we may retain the religious sentiments in all their glowand in all their depth of influence, at the same time that the doctrines oftheology and all those conceptions of nature and man on which they rest arerejected; that we may have a disposition of the heart akin to that of theprophets and saints of religion, while we intellectually cast aside allwhich gave meaning to their faith and devotion. According to George Eliot, religion rests upon feeling and the relations of man to humanity, as wellas upon his irreversible relations to the universe. In _The Mill on theFloss_ she has given a definition of it, in speaking of Maggie's want of

 that knowledge of the irreversible laws within and without her, which, governing the habits, becomes morality, and developing the feelings of submission and dependence, becomes religion. [Footnote: Book IV. , chapter III. ]

It is the human side of religion which interests George Eliot, itsinfluence morally, its sympathetic impulse, its power to comfort andconsole. Its supernatural elements seem to have little influence over hermind, at least only so far as they serve the moral aims of life. It ishumanity which attracts her mind, inspires her ideal hopes, kindles herenthusiasms. Religion, apart from human encouragement and elevation, thesuppression of human sin and sorrow, and the increase of human sympathy andjoy, has little attraction for her. She takes no ground of opposition tothe beliefs of others, expresses no contempt for any form of belief in God;but she measures all beliefs by their moral influence and their power toenkindle the enthusiasm of humanity. 

The pantheistic theism defended by Lewes in his book on Comte, in 1853, seems to have been also accepted by George Eliot. We are told that her mindlong wavered between the two, though pantheism was less acceptable thantheism, on account of its moral indifference. It was undoubtedly the moralbearings of the subject which all the time had the greatest weight withher, and probably Kant's position had not a little effect on her opinions. She came, at least, to find final satisfaction in agnosticism, to believethat all intellectual speculations on the subject are in vain. At the sametime, her moral convictions grew stronger, and she believed in the power ofmoral activity to work out a solution of life when no other can be found. At this point she stood with Kant rather than with Comte, in accepting themoral nature as a true guide. She very zealously believed with Fichte in amoral order of the world, approving of the truth which underlies the wordsof Fichte's English disciple, Matthew Arnold, when he discourses of "theEternal, not ourselves, which makes for righteousness. " Her positiveconvictions and beliefs on the subject lie in this direction, and shefirmly accepted the idea of a moral order and purpose. So much she thoughtwe can know and rely on; beyond this she believed we can know nothing. Herlater convictions on this subject have been expressed in a graphic mannerby one of her friends. "I remember how, " says this person, "at Cambridge, I walked with her once in the Fellows' Garden, of Trinity, on an eveningof rainy May; and she, stirred somewhat beyond her wont, and taking as hertext the three words which have been used so often as the inspiringtrumpet-calls of man, --the words _God, Immortality, Duty_, --pronounced, with terrible emphasis, how inconceivable was the _first_, how unbelievablethe _second_, and yet how peremptory and absolute the _third_. Never, perhaps, have sterner accents affirmed the sovereignty of impersonal andunrecompensed law. I listened, and night fell; her grave, majesticcountenance turned towards me like a sibyl's in the gloom; it was as thoughshe withdrew from my grasp, one by one, the two scrolls of promise, andleft me the third scroll only, awful with inevitable fates. " [Footnote:F. W. H. Myers in The Century Magazine for November, 1881. ] All her laterwritings, at least, confirm this testimony to her assertion of theinconceivableness of God, and her open denial of faith in theism. Shecannot have gone so far as to assert the non-existence of God, affirmingonly that she could not conceive of such a being as actually existing. Shecould not believe in a personal God, but Lewes's conception of a dynamiclife was doubtless acceptable. 

With as much emphasis she pronounced immortality unbelievable. She earlyaccepted the theory of Charles Bray and Sara Hennell, that we livehereafter only in the life of the race. The moral bearings of the subjecthere also were most effective over her mind, for she felt that what weought most of all to consider is our relations to our fellow-men, and thatanother world can have little real effect upon our present living. In her_Westminster Review_ article on "Evangelical Teaching" as presented inYoung's _Night Thoughts_, she criticises the following declaration:--

 "Who tells me he denies his soul immortal, What'er his boast, has told me he's a knave. His duty 'tis to love himself alone, Nor care though mankind perish, if he smiles. "

Her comments on these lines of Young's are full of interest, in view of hersubsequent teachings, and they open an insight into her tendencies of mindvery helpful to those who would understand her fully. Her interest in allthat is human, her craving for a more perfect development of human sympathyand co-operation, are very clearly to be seen. 

 We may admit that if the better part of virtue consists, as Young appears to think, in contempt for mortal joys, in "meditation of our own decease, " and in "applause" of God in the style of a congratulatory address to Her Majesty--all which has small relation to the well-being of mankind on this earth--the motive to it must be gathered from something that lies quite outside the sphere of human sympathy. But, for certain other elements of virtue, which are of more obvious importance to untheological minds, --a delicate sense of our neighbor's rights, an active participation in the joys and sorrows of our fellow-men, a magnanimous acceptance of privation or suffering for ourselves when it is the condition of good to others, --in a word, the extension and intensification of our sympathetic nature, --we think it of some importance to contend that they have no more direct relation to the belief in a future state than the interchange of gases in the lungs has to the plurality of worlds. Nay, to us it is conceivable that in some minds the deep pathos lying in the thought of human mortality--that we are here for a little while and then vanish away, that this earthly life is all that is given to our loved ones and to our many suffering fellow-men--lies nearer the fountains of moral emotion than the conception of extended existence. And surely it ought to be a welcome fact, if the thought of _mortality_, as well as of immortality, be favorable to virtue. Do writers of sermons and religious novels prefer that we should be vicious in order that there may be a more evident political and social necessity for printed sermons and clerical fictions? Because learned gentlemen are theological, are we to have no more simple honesty and good-will? We can imagine that the proprietors of a patent water-supply have a dread of common springs; but, for our own part, we think there cannot be too great security against a lack of fresh water or of pure morality. To us it is a matter of unmixed rejoicing that this latter necessary of healthful life is independent of theological ink, and that its evolution is insured in the interaction of human souls as certainly as the evolution of science or art, with which, indeed, it is but a twin ray, melting into them with undefinable limits. 

The considerations here presented are very effective ones, and quite astruthful as effective. There are human supports for morality of the mostimportant and far-reaching character, and such as are outside of anytheological considerations. We ought, as George Eliot so well says, torejoice that the reasons for being moral are manifold, that sympathy withothers, as well as the central fires of personality, or the craving to bein harmony with the Eternal, is able to conduce to a righteous conduct. Herobjections to Young's narrow and selfish defence of immortality are wellpresented and powerful, but they do not touch such high considerations asthose offered by Kant. The craving for personal freedom and perfection isas strong and as helpful to the race as sympathy for others and yearning tolift up the weak and fallen. When the sense of personality is gone, manloses much of his character; and personality rests on a deep spiritualfoundation which does not mean egotism merely, but which does mean for themajority a conviction of a continued existence. The tendency of the presenttime is to dwell less upon the theological and more upon the human motivesto conduct; but it is to be doubted if the highest phases of morality canbe retained without belief in God and a future life. The common virtues, the sympathetic motives to conduct, the spirit of helpfulness, may beretained intact, and even increased in power and efficiency, by thosemotives George Eliot presents; but the loftier virtues of personal heroismand devotion to truth in the face of martyrdom of one form or another, thesaintly craving for purity and holiness, and the sturdy spirit of libertywhich will suffer no bonds to exist, can be had in their full developmentonly with belief that God calls us to seek for perfect harmony withhimself. Kant's view that a divine law within, the living word of God, calls ever to us as personal beings to attain the perfection of our naturesin the perfection of the race, and in conformity to the eternal law ofrighteousness, is far nobler and truer than that which George Eliotaccepted. 

She was not a mere unbeliever, however, for she did not thrust aside thehope of immortality with a contemptuous hand. This problem she left whereshe left that concerning God, in the background of thought, among thequestions which cannot be solved. She believed that the power to contributeto the future good of the race is hope and promise enough. At the sametime, she was very tender of the positive beliefs of others, and especiallyof that yearning so many feel after personal recognition and development. Writing to one who passionately clung to such a hope, she said, --

 I have no controversy with the faith that cries out and clings from the depths of man's need. I only long, if it were possible to me, to help in satisfying the need of those who want a reason for living in the absence of what has been called consolatory belief. But all the while I gather a sort of strength from the certainty that there must be limits or negations in my own moral powers and life experience which may screen from me many possibilities of blessedness for our suffering human nature. The most melancholy thought surely would be that we in our own persons had measured and exhausted the sources of spiritual good. But we know the poor help the poor. 

These words seem to be uttered in quite another tone than that in which sheasserted the unbelievableness of immortality, though they do not indicateanything more than a tender yearning for human good and a belief that shecould not herself measure all the possibilities of such good. Theconsolation of which she writes, comes only of human sympathy andhelpfulness. In writing to a friend suffering under the anguish of a recentbereavement, she said, --

 For the first sharp pangs there is no comfort;--whatever goodness may surround us, darkness and silence still hang about our pain. But slowly the clinging companionship with the dead is linked with our living affections and duties, and we begin to feel our sorrow as a solemn initiation preparing us for that sense of loving, pitying fellowship with the fullest human lot which, I must think, no one who has tasted it will deny to be the chief blessedness of our life. And especially to know what the last parting is, seems needful to give the utmost sanctity of tenderness to our relations with each other. It is that above all which gives us new sensibilities to "the web of human things, birth and the grave, that are not as they were. " And by that faith we come to find for ourselves the truth of the old declaration, that there is a difference between the ease of pleasure and blessedness, as the fullest good possible to us wondrously mixed mortals. 

In these words she suggests that sorrow for the dead is a solemn initiationinto that full measure of human sympathy and tenderness which best fits usto be men. Looking upon all human experience through feeling, she regardeddeath as one of the most powerful of all the shaping agents of man'sdestiny in this world. She speaks of death, in _Adam Bede, as "the greatreconciler" which unites us to those who have passed away from us. In theclosing scenes of _The Mill on the Floss it is presented as such areconciler, and as the only means of restoring Maggie to the affections ofthose she had wronged. It is in _The Legend of Jubal, however, that GeorgeEliot has expressed her thought of what death has been in the individualand social evolution of mankind. The descendants of Cain

 in glad idlesse throve, Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove;

but all was peace and joy with them. There were no great aspirations, nonoble achievements, no tending toward progress and a higher life. On anevil day, Lamech, when engaged in athletic sport, accidentally struck andkilled his fairest boy. All was then changed, the old love and peace passedaway; but good rather than evil came, for man began to lead a larger life. 

 And a new spirit from that hour came o'er The race of Cain: soft idlesse was no more, But even the sunshine had a heart of care, Smiling with hidden dread--a mother fair Who folding to her breast a dying child Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. Death was now lord of Life, and at his word Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, With measured wing now audibly arose Throbbing through all things to some unknown close. Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn, And Work grew eager, and Devise was born. It seemed the light was never loved before, Now each man said, "'Twill go and come no more. " No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, No form, no shadow, but new dearness took From the one thought that life must have an end; And the last parting now began to send Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss, Thrilling them into finer tenderness. Then Memory disclosed her face divine, That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, No space, no warmth, but moves among them all; Gone and yet here, and coming at each call, With ready voice and eyes that understand, And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed Of various life and action-shaping need. But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings Of new ambition, and the force that springs In passion beating on the shores of fate. They said, "There comes a night when all too late The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand, The eager thought behind closed portals stand, And the last wishes to the mute lips press Buried ere death in silent helplessness. Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, And while the arm is strong to strike and heave, Let soul and arm give shape that will abide And rule above our graves, and power divide With that great god of day, whose rays must bend As we shall make the moving shadows tend. Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, When we shall lie in darkness silently, As our young brother doth, whom yet we see Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will By that one image of him pale and still. "

Death brings discord and sorrow into a world once happy and unaspiring, butit also brings a spiritual eagerness and a divine craving. Jabal began totame the animals and to cultivate the soil, Tubal-Cain began to use fireand to work metals, while Jubal discovered song and invented musicalinstruments. Out of the longing and inner unrest which death brought, camethe great gift of music. It had power to

 Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep Where the dark sources of new passion sleep. 

Jubal passes to other lands to teach them the gift of song, but at lastreturns an old man to share in the affections of his people. He finds themcelebrating with great pomp the invention of music, but they will notaccept him as the Jubal they did honor to and believed dead. Then the voiceof his own past instructs him that he should not expect any praises orglory in his own person; it is enough to live in the joy of a worlduplifted by music. Thus instructed, his broken life succumbs. 

 Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, The All-creating Presence for his grave. 

In this poem George Eliot regards death as a means of drawing men into adeeper and truer sympathy with each other. The same thought is more fullypresented when she exultingly sings, --

 O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self. In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. 

Death teaches us to forget self, to live for others, to pour out unstintedsympathy and affection for those whose lives are short and difficult. It isthe same thought as that given in reply to Young; mortal sorrows and painsshould move us as hopes of immortality cannot. There accompanies this ideathe larger one, that our future life is to be found in the better life wemake for those who come after us. George Eliot believed with Comte, that weare to live again in minds made better by what we have done and been, thatan influence goes out from every helpful and good life which makes thelives of those who come after us fairer and grander. 

She rests this belief on no sentimental or ideal grounds. Its justificationis to be found in science, in the law of hereditary transmission. Darwinand Spencer base the great world-process of evolution on the two laws oftransmission and variation. The fittest survives, and the world advances. The survival of every fit and positive form of life in the better formswhich succeed it is in accordance with a process or a law which holds trueup into all the highest and subtlest expressions of man's inner life. Heredity is as true morally and spiritually as physically, and our moraland spiritual offspring will partake of our own qualities; and, standing onthe vantage ground of our lives, will rise higher than we. What GeorgeEliot regards as the positive teaching of science becomes also an inspiringreligious belief to her. 

George Eliot accepted the belief of an immortality in the race with a deepand earnest conviction. It gave a great impulse to her life, it satisfiedher craving for closer harmony and sympathy with her fellows, it satisfiedher longing for the power to assuage sorrow and to comfort pain. 

 So to live is heaven; To make undying music in the world, and to have an influence for good result from our lives far down thefuture. Through the beneficent influences we can awake in the world

 All our rarer, better, truer self. That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world, ... Shall live till human time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever. 

It was this belief, so satisfying to her and so ardently entertained, whichinspired the best and noblest of her poems. With an almost exultant joy, with the enthusiasm of an old-time devotee, she sings of that immortalitywhich consists in renouncing all which is personal. The diffusive goodwhich sweetens life for others through all time is the real heaven shesought. 

 This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty-- Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

Believing that humanity represents an organic life and development, it waseasy for George Eliot to accept the idea of immortality in the race. Shereverenced the voice of truth

 Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead. 

It was to her a divine voice, full of tenderness, sympathy and strength. She was fascinated by this thought of the solemn, ever-present andall-powerful influence of the dead over the living; there was mystery andinspiration in this belief for her. All phases of religious history, allreligious experiences, were by her interpreted in the light of thisconception. The power of Jesus's life is, that his trancendent beauty ofsoul lives in the "everlasting memories" of men, and that the cross of hisshame has become

 The sign Of death that turned to more diffusive life

His influence, his memory, has lifted up the world with a great effect, andmade his life, spirit and ideas an inherent part of humanity. He has beenengrafted into the organic life of the race, and lives there a mighty andan increasing influence. What has happened in his case happens in the caseof all the gifted and great. According to what they were living they enterinto the life of the world for weal or woe. To become an influence for goodin the future, to leave behind an undying impulse of thought and sympathy, was the ambition of George Eliot; and this was all the immortality shedesired. 

The religious tendencies of George Eliot's mind are rather to be noted inher conception of renunciation than in her beliefs about God andimmortality. These latter beliefs were of a negative character as sheentertained them, but her doctrine of renunciation was of a very positivenature. The central motive of that belief was not faith in God, but faithin man. It gained all its charm and power for her out of her conception ofthe organic life of the race. Her thought was, that we should live not forself, but for humanity. What so many ardent souls have been willing to dofor the glory of God she was willing to do for the uplifting of man. Thespirit of renunciation with her took the old theologic form of expressionto a considerable extent, associated itself in her thought with the loftyspiritual consecration and self-abnegation of other ages. So ardently didshe entertain this doctrine, so fully did she clothe it with the old formsof expression, that many have been deceived into believing her a devotedChristian. A little book was published in 1879 for the express purpose ofshowing that "the doctrine of the cross" is the main thought presentedthroughout all George Eliot's books. [Footnote: The Ethics of GeorgeEliot's Works. By the late John Crombie Brown. Edinburgh: William Blackwoodand Sons. 1879. ] This book was read by George Eliot with much delight, andwas regarded by her as the only criticism of her works which did fulljustice to her purpose in writing them. She is presented in that book asthe writer of fiction who "stands out as the deepest, broadest and mostcatholic illustrator of the true ethics of Christianity; the most earnestand persistent expositor of the true doctrine of the cross, that we areborn and should live to something higher than love of happiness. ""Self-sacrifice as the divine law of life, and its only true fulfilment;self-sacrifice, not in some ideal sphere sought out for ourselves in thevain spirit of self-pleasing, but wherever God has placed us, amid homely, petty anxieties, loves and sorrows; the aiming at the highest attainablegood in our own place, irrespective of all results of joy or sorrow, ofapparent success or failure--such is the lesson" that is conveyed in allher books. George Eliot is presented as a true teacher of the doctrinewhich admonishes us to love not pleasure but God, to forsake all thingselse for the sake of obedience and devotion, to shun the world and todevote ourselves perpetually to God's service. The Christian doctrine ofrenunciation has always bidden men put their eyes on God, forget everythingbeside, and seek only for that divine life which is spiritual union withthe Eternal. 

That doctrine was not George Eliot's. Christianity bids men renounce theworld for the sake of a perfect union with God; George Eliot desires men torenounce selfishness for the sake of humanity. The Christian idea includesthe renunciation of all self-seeking, it bids us give ourselves for others, it even teaches us that others are to be preferred to ourselves. Yet allthis is to be done, not merely for the sake of the present, but in view ofan eternal destiny, and because we can thus only fulfil God's will andattain to holy oneness with him. George Eliot did, however, throughout herwritings, identify the altruist impulse to live for others with theChristian doctrine of the cross. To her, the life of devotion to humanity, which she has so beautifully presented in the poem, "O may I join the ChoirInvisible, " was the true interpretation of the Christian doctrine ofself-sacrifice. She accepted this world-old religious belief, consecratedwith all the tears and sacrifices and martyrdoms of the world, as a trueexpression of a want of the soul, as the poetic expression of emotions andaspirations which ever live in man. It is a beautiful symbolism of thatneed of his fellows man ever has, of the conviction which is growingstronger, that man must live for the race and not for himself. Theindividual is nothing except as he identifies himself with the corporatebody of humanity; the true fulfilment of life comes only to those who insome way recognize this fact, and give themselves for the good of theworld. George Eliot even goes so far in her willingness to renounce selfthat she says in _Theophrastus Such_, "I am really at the point of findingthat this world would be worth living in without any lot of one's own. Isit not possible for me to enjoy the scenery of earth without saying tomyself, I have a cabbage-garden in it?"

The relations of the individual to the past and the present of the racemake duties and burdens and woes for him which he has not created, butwhich are given him to bear. The sins of others bring pain and sorrow tous; we are a part of all the good and evil of the world. The present isdetermined by the past; we must accept the lot created for us by those whohave gone before us. "He felt the hard pressure of our common lot, the yokeof that mighty, resistless destiny laid upon us by the past of other men. "says George Eliot of one of her characters. The past brings us burdens andsorrows difficult to bear; it also brings us duties. We owe to it manythings; our debt to the race is an immense one. That debt can only bedischarged by a life of devotion and loyalty, by doing what we can to makehumanity better. The Christian idea of a debt owed to God, which we canonly repay by perfect loyalty and self-abnegation, becomes to George Eliota debt owed to humanity, which we can only repay in the purest altruisticspirit. 

The doctrine of renunciation has been presented again and again by GeorgeEliot; her books are full of it. It is undoubtedly the central theme of allher teaching. In the conversation between Romola and Savonarola when she isescaping from her home and is met by him, it is vividly expressed. Savonarola speaks as a Christian, as a Catholic, as a monk; but the wordshe uses quite as well serve to express George Eliot's convictions. TheChristian symbolism laid aside, and all was true to her; yet her feelings, her sense of corporate unity with the past, would not even suffer her tolay aside the symbolism in presenting her thoughts on this subject. Romolapleads that she would not have left Florence as long as she could fulfil aduty to her father: but Savonarola reminds her that there are other duties, other ties, other burdens. 

 "If your own people are wearing a yoke, will you slip from under it, instead of struggling with them to lighten it? There is hunger and misery in our streets, yet you say, 'I care not; I have my own sorrows; I will go away, if peradventure I can ease them. ' The servants of God are struggling after a law of justice, peace and charity, that the hundred thousand citizens among whom you were born may be governed righteously; but you think no more of that than if you were a bird, that may spread its wings and fly whither it will in search of food to its liking. And yet you have scorned the teaching of the Church, my daughter. As if you, a wilful wanderer, following your own blind choice, were not below the humblest Florentine woman who stretches forth her hands with her own people, and craves a blessing for them; and feels a close sisterhood with the neighbor who kneels beside her, and is not of her own blood; and thinks of the mighty purpose that God has for Florence; and waits and endures because the promised work is great, and she feels herself little. "

She then asserts her purpose not to go away to a life of ease andself-indulgence, but rather to one of hardship; but that plea is notsuffered to pass. 

 "You are seeking your own will, my daughter. You are seeking some good other than the law you are bound to obey. But how will you find good? It is not a thing of choice: it is a river that flows from the foot of the Invisible Throne, and flows by the path of obedience. I say again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to forsake your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they bring. But you will go forth; and what will you find, my daughter? Sorrow without duty--bitter herbs, and no bread with them. "

Savonarola bids her draw the crucifix from her bosom, which she secretlycarries, and appeals to her by that symbol of devotion and self-sacrificeto remain true to her duties, to accept willingly the burdens given her tobear, not to think of self, but only of others. He condemns the paganteaching she had received, of individual self-seeking, and the spirit ofculture, refinement and ease which accompanied that teaching. She looks onthe image of a suffering life, a life offered willingly as a sacrifice forothers' good, and he says, --

 "Conform your life to that image, my daughter; make your sorrow an offering; and when the fire of divine charity burns within you, and you behold the need of your fellow-men by the light of that flame, you will not call your offering great. You have carried yourself proudly, as one who held herself not of common blood or of common thoughts; but you have been as one unborn to the true life of man. What! you say your love for your father no longer tells you to stay in Florence? Then, since that tie is snapped, you are without a law, without religion; you are no better than a beast of the field when she is robbed of her young. If the yearning of a fleshly love is gone, you are without love, without obligation. See, then, my daughter, how you are below the life of the believer who worships that image of the Supreme Offering, and feels the glow of a common life with the lost multitude for whom that offering was made, and beholds the history of the world as the history of a great redemption, in which he is himself a fellow-worker, in his own place and among his own people! If you held that faith, my beloved daughter, you would not be a wanderer flying from suffering, and blindly seeking the good of a freedom which is lawlessness. You would feel that Florence was the home of your soul as well as your birthplace, because you would see the work that was given you to do there. If you forsake your place, who will fill it? You ought to be in your place now, helping in the great work by which God will purify Florence and raise it to be the guide of the nations. What! the earth is full of iniquity--full of groans--the light is still struggling with a mighty darkness, and you say, 'I cannot bear my bonds; I will burst them asunder; I will go where no man claims me?' My daughter, every bond of your life is a debt: the right lies in the payment of that debt; it can lie nowhere else. In vain will you wander over the earth; you will be wandering forever away from the right. "

Romola hesitates, she pleads that her brother Dino forsook his home tobecome a monk, and that possibly Savonarola may be wrong. He then appealsto her conscience, and assures her that she has assumed relations andduties which cannot be broken from on any plea. The human ties are foreversacred; there can exist no causes capable of annulling them. 

 "You are a wife. You seek to break your ties in self-will and anger, not because the higher life calls upon you to renounce them. The higher life begins for us, my daughter, when we renounce our own will to bow before a Divine law. That seems hard to you. It is the portal of wisdom, and freedom, and blessedness. And the symbol of it hangs before you. That wisdom is the religion of the cross. And you stand aloof from it; you are a pagan; you have been taught to say, 'I am as the wise men who lived before the time when the Jew of Nazareth was crucified. ' And that is your wisdom! To be as the dead whose eyes are closed, and whose ear is deaf to the work of God that has been since their time. What has your dead wisdom done for you, my daughter? It has left you without a heart for the neighbors among whom you dwell, without care for the great work by which Florence is to be regenerated and the world made holy; it has left you without a share in the Divine life which quenches the sense of suffering self in the ardors of an ever-growing love. And now, when the sword has pierced your soul, you say, 'I will go away; I cannot bear my sorrow. ' And you think nothing of the sorrow and the wrong that are within the walls of the city where you dwell; you would leave your place empty, when it ought to be filled with your pity and your labor. If there is wickedness in the streets, your steps should shine with the light of purity; if there is a cry of anguish, you, my daughter, because you know the meaning of the cry, should be there to still it. My beloved daughter, sorrow has come to teach you a new worship; the sign of it hangs before you. "

This teaching of renunciation is no less distinctly presented in _The Millon the Floss_, the chief ethical aim of which is its inculcation. It isalso there associated with the Catholic form of its expression, throughMaggie's reading of _The Imitation of Christ_, a book which was GeorgeEliot's constant companion, and was found by her bedside after her death. It was the spirit of that book which attracted George Eliot, not itsdoctrines. Its lofty spirit of submission and renunciation she admired; andshe believed that altruism can be made real only through tradition, only asassociated with past heroisms and strivings and ideals. As an embodiment ofman's craving for perfect union with humanity, for full and joyoussubmission to his lot, the old forms of faith are sacred. They carry thehopes of ages; they are a pictured poem of man's inward strivings. To breakaway from these memories is to forsake one's home, is to repudiate one'smother. We cannot intellectually accept them, we cannot assent to thedogmas associated with them; but the forms are the spontaneous expressionsof the heart, while the dogmas are an after-thought of the inquiringintellect. The real meaning of the cross of Christ is self-sacrifice forhumanity's sake; that was its inspiration, that has ever been its trueimport. It was this view of the subject which made George Eliot socontinuously associate her new teachings with the old expressions of faith. 

In altruism she believes is to be found the hope of the world, the cure ofevery private pain and grief. Altruism means living for and in the race, asa willing member of the social organic life of humanity, as desiring notone's own good but the welfare of others. That doctrine she applies toMaggie's case. This young girl was dissatisfied with her life, out ofharmony with her surroundings, and could not accept the theories of lifegiven her. 

 She wanted some explanation of this hard, real life; the unhappy-looking father, seated at the dull breakfast-table; the childish, bewildered mother; the little sordid tasks that filled the hours, or the more oppressive emptiness of weary, joyless leisure; the need of some tender, demonstrative love; the cruel sense that Tom didn't mind what she thought or felt, and that they were no longer playfellows together; the privation of all pleasant things that had come to _her_ more than to others--she wanted some key that would enable her to understand, and in understanding endure, the heavy weight that had fallen on her young heart. If she had been taught "real learning and wisdom, such as great men knew, " she thought she should have held the secrets of life; if she had only books, that she might learn for herself what wise men knew! Saints and martyrs had never interested Maggie so much as sages and poets. She know little of saints and martyrs, and had gathered, as a general result of her teaching, that they were a temporary provision against the spread of Catholicism, and had all died at Smithfield. 

Into the darkness of Maggie's life a light suddenly comes in the shape ofthe immortal book of Thomas à Kempis. Why that book; why along such a wayshould the light come? The answer is, that George Eliot meant to teachcertain ideas. It is this fact which justifies her reader in taking thesescenes of her novels, these words spoken in the interludes, as genuinereflections and transcripts of her own mind. Maggie turns over a parcel ofbooks brought her by Bob Jakin, to find little in them--

 but _Thomas à Kempis_. The name had come across her in her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which every one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name that strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little old clumsy book with some curiosity; it had the corners turned down in many places, and some hand, now forever quiet, had made at certain passages strong pen-and-ink marks, long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to leaf, and read where the quiet hand pointed. "Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than anything in the world.... If thou seekest this or that, and wouldst be here or there to enjoy thy own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet nor free from care; for in everything somewhat will be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will cross thee.... Both above and below, which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere thou shalt find the cross; and everywhere of necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt have inward peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown.... If thou desire to mount unto this height, thou must set out courageously, and lay the axe to the root, that thou mayest pluck up and destroy that hidden inordinate inclination to thyself, and unto all private and earthly good. On this sin, that a man inordinately loveth himself, almost all dependeth, whatsoever is thoroughly to be overcome; which evil being once overcome and subdued, there will presently ensue great peace and tranquillity.... It is but little thou sufferest in comparison of them that have suffered so much, were so strongly tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and exercised. Thou oughtest therefore to call to mind the more heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayest the easier bear thy little adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, beware lest thy impatience be the cause thereof.... Blessed are those ears that receive the whispers of the divine voice, and listen not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are those ears which hearken not unto the voice which soundeth outwardly, but unto the Truth which teacheth inwardly. "

 A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls had been astir while hers was in stupor. She went on from one brown mark to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, hardly conscious that she was reading--seeming rather to listen while a low voice said, --

 "Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place of thy rest? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy journey thither. All things pass away, and thou together with them. Beware thou cleave not unto them lest thou be entangled and perish.... If a man should give all his substance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great penances, yet are they but little. And if he should attain to all knowledge, he is yet far off. And if he should be of great virtue and very fervent devotion, yet is there much wanting; to wit, one thing which is most necessary for him. What is that? That having left all, he leave himself, and go wholly out of himself, and retain nothing of self-love.... I have often said unto thee, and now again I say the same. Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much inward peace.... Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations and superfluous cares fly away; then shall immoderate fear leave thee, and inordinate love shall die. "

 Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other secrets--here was a sublime height to be reached without the help of outward things--here was insight, and strength, and conquest, to be won by means entirely within her own soul, where a supreme Teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of a problem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from fixing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central necessity of the universe; and for the first time she saw the possibility of shifting the position from which she looked at the gratification of her own desires, of taking her stand out of herself, and looking at her own life as an insignificant part of a divinely guided whole. She read on and on in the old book, devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength; returning to it after she had been called away, and reading until the sun went down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagination that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deepening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entire devotedness, and, in the ardor of first discovery, renunciation seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she had so long been craving in vain. She had not perceived--how could she until she had lived longer?--the inmost truth of the old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still panting for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she had found the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines and systems--of mysticism or quietism; but this voice out of the far-off middle ages was the direct communication of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned message. I suppose that is the reason why the small, old-fashioned book, for which you need only pay sixpence at a book-stall, works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness, while expensive sermons and treatises, newly issued, leave all things as they were before. It was written down by a hand that waited for the heart's promptings; it is the chronicle of a solitary hidden anguish, struggle, trust and triumph, --not written on velvet cushions to teach endurance to those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it remains to all time a lasting record of human needs and human consolations; the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt, and suffered, and renounced, --in the cloister, perhaps, with serge gown and tonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts, and with a fashion of speech different from ours, --but under the same silent, far-off heavens, and with the same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weariness. [Footnote: The Mill on the Floss, Book IV. , chapter III. ]

Life now has a meaning for Maggie, its secret has been in some measureopened. Only by bitter experiences does she at last learn the full meaningof that word; but all her after-life is told for us in order that the depthand breadth and height of that meaning may be unfolded. Very soon Maggie isheard saying, "Our life is determined for us--and it makes the mind very free when we give up wishing, and only think of bearing what is laid upon us, and doing what is given us to do. "

It is George Eliot who really speaks these words; hers is the thought whichinspires them. 

Yet Maggie has not learned to give up wishing; and the sorrow, the tragedyof her life comes in consequence. She is pledged in love to Philip, the sonof the bitter enemy of her family, and is attracted to Stephen, the loverof her cousin Lucy. A long contest is fought out in her life betweenattraction and duty; between individual preferences and moral obligations. The struggle is hard, as when Stephen avows his love, and she replies, --

 "Oh, it is difficult--life is very difficult. It seems right to me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling; but, then, such feelings continually come across the ties that all our former life has made for us--the ties that have made others dependent on us--and would cut them in two. If life were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in Paradise, and we could always see that one being first toward whom--I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love comes, love would be a sign two people ought to belong to each other. But I see--I feel that it is not so now; there are things we must renounce in life; some of us must resign love. Many things are difficult and dark to me, but I see one thing quite clearly--that I must not, cannot seek my own happiness by sacrificing others. Love is natural; but surely pity, and faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would live in me still and punish me if I did not obey them. I should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love would be poisoned. "

Against her will she elopes with Stephen, or her departure with him is sounderstood; but us soon as she realizes what she has done, her betternature asserts itself, and she refuses to go on. Stephen pleads that thenatural law which has drawn them together is greater than every otherobligation; but Maggie replies, --

 "If we judged in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and cruelty. We should justify breaking the most sacred ties that can ever be formed on earth. "

He then asks what is outward faithfulness and constancy without love. Maggie pleads the better spirit. 

 "That seems right--at first; but when I look further, I'm sure it is not right. Faithfulness and constancy mean something else besides doing what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They mean renouncing whatever is opposed to the reliance others have in us--whatever would cause misery to those whom the course of our lives has made dependent on us. If we--if I had been better, nobler, those claims would have been so strongly present with me--I should have felt them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now in the moments when my conscience is awake, that the opposite feeling would never have grown in me as it has done: it would have been quenched at once. I should have prayed for help so earnestly--I should have rushed away as we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for myself--none. I should never have failed toward Lucy and Philip as I have done, if I had not been weak, selfish and hard--able to think of their pain without a pain to myself that would have destroyed all temptation. Oh. What is Lucy feeling now? She believed in me--she loved me--she was so good to me! Think of her!"

She can see no good for herself which is apart from the good of others, nojoy which is the means of pain to those she holds dear. The past has madeties and; memories which no present love or future joy can take away; shemust be true to past obligations as well as present inclinations. 

 "There are memories and affections, and longing after perfect goodness, that have such a strong hold on me, they would never quit me for long; they would come back and be pain to me--repentance. I couldn't live in peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and God. I have caused sorrow already--I know--I feel it; but I have never deliberately consented to it; I have never said, 'They shall suffer that I may have joy. '"

And again, she says, --

 "We can't choose happiness either for ourselves or for another; we can't tell where that will lie. We can only choose whether we will indulge ourselves in the present moment, or whether we will renounce that, for the sake of obeying the divine voice within us--for the sake of being true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know this belief is hard; it has slipped away from me again and again; but I have felt that if I let it go forever I should have no light through the darkness of this life. "

In these remarkable passages from _Romola_ and _The Mill on the Floss_, George Eliot presented her own theory of life. One of her friends, ingiving an account of her moral influence, speaks of "the impression sheproduced, that one of the greatest duties of life was that of resignation. Nothing was more impressive as exhibiting the power of feelings to survivethe convictions which gave them birth, than the earnestness with which shedwelt, on this as the great and real remedy for all the ills of life. Onone occasion she appeared to apply it to herself in speaking of the shortspace of life that lay before her, and the large amount of achievementthat must be laid aside as impossible to compress into it--and the sad, gentle tones in which the word _resignation_ was uttered, still vibrate onthe ear. " [Footnote: Contemporary Review, February, 1881. ] Not onlyrenunciation but resignation was by her held to be a prime requisite of atruly moral life. Man must renounce many things for the sake of humanity, but he must also resign himself to endure many things because the universeis under the dominion of invariable laws. Much of pain and sorrow must cometo us which can in no way be avoided. A true resignation and renunciationwill enable us to turn pain and sorrow into the means of a higher life. In_Adam Bede_ she says that "deep, unspeakable suffering may well be calleda baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. " She teachesthat man can attain true unity with the race only through renunciation, and renunciation always means suffering. Self-sacrifice means hardship, struggle and sorrow; but the true end of life can only be attained whenself is renounced for that higher good which comes through devotion tohumanity. Her noblest characters, Maggie Tulliver, Romola, Jubal, Fedalma, Armgart, attain peace only when they have found their lives taken up in thegood of others. To her the highest happiness consists in being loyal toduty, and it "often brings so much pain with it that we can only tell itfrom pain by its being what we would choose before everything else, becauseour souls see it is good. "

George Eliot's religion is without God, without immortality, without atranscendent spiritual aim and duty. It consists in a humble submission tothe invariable laws of the universe, a profound love of humanity, aglorification of feeling and affection, and a renunciation of personal andselfish desires for an altruistic devotion to the good of the race. Pietywithout God, renunciation without immortality, mysticism without thesupernatural, everywhere finds eloquent presentation in her pages. Offeringthat which she believes satisfies the spiritual wants of man, she yetrejects all the legitimate objects of spiritual desire. Even when hercharacters hold to the most fervent faith, and use with the greatestenthusiasm the old expressions of piety, it is the human elements in thatfaith which are made to appear most prominently. We are told that noradiant angel came across the gloom with a clear message for Romola in hermoment of direst distress and need. Then we are told that many such see noangels; and we are made to realize that angelic voices are to George Eliotthe voices of her fellows. 

 In those times, as now, there were human beings who never saw angels or heard perfectly clear messages. Such truth as came to them was brought confusedly in the voices and deeds of men not at all like the seraphs of unfailing wing and piercing vision--men who believed falsities as well as truths, and did the wrong as well as the right. The helping hands stretched out to them were the hands of men who stumbled and often saw dimly, so that these beings unvisited by angels had no other choice than to grasp that stumbling guidance along the path of reliance and action which is the path of life, or else to pause in loneliness and disbelief, which is no path, but the arrest of inaction and death. 

The same thought is expressed in _Silas Marner_, that man is to expect nohelp and consolation except from his fellow-man. 

 In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may he a little child's. 

Even more explicit in its rejection of all sources of help, except thehuman, is the motto to "The Lifted Veil. "

 Give me no light, great Heaven, but such as turns To energy of human fellowship; No powers beyond the growing heritage That makes completer manhood. 

The purpose of this story is to show that supernatural knowledge is a curseto man. The narrator of the story is gifted with the power of divining eventhe most secret thoughts of those about him, and of beholding comingevents. This knowledge brings him only evil and sorrow. His spiritualinsight did not save him from folly, and he is led to say, --

 "There is no short cut, no patent tram-road to wisdom. After all the centuries of invention, the soul's path lies through the thorny wilderness, which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time. "

He also discourses of the gain which it is to man that the future is hiddenfrom his knowledge, "So absolute is our soul's need of something hidden and uncertain for the maintenance of that doubt and hope and effort which are the breath of its life, that if the whole future were laid bare to us beyond to-day, the interest of all mankind would be bent on the hours that lie between; we should pant after the uncertainties of our one morning and our one afternoon; we should rush fiercely to the exchange for our last possibility of speculation, of success, of disappointment; we should have a glut of political prophets foretelling a crisis or a no-crisis within the only twenty-four hours left open to prophecy. Conceive the condition of the human mind if all propositions whatsoever were self-evident except one, which was to become self-evident at the close of a summer's day, but in the mean time might be the subject of question, of hypothesis, of debate. Art and philosophy, literature and science, would fasten like bees on that one proposition that had the honey of probability in it, and be the more eager because their enjoyment would end with sunset. Our impulses, our spiritual activities, no more adjust themselves to the idea of their future reality than the beating of our heart, or the irritability of our muscles. "

All is hidden from man that does not grow out of human experience, andit is better so. Such is George Eliot's method of dealing with our cravingfor a higher wisdom and a direct revelation. Such wisdom and suchrevelation are not to be had, and they would not help man if he had them. The mystery of existence rouses his curiosity, stimulates his powers, develops art, religion, sympathy, and all that is best in human life. Inher presentations of the men and women most affected by religious motivesshe adheres to this theory, and represents them as impelled, not by thesense of God's presence, but by purely human considerations. She makesDorothea Brooke say, --

 "I have always been thinking of the different ways in which Christianity is taught, and whenever I find one way that makes it a wider blessing than any other, I cling to that as the truest--I mean that which takes in the most good of all kinds, and brings in the most people as sharers in it. "

Of the same character is the belief which comforts Dorothea, and takes theplace to her of prayer. 

 "That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are a part of the divine power against evil--widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower. "

Mr. Tryan, in _Janet's Repentance_, is a most ardent disciple ofEvangelicalism, and accepts all its doctrines; but George Eliot contrivesto show throughout the book, that all the value of his work and religionconsisted in the humanitarian spirit of renunciation he awakened. 

George Eliot does not entirely avoid the supernatural, but she treats it asunexplainable. Instances of her use of it are to be found in Adam Bede'sexperience while at work on his father's coffin, in the visions ofSavonarola, and in Mordecai's strange faith in a coming successor to hisown faith and work. For Adam Bede's experience there is no explanationgiven, nor for that curious power manifest in the "Lifted Veil. " On theother hand, the spiritual power of Savonarola and Mordecai have theirexplanation, in George Eliot's philosophy, in that intuition which isinherited insight. In her treatment of such themes she manifests herappreciation of the great mystery which surrounds man's existence, but sheshows no faith in a spiritual world which impinges on the material, andever manifests itself in gleams and fore-tokenings. 

It is to be noted, however, that many traces of mysticism appear in herworks. This might have been expected from her early love of thetranscendentalists, as well as from her frequent perusal of Thomas àKempis. More especially was this to be expected from her conception offeeling as the source of all that is best in man's life. The mystics alwaysmake feeling the source of truth, prefer emotion to reason. All thinkerswho lay stress on the value of feeling are liable to become mystics, evenif materialists in their philosophy. Here and there in her pages thistendency towards mysticism, which manifests itself in some of the morepoetic of the scientists of the present time, is to be seen in GeorgeEliot. Some of her words about love, music and nature partake of thischaracter. Her sayings about altruism and renunciation touch the border ofthe mystical occasionally. Had she been less thoroughly a rationalist shewould doubtless have become a mystic in fact. Her tendency in thisdirection hints at the close affinity between the evolutionists of to-dayand the idealists of a century ago. They unite in making matter and mindidentical, and in regarding feeling as a source of truth. These are the twoessential thoughts on which all mysticism rests. As modern science becomesthe basis of speculation about religion, and gives expression to thesedoctrines, it will develop mysticism. Indeed, it is difficult to knowwherein much that George Eliot wrote differs from mysticism. Her subjectiveimmortality derived much of its acceptableness and beauty from those poeticphases given to it by idealistic pantheism. Her altruism caught the glow ofthe older humanitarianism, Her conception of feeling and emotional sympathyis touched everywhere with that ideal glamour given it by the mysticalteachings of an earlier generation. Had she lived half a century earliershe might have been one of Fichte's most ardent disciples, and found in hissubjective idealism the incentive to a higher inspiration than thatattained to under the leadership of Comte. Her religion would then havediffered but little from what it did in fact, but there would have been anew sublimity and a loftier spirit at the heart of it. 

George Eliot retains the traditional life, piety and symbolism ofChristianity, but she undertakes to show they have quite another meaningthan that usually given them. Her peculiarity is that she should wish toretain the form after the substance is gone. Comte undertook to give a newoutward expression to those needs of the soul which lead to worship andpiety; but George Eliot accepted the traditional symbolisms as far betterthan anything which can be invented. If we would do no violence to feelingand the inner needs of life, we must not break with the past, we must notdestroy the temple of the soul. The traditional worship, piety andconsecration, the poetic expression of feeling and sentiment, must be keptuntil new traditions, a new symbolism, have developed themselves out of theexperiences of the race. God is a symbol for the great mystery of theuniverse and of being, the eternity and universality of law. Immortality isa symbol for the transmitted impulse which the person communicates to therace. The life and death of Christ is a symbol of that altruistic spirit ofrenunciation and sorrow willingly borne, by which humanity is being liftedup and brought towards its true destiny. Feeling demands these symbols, theheart craves for them. The bare enunciation of principles is not enough;they must be clothed upon by sentiment and affection. The Christian symbolsanswer to this need, they most fitly express this craving of the soul for ahigher and purer life. The spontaneous, creative life of humanity hasdeveloped them as a fit mode of voicing its great spiritual cravings, andonly the same creative genius can replace them. The inquiring intellectcannot furnish substitutes for them; rationalism utterly fails in all itsattempts to satisfy the spiritual nature. 

Such is George Eliot's religion. It is the "Religion of Humanity" asinterpreted by a woman, a poet and a genius. It differs from Comte's as thework of a poet differs from that of a philosopher, as that of a womandiffers from that of a man. His _positive religion_ gives the impression ofbeing invented; it is artificial, unreal. Hers is, at least, living andbeautiful and impressive; it is warm, tender and full of compassion, Heinvents a new symbolism, a new hierarchy, and a new worship; that is, heremodels Catholicism to fit the Religion of Humanity. She is too sensible, too wise, or rather too poetic and sympathetic, to undertake such atransformation, or to be satisfied with it when accomplished by another. She gives a new poetic and spiritual meaning to the old faith and worship;and in doing this makes no break with tradition, rejects nothing of the oldsymbolism. 

It was her conviction that nothing of the real meaning and power ofreligion escaped by the transformation she made in its spiritual contents. She believed that she had dropped only its speculative teachings, while allthat had ever made it of value was retained. That she was entirely mistakenin this opinion scarcely needs to be said; or that her speculativeinterpretation, if generally accepted, would destroy for most persons eventhose elements of religion which she accepted. A large rich mind, giftedwith genius and possessed of wide culture, as was hers, could doubtlessfind satisfaction in that attenuated substitute for piety and worship whichshe accepted. There certainly could be no Mr. Tryan, no Dinah Morris, noSavonarola, no Mordecai, if her theories were the common ones; and it wouldbe even less possible for a Dorothea, a Felix Holt, a Daniel Deronda, or aRomola to develop in such an atmosphere. What her intellectual speculationswould accomplish when accepted as the motives of life, is seen all too wellin the case of those many radical thinkers whom this century has produced. Only the most highly cultivated, and those of an artistic or poetictemperament, could accept her substitute for the old religion. The motivesshe presents could affect but a few persons; only here and there are to befound those to whom altruism would be a motive large enough to become areligion. To march in the great human army towards a higher destiny forhumanity may have a strong fascination for some, and is coming to affectand inspire a larger number with every century; but it is not enough toknow that the race is growing better. What is the end of human progress?we have a right to ask. Does that progress go on in accordance with someuniversal purpose, which includes the whole universe? We must look notonly for a perfect destiny for man, but for a perfect destiny for allworlds and beings throughout the infinitude of God's creative influence. Aprogressive, intellectual religion such as will answer to the larger needsof modern life, must give belief in a universal providence, and it mustteach man to trust in the spiritual capacities of his own soul. Unless theuniverse means something which is intelligible, and unless it has a purposeand destiny progressive and eternal, it is impossible that religion willcontinue to inspire men. That is, only a philosophy which gives such aninterpretation to the universe can be the basis of an enduring andprogressive religion. 

If religion is to continue, it is also necessary that man should be able tobelieve in the soul as something more than the product of environment andheredity. It is not merely the belief in immortality which has inspired thegreatest minds, but the inward impulse of creative activity, resting on theconviction that they were working with God for enduring results. Absorptioninto the life of humanity can be but a feeble motive compared with thatwhich grows out of faith in the soul's spiritual eternity in co-operationwith God. 

George Eliot's religion is highly interesting, and in many ways it issuggestive and profitable. Her insistence on feeling and sympathy as itsmain impulses is profoundly significant; but that teaching is as goodfor Theism or Christianity as for the Religion of Humanity, and needseverywhere to be accepted. In like manner, her altruistic spirit maybe accepted and realized by those who can find no sympathy for herintellectual speculations. Love of man, self-sacrifice for human good, cannot be urged by too many teachers. The greater the number of motivesleading to that result, the better for man. 

XII. 

ETHICAL SPIRIT. 

Whatever may be said of George Eliot's philosophy and theology, her moralpurpose was sound and her ethical intent noble. She had a strong passionfor the ethical life, her convictions regarding it were very deep andearnest, and she dwelt lovingly on all its higher accomplishments. Herbooks are saturated with moral teaching, and her own life was ordered aftera lofty ethical standard. She seems to have yearned most eagerly after alife of moral helpfulness and goodness, and she has made her novels theteachers of a vigorous morality. 

Her friends bear enthusiastic testimony to the nobleness of her moral lifeand to her zeal for ethical culture. We are told by one of them that "shehad upbuilt with strenuous pains a resolute virtue, " conquering manyfaults, and gaining a lofty nobleness of spirit. Another has said, that"precious as the writings of George Eliot are and must always be, her lifeand character were yet more beautiful than they. " Her zeal for morality wasvery great; she was an ethical prophet; the moral order of life roused hermind to a lofty inspiration. If she could not conceive of God, if she couldnot believe in immortality, yet she accepted duty as peremptory andabsolute. Her faith in duty and charity seemed all the more vigorous andconfident because her religion was so attenuated and imperfect. Love of manwith her grew into something like that mighty and absorbing love of Godwhich is to be seen in some of the greatest souls. Morality became to her areligion, not so intense as with saints and prophets, but more sympatheticand ardent than with most ethical teachers. She was no stoic, no teacherof moral precepts, no didactic debater about moral duties, no mere_dilettante_ advocate of human rights. She was a warm, tender, yearning, sympathetic, womanly friend of individuals, who hoped great things forhumanity, and who believed that man can find happiness and true cultureonly in a moral life. 

She was distinctively a moral teacher in her books. The novel was never toher a work of art alone. The moral purpose was always present, alwaysapparent, always clear and emphatic. There was something to teach for herwhenever she took the pen in hand; some deep lesson of human experience, some profound truth of human conduct, some tender word of sympathy forhuman sorrow and suffering. She seems to have had no sympathy with thattheory which says that the poet and the novelist are to picture life as itis, without regard to moral obligations and consequences. In this respectshe was one of the most partisan of all partisans, an absolute dogmatist;for she never forgot for a moment the moral consequences of life. She wasone of the most ardent of modern preachers, her books are crowded withteaching of the most positive character. In her way she was a greatbeliever, and when she believed she never restrained her pen, but taughtthe full measure of her convictions. She did not look upon life as a sceneto be sketched, but as an experience to be lived, and a moral order to beimproved by sympathy and devotedness. Consequently the artist appears inthe teacher's garb, the novelist has become an ethical preacher. She doesnot describe life as something outside of herself, nor does she regardhuman sorrows and sufferings and labors merely as materials for theartist's use; but she lives in and with all that men do and suffer andaspire to. Hers is not the manner of Homer and Scott, who hide theirpersonality behind the wonderful distinctness of their personalities, making the reader forget the author in the strength and power of thecharacters described. It is not that of Shakspere, of whom we seem to getno glimpse in his marvellous readings of human nature, who paints other menas no one else has done, but who does not paint himself. Hers is rather themanner of Wordsworth and Goethe, who have a theory of life to give us, andwhose personality appears on every page they wrote. She has a philosophy, amorality and a religion to inculcate. She had a vast subjective intensityof conviction, and a strong individualism of purpose, which would not hideitself behind the scenes. Her philosophy impregnates with a strongpersonality all her classic utterances; her ethics present a marked purposein the development of her plots and in her presentation of the outcome ofhuman experience; and her religion glows in the personal ardor and sympathyof her noblest characters, and in their passion for renunciation andaltruism. 

Her ethical passion adds to the strength and purpose of George Eliot'sgenius. No supreme literary creator has been devoid of this characteristic, however objective and impersonal he may have been. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Cervantes, Shakspere, Scott, were all earnest ethical teachers. The moralproblems of life impressed them profoundly, and they showed a strongpersonal preference for righteousness. The literary masters of all timesand countries have loved virtue, praised purity, and admired ethicaluprightness. Any other attitude than this argues something less thangenius, though genius may be far from didactic and not given to preaching. The moral intent of life is so inwoven with all its experiences, that thefailure of any mind to be impressed with it, and profoundly affected, proves it wanting in insight, poetic vision and genius. George Eliot isentirely in harmony, in this respect, with all the masters of the literaryart. Her ethical passion is a clear sign of her genius, and proves thevigor of her intellectual vision. No one who rightly weighs the value ofher books, and fairly estimates the nature of her teaching, can regret thatshe had so keen a love of ethical instruction. The vigor, enthusiasm andoriginality of her teaching compensate for many faults. 

Her teachings have a special interest because they afford a literaryembodiment of the ethical theories of the evolution philosophy. Theyindicate the form which is likely to be given to ethics if theism andindividualism are discarded, and the peculiar effects upon moral life whichwill be induced by agnosticism. She applied agnosticism to morals, byregarding good and evil as relative, and as the results, of man'senvironment. For her, ethics had no infinite sanctions, no intuitivepromulgation of an eternal law; but she regarded morality as originating inand deriving its authority from the social relations of men to each other. Our intuitive doing of right, or sorrow for wrong, is the result ofinherited conditions. In _Romola_ she speaks of Tito as affected by--

 the inward shame, the reflex of that outward law which the great heart of mankind makes for every individual man, a reflex which will exist even in the absence of the sympathetic impulses that need no law, but rush to the deed of fidelity and pity as inevitably as the brute mother shields her young from the attack of the hereditary enemy. [Footnote: Chapter IX. ]

This teaching is often found in her pages, and in connection with theassertion of the relativity of morals. There is no absolute moral law forher, no eternal ideal standard; but what is right is determined by theenvironment. Instead of Kant's categorical imperative of the moral law, proclaimed as a divine command in every soul, George Eliot found in theconscience and in the moral intuitions simply inherited experiences. In_Daniel Deronda_ she says, "Our consciences are not all of the samepattern, an inner deliverance of fixed laws; they are the voice ofsensibilities as various as our memories. "

George Eliot's rejection of any absolute standard of moral conduct or ofhappiness continually asserts itself in her pages. We must look at theindividual, his inherited moral power, his environment, his specialmotives, if we would judge him aright. In the last chapters of _The Mill onthe Floss_, when writing of Maggie's repentance, this idea appears. Maggieis not to be tried by the moral ideal of Christianity, nor by any suchstandard of perfection as Kant proposed, but by all the circumstances ofher place in life and her experience. We are accordingly told that--

 Moral judgments must remain false and hollow unless they are checked and enlightened by a perpetual reference to the special circumstances that mark the individual lot. 

George Eliot says in one of the mottoes in _Felix Holt_ that moralhappiness is "mainly a complex of habitual relations and dispositions. "Even more explicit is her assertion, in one of the mottoes of _DanielDeronda_, of the relativity of moral power. 

 Looking at life in the growth of a single lot, who having a practised vision may not see that ignorance of the true bond between events, and false conceit of means whereby sequences may be compelled--like that falsity of eyesight which overlooks the gradations of distance, seeing that which is afar off as if it were within a step or a grasp-- precipitate the mistaken soul on destruction?

She does not teach, however, that man is a mere victim of circumstances, that he is a creature ruled by fate. His environment includes his own moralheredity, which may overcome the physical circumstances which surround him. In _Middlemarch_ she says, "It always remains true that if we had beengreater, circumstances would have been less strong against us. " The samethought appears in Zarca's appeal to Fedalma to be his true daughter, inone of the most effective scenes of _The Spanish Gypsy_. Moral devotednessis the strongest of all forces, he argues, even when it fails of itsimmediate aim; and even in failure the inherited life of the race isenlarged. 

 No great deed is done By falterers who ask for certainty. No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, The undivided will to seek the good: 'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings A human music from the indifferent air. The greatest gift the hero leaves his race Is to have been a hero. Say we fail!-- We feed the high tradition of the world, And leave our spirit in our children's breasts. 

George Eliot never goes so far as to say that man may, by virtue of hisinward life, rise superior to all circumstances, and maintain theinviolable sanctity of his own moral nature. She does not forget thatdefeat is often the surest victory, that moral faithfulness may lead todisgrace and death; but even in these cases it is for the sake of the racewe are to be faithful. The inward victory, the triumph of the soul inunsullied purity and serenity, she does not dwell upon; and it may bedoubted if she fully recognized such a moral result. Her mind is sooccupied with the social results of conduct as to overlook the individualvictories which life ever brings to those who are faithful unto death. George Eliot has put her theory of morality into the mouth of Guildenstern, one of the characters in "A College Breakfast Party. "

 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule Enforced by sanction, an Ideal throned With thunder in its hand? I answer, there Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force Since human consciousness awaking owned An Outward, whose unconquerable sway Resisted first and then subdued desire By pressure of the dire impossible Urging to possible ends the active soul And shaping so its terror and its love. Why, you have said it--threats and promises Depend on each man's sentence for their force: All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, Can have no form or potency apart From the percipient and emotive mind. God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, Must first be framed in man, as music is, Before they live outside him as a law. And still they grow and shape themselves anew, With fuller concentration in their life Of inward and of outward energies Blending to make the last result called Man, Which means, not this or that philosopher Looking through beauty into blankness, not The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie By the last telegram: it means the tide Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust and love-- The surging multitude of human claims Which make "a presence not to be put by" Above the horizon of the general soul. Is inward reason shrunk to subtleties, And inward wisdom pining passion-starved?-- The outward reason has the world in store, Regenerates passion with the stress of want, Regenerates knowledge with discovery, Shows sly rapacious self a blunderer, Widens dependence, knits the social whole In sensible relation more defined. 

As these words would indicate, George Eliot's faith in the moral meaningand outcome of the world is very strong. All experience is moral, she wouldhave us believe, and capable of teaching man the higher life. That is, allexperience tends slowly to bring man into harmony with his environment, andto teach him that certain actions are helpful, while others are harmful. This teaching is very definite and emphatic in her pages, often rising intoa lofty eloquence and a rich poetic diction, as her mind is wrought upon bythe greatness and the impressiveness of the moral lessons of life. 

However effective the outward order of nature may be in creating morality, it is to be borne in mind that ethical rules can have no effect "apart fromthe percipient and emotive mind. " It is, in reality, the social naturewhich gives morality its form and meaning. It is a creation of the socialorganism. Its basis is found, indeed, in the invariable order of nature, but the superstructure is erected out of and by society. "Man's individualfunctions, " says Lewes, "arise in relations to the cosmos; his generalfunctions arise in relations to the social medium; thence moral lifeemerges. All the animal impulses become blended with human emotions. In theprocess of evolution, starting from the merely animal appetite ofsexuality, we arrive at the purest and most far-reaching tenderness. Thesocial instincts tend more and more to make sociality dominate animality, and thus subordinate personality to humanity.... The animal has sympathy, and is moved by sympathetic impulses, but these are never altruistic; theends are never remote. Moral life is based on sympathy; it is feeling forothers, working for others, aiding others, quite irrespective of anypersonal good beyond the satisfaction of the social impulse. Enlightened bythe intuition of our community of weakness, we share ideally the universalsorrows. Suffering harmonizes. Feeling the need of mutual help, we areprompted by it to labor for others. " [Footnote: Foundations of a Creed, vol. I. , pp. 147, 153. ] Morality is social, not personal; the result ofthose instincts which draw men together in community of interests, sympathies and sufferings. Its sanctions are all social; its motives arepurely human; its law is created by the needs of humanity. There is nooutward coercive law of the divine will or of invariable order which is tobe supremely regarded; the moral law is human need as it changes from ageto age. The increase of human sympathies in the process of social evolutiongives the true moral ideal to be aspired after. What will increase thesocial efficiency of the race, what will promote altruism, is moral. 

Alike because of the invariable order of nature, and the social dependenceof men on each other, are the effects of conduct wrought out in theindividual. George Eliot believes in "the orderly sequence by which theseed brings forth a crop after its kind. " All evil is injurious to man, destructive of the integrity of his life. She teaches the doctrine ofNemesis with as much conviction, thoroughness and eloquence as the oldGreek dramatists, making sin to be punished, and wrong-doing to bedestructive. Sometimes she presents this doctrine with all the stern, unpitying vigor of an Aeschylus, as a dire effect of wrong that comes uponmen with an unrelenting mercilessness. In _Janet's Repentance_ she says, --

 Nemesis is lame, but she is of colossal stature, like the gods; and sometimes, while her sword is not yet unsheathed, she stretches out her huge left arm and grasps her victim. The mighty hand is invisible, but the victim totters under the dire clutch. 

Her doctrine of Nemesis resembles that of the old Greeks more than that ofthe modern optimists and theists. Hers is not the idealistic conception ofcompensation, which measures out an exact proportion of punishment forevery sin, and of happiness for every virtuous action. Wrong-doing injuresothers as well as those who commit the evil deed, and moral effects reachfar beyond those who set them in operation. Very explicitly is this factpresented in _The Mill on the Floss_. 

 So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men have to suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is human suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we can conceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in pulsations of unmerited pain. 

In _Adam Bede_, Parson Irwine says to Arthur, --

 Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences quite apart from any fluctuations that went before--consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. 

Yet wrong-doing does not go unpunished, for the law of moral cause andeffect ever holds good. This is the teaching of the first chapter of _FelixHolt_. 

 There is seldom any wrong-doing which does not carry along with it some downfall of blindly climbing hopes, some hard entail of suffering, some quickly satiated desire that survives, with the life in death of old paralytic vice, to see itself cursed by its woeful progeny--some tragic mark of kinship in the one brief life to the far-stretching life that went before, and to the life that is to come after, such as has raised the pity and terror of men ever since they began to discern between will and destiny. But these things are often unknown to the world, for there is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman forever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer--committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear. 

In the same novel we are told, that--

 To the end of men's struggles a penalty will remain for those who sink from the ranks of the heroes into the crowd for whom the heroes fight and die. 

The same teaching is to be found in the motto of _Daniel Deronda_, where weare bidden to fear the evil tendencies of our own souls. 

 Let thy chief terror be of thine own soul: There, 'mid the throng of hurrying desires That trample o'er the dead to seize their spoil, Lurks vengeance, footless, irresistible As exhalations laden with slow death, And o'er the fairest troop of captured joys Breathes pallid pestilence. 

The manner in which George Eliot believes Nemesis works out her results hasalready been indicated. Her effects do not appear in any outward andpalpable results, necessarily; her method is often unknown to men, hiddeneven from the keenest eyes. Evil causes produce evil results, that is all;and these are shown in the most subtle and secret results of what life is. One of her methods is indicated in _Adam Bede_. 

 Nemesis can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciences-- out of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused; there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good society, and smiles when others smile; but when some rude person gives rough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. 

_The Mill on the Floss_ reflects this thought. 

 Retribution may come from any voice; the hardest, crudest most imbruted urchin at the street-corner can inflict it. 

More effective still is that punishment which comes of our own inward senseof wrong-doing. George Eliot makes Parson Irwine say that "the inwardsuffering is the worst form of Nemesis. " This is well illustrated in theexperience of Gwendolen, who, after the death of her husband at Geneva, isanxious to leave that place. 

 For what place, though it were the flowery vale of Enna, may not the inward sense turn into a circle of punishment where the flowers are no better than a crop of flame-tongues burning the soles of our feet?

Even before this, Gwendolen had come to realize the dire effects of selfishconduct in that dread and bitterness of spirit which subdued her and mockedall her hopes and joys. 

 Passion is of the nature of seed, and finds nourishment within, tending to a predominance which determines all currents toward itself, and makes the whole life its tributary. And the intensest form of hatred is that rooted in fear, which compels to silence and drives vehemence into a constructive vindictiveness, an imaginary annihilation of the deserted object, something like the hidden rites of vengeance with which the persecuted have made a dark vent for their rage, and soothed their suffering into dumbness. Such hidden rites went on in the secrecy of Gwendolen's mind, but not with soothing effect--rather with the effect of a struggling terror. Side by side with the dread of her husband had grown the self-dread which urged her to flee from the pursuing images wrought by her pent-up impulse. The vision of her past wrong-doing, and what it had brought on her, came with a pale ghastly illumination over every imagined deed that was a rash effort at freedom, such as she had made in her marriage. [Footnote: Chapter LIV. ]

The way in which wrong-doing affects us to our hurt is suggested also in_Romola_, where its results upon the inward life are explicitly revealed. 

 Under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome infecting life is cherished by the darkness. The contaminating effect of deeds lies less in the commission than in the consequent adjustment of our desires--the enlistment of our self-interest on the side of falsity; as, on the other hand, the purifying effect of public confession springs from the fact that by it the hope in lies is forever swept away, and the soul recovers the noble attitude of simplicity. 

In the same novel the effect of wrong-doing is regarded as an inward andsubduing fear of the consequences of our conduct. This dread so commonlyfelt, and made a most effective motive by all religions, George Eliotregards as the soul's testimony to the great law of retribution. Experiencethat moral causes produce moral effects, as that law is every day taughtus, takes hold of feeling, and becomes a nameless dread of the avengingpowers. 

 Having once begun to explain away Baldassarre's claim, Tito's thought showed itself as active as a virulent acid, eating its rapid way through all the tissues of sentiment. His mind was destitute of that dread which has been erroneously decried as if it were nothing higher than a man's animal care for his own skin; that awe of the divine Nemesis which was felt by religious pagans, and, though it took a more positive form under Christianity, is still felt by the mass of mankind simply as a vague fear at anything which is called wrong-doing. Such terror of the unseen is so far above mere sensual cowardice that it will annihilate that cowardice: it is the initial recognition of a moral law restraining desire, and checks the hard bold scrutiny of imperfect thought into obligations which can never be proved to have any sanctity in the absence of feeling. "It is good, " sing the old Eumenides, in Aeschylus, "that fear should sit as the guardian of the soul, forcing it into wisdom--good that men should carry a threatening shadow in their hearts under the full sunshine; else how shall they learn to revere the light?" That guardianship may become needless; but only when all outward law has become needless--only when duty and love have united in one stream and made a common force. [Footnote: Chapter XI. ]

Another form in which Nemesis punishes us is described in the essay on "AHalf-Breed" in _The Impressions of Theophrastus Such_. Mixtus was a manwith noble aims, but he was fascinated by Scintilla, and realized none ofhis ideals. He was captivated by her prettiness, liveliness and music, andthen he was captured on his worldly side. She did not believe in "notions"and reforms, and he succumbed to her wishes. As a result, his life wascrippled, he was always unsatisfied with himself. Of this form ofretribution George Eliot says, --

 An early deep-seated love to which we become faithless has its unfailing Nemesis, if only in that division of soul which narrows all newer joys by the intrusion of regret and the established presentiment of change. I refer not merely to the love of a person, but to the love of ideas, practical beliefs and social habits. And faithlessness here means not a gradual conversion dependent on enlarged knowledge, but a yielding to seductive circumstance; not a conviction that the original choice was a mistake, but a subjection to incidents that flatter a growing desire. In this sort of love it is the forsaker who has the melancholy lot; for an abandoned belief may be more effectively vengeful than Dido. The child of a wandering tribe, caught young and trained to polite life, if he feels a hereditary yearning, can run away to the old wilds and get his nature into tune. But there is no such recovery possible to the man who remembers what he once believed without being convinced that he was in error, who feels within him unsatisfied stirrings toward old beloved habits and intimacies from which he has far receded without conscious justification or unwavering sense of superior attractiveness in the new. This involuntary renegade has his character hopelessly jangled and out of tune. He is like an organ with its stops in the lawless condition of obtruding themselves without method, so that hearers are amazed by the most unexpected transitions--the trumpet breaking in on the flute, and the oboe confounding both. 

With a strong and eloquent energy, George Eliot teaches the naturalconsequences of conduct. Every feeling, thought and deed has its effect, comes to fruition. Desire modifies life, shapes our destiny, moulds us intothe image of its own nature. Actions become habits, become controllingelements in our lives, and tend to work out their own legitimate results. The whole of George Eliot's doctrine of retribution is, that human causes, as much as any other, lead to their appropriate effects. Her frequent useof the word _Nemesis_ indicates the idea she had of the inevitableness ofmoral consequences, that a force once set in motion can never be recalledin its effects, which make a permanent modification of human life in itspresent and in its past. It was not the old doctrine of fate which shepresented, not any arbitrary inflictment from supernatural powers. Theinevitableness of moral consequences influenced her as a solemn and fearfulreality which man must strictly regard if he would find true manhood. 

The doctrine of retribution is very clearly taught by George Eliot in hercomments. With a still greater distinctness it is taught in the developmentof her characters. As we follow the careers of Hetty, Maggie, Tito, Fedalma, Lydgate and Gwendolen we see how wonderful was George Eliot'sinsight into the moral issues of life. Not only with these, but with allher characters, we see a righteous moral unfoldment of character into itseffects. There is no compromise with evil in her pages; all selfishness, wrong and crime comes to its proper results. The vanity and selfishness ofHetty leads to what terrible crime and shame for her, and what misery forothers! Tito's selfishness and want of resolute purpose carries himinevitably downward to a hideous end. What is so plain in the case of thesecharacters is as true, though not so palpable, in that of many others inher books. Dorothea's conduct is clearly shown to develop into consequences(as did Lydgate's) which were the natural results of what she thought, didand was. Maggie's misery was the product of her conduct, the legitimateoutcome of it. 

George Eliot goes beyond the conduct of any one person and its results, andattempts to show how it is affected by the person's environment. It wasMaggie's family, education, social standing and personal qualities of mindand heart which helped to determine for her the consequences of herconduct. It was Dorothea's education and social environment which largelyhelped to shape her career and to leave her bereaved of the largestpossibilities of which her life was capable. Gwendolen's life was largelydetermined by her early training and by her social surroundings. Yet withall these, life has its necessary issues, and Nemesis plays its part. Retribution is for all; it is ever stern, just and inevitable. Just, however, only in the sense that wrong-doing cannot escape its own effects, but not just in the sense that the guiltless must often share the fateof the guilty. Wrong-doing drags down to destruction many an innocentperson. It is to be said of George Eliot, however, that she never presentsany of her characters as doomed utterly by the past. However strong thememories of the ages lay upon them, they are capable of self-direction. Not one of her characters is wholly the victim of his environment. Thereis no hint in _Middlemarch_ that Dorothea was not capable of heroism andself-consecration. Her environment gave a wrong direction to her moralpurpose; but that purpose remained, and the moral nobleness of her mind wasnot destroyed. Still, it is largely true, that in her books the individualis sacrificed to his social environment. He is to renounce his ownpersonality for the sake of the race. Consequently his fate is linked withthat of others, and he must suffer from other men's deeds. 

With all its limitations and defects, George Eliot's teaching concerningthe moral effects of conduct is wholesome and healthy. It rests on a solidfoundation of experience and scientific evidence. Her books are full ofmoral stimulus and strengthening, because of the profound conviction withwhich she has presented her conception of moral cause and effect. With her, we must believe that moral sequences are as inevitable as the physical. 

It would be very unjust to George Eliot to suppose that she left man in thehands of a relentless moral order which manifests no tenderness and whichis incapable of pity and mercy. She did not believe in an Infinite Father, full of love and forgiveness; that faith was not for her. Yet she didbelieve in a providence which can assuage man's sorrows and deal tenderlywith his wrong-doing. While nature is stern and the moral sequences of lifeunbending, man may be sympathetic and helpful. Man is to be the providenceof man; humanity is to be his tender forgiving Friend. A substitute sopoor for the old faith would seem to have little power of moral renovationor sympathetic impulse in it; but it quickened George Eliot's mind withenthusiasm and ardor. The "enthusiasm of humanity" filled her whole soul, was a luminous hope in her heart and an inspiring purpose to her mind. With Goethe and Carlyle she found in work for humanity the substitutefor all faith and the cure for all doubt. Faust finds for his life apurpose, and for the universe a solution, when he comes to labor for thepractical improvement of humanity. This was George Eliot's own conclusion, that it is enough for us to see the world about us made a little betterand more orderly by our efforts. All her noblest characters find inaltruism a substitute for religion, and they find there a moral anchorage. She says very plainly in _Middlemarch_, that every doctrine is capable of"eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of directfellow-feeling with individual fellow-men. " To the same effect is hersaying in _Romola_, that "with the sinking of the high human trust thedignity of life sinks too; we cease to believe in our own better self, since that also is a part of the common nature which is degraded inour thought; and all the finer impulses of the soul are dulled. " In_Janet's Repentance_ she has finely presented this faith in sympathetichumanitarianism, showing how Janet found peace in the sick-room where allhad been doubt and trial before. 

 Day after day, with only short intervals of rest, Janet kept her place in that sad chamber. No wonder the sick-room and the lazaretto have so often been a refuge from the tossings of intellectual doubt--a place of repose for the worn and wounded spirit. Here is a duty about which all creeds and all philosophies are at one:--here, at least, the conscience will not be dogged by doubt--the benign impulse will not be checked by adverse theory: here you may begin to act without settling one preliminary question. To moisten the sufferer's parched lips through the long night-watches, to bear up the drooping head, to lift the helpless limbs, to divine the want that can find no utterance beyond the feeble motion of the hand or beseeching glance of the eye--these are offices that demand no self-questionings, no casuistry, no assent to propositions, no weighing of consequences. Within the four walls where the stir and glare of the world are shut out, and every voice is subdued, --where a human being lies prostrate, thrown on the tender mercies of his fellow, --the moral relation of man to man is reduced to its utmost clearness and simplicity: bigotry cannot confuse it, theory cannot pervert it, passion, awed into quiescence, can neither pollute nor perturb it. As we bend over the sick-bed all the forces of our nature rush towards the channels of pity, of patience and of love, and sweep down the miserable choking drift of our quarrels, our debates, our would-be wisdom, and our clamorous, selfish desires. This blessing of serene freedom from the importunities of opinion lies in all simple, direct acts of mercy, and is one source of that sweet calm which is often felt by the watcher in the sick-room, even when the duties there are of a hard and terrible kind. [Footnote: Chapter XXIV. ]

The basis of such sympathetic helpfulness she finds in the common sorrowsand trials of the world. All find life hard, pain comes to all, none are tobe found unacquainted with sorrow. These common experiences draw mentogether in sympathy, unite them in a common purpose of assuagement andhelp. The sorrow of Adam Bede made him more gentle and patient with hisbrother. 

 It was part of that growing tenderness which came from the sorrow at work within him. For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and delighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had not outlived his sorrow--had not felt it slip from him as a temporary burden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid! It would be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it--if we could return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown toward which we have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy--the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sympathy had completely taken place in Adam yet; there was still a great remnant of pain, which he felt would subsist as long as _her_ pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of every morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to it; it becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission; and we are contented with our day when we are able to bear our grief in silence, and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periods that the sense of our lives having visible and invisible relations beyond any of which either our present or prospective self is the centre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert. 

Armgart finds that "true vision comes only with sorrow. " Sorrow andsuffering create a sympathy which sends us to the relief of others. "Painmust enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn intocompassion, " we are told in _Middlemarch_. In the trying hours of MaggieTulliver's life she came to know--

 that new sense which is the gift of sorrow--that susceptibility to the bare offices of humanity which raises them into a bond of loving fellowship. 

Again, she learns that "more helpful than all wisdom is one draught ofsimple human pity that will not forsake us. " Man is in this way brought tolive for man, to suffer in his sufferings, to be mercifully tender andpitiful with him in his temptations and trials. Sympathy builds up themoral life, gives an ethical meaning to man's existence. Thus humanitybecomes a providence to man, and it is made easier for him to bear hissufferings and to be comforted in his sorrows. Nemesis is stern, but man ispitiful; retribution is inexorable, but humanity is sympathetic. Naturenever relents, and there is no God who can so forgive us our sins as toremove their legitimate effects; but man can comfort us with his love, andhumanity can teach us to overcome retribution by righteous conduct. 

All idealistic rights are to be laid aside, according to her theory, allpersonal claims and motives are to be renounced. In the duties we owe toothers, life is to find its rightful expression. In _Janet's Repentance_she says, --

 The idea of duty, that recognition of something to be lived for beyond the mere satisfaction of self, is to the moral life what the addition of a great central ganglion is to animal life. No man can begin to mould himself on a faith or an idea without rising to a higher order of experience: a principle of subordination, of self-mastery, has been introduced into his nature; he is no longer a mere bundle of impressions, desires and impulses. 

To live for self, George Eliot seems to regard as immoral; self is to beignored except in so far as it can be made to serve humanity. As rights areindividual they are repudiated, and the demand for them is regarded asrevolutionary and destructive. 

That man is a moral being because he is a social being she carries to itsfarthest extreme in some of her teachings, as when she makes public opinionthe great motive power to social improvement. Felix Holt pronounces publicopinion--the ruling belief in society about what is right and what iswrong, what is honorable and what is shameful--to be the greatest powerunder heaven. In the "Address to Working Men, by Felix Holt, " published in_Blackwood's Magazine_, Felix is made to say to his fellows, --

 Any nation that had within it a majority of men--and we are the majority--possessed of much wisdom and virtue, would not tolerate the bad practices, the commercial lying and swindling, the poisonous adulteration of goods, the retail cheating and the political bribery which are carried on boldly in the midst of us. A majority has the power of creating a public opinion. We could groan and his-s before we had the franchise: if we had groaned and hissed in the right place, if we had discerned better between good and evil, if the multitude of us artisans and factory hands and miners and laborers of all sorts had been skilful, faithful, well-judging, industrious, sober--and I don't see how there can be wisdom and virtue anywhere without these qualities--we should have made an audience that would have shamed the other classes out of their share in the national vices. We should have had better members of Parliament, better religious teachers, honester tradesmen, fewer foolish demagogues, less impudence in infamous and brutal men; and we should not have had among us the abomination of men calling themselves religious while living in splendor on ill-gotten gains. I say it is not possible for any society in which there is a very large body of wise and virtuous men to be as vicious as our society is--to have as low a standard of right and wrong, to have so much belief in falsehood, or to have so degrading, barbarous a notion of what pleasure is, or of what justly raises a man above his fellows. Therefore let us have done with this nonsense about our being much better than the rest of our countrymen, or the pretence that that was a reason why we ought to have such an extension of the franchise as has been given to us. 

The essay on "Moral Swindlers, " in _Theophrastus Such_, clearly indicatesGeorge Eliot's point of view in ethics. She makes those moral traits whichare social of greater importance than those which are personal. Shecomplains that a man who is chaste and of a clean personal conduct isregarded as a moral man when his business habits are not good. To her, hisrelations to his fellows in all the social and business affairs of life areof higher importance than his personal habits or his family relations. Sherebels against that deep moral instinct of the race which identifiesmorality with personal character, and is indignant that the altruism she somuch believed in is not everywhere made identical with ethics. To her, theperson is nothing; the individual is thought of only as a member of acommunity. She forgot that any large and noble moral life for a people mustrest upon personal character, upon a pure and healthy state of the moralnature in individuals. Nations cannot be moral, but persons can. Publiccorruption has its foundation in personal corruption. The nation cannothave a noble moral life unless the individuals of which it is composed arepure in character and noble in conduct. She complains that sexual purity ismade identical with morality, while business integrity is not. Every socialand moral bond we have, she says, "is a debt; the right lies in the paymentof that debt; _it can lie nowhere else_. " It is a debt owed, not to God, but to humanity; it is therefore to be paid, not by personal holiness, butby human sympathy and devotion. 

The higher social morality, that which inspires nations with great andheroic purposes, George Eliot believes is mainly due, as she says in theessay on "The Modern Hep, Hep, Hep!" "to the divine gift of a memory whichinspires the moments with a past, a present and a future, and gives thesense of corporate existence that raises man above the otherwise morerespectable and innocent brute. " The memories of the past lie mainly in thedirection of national movements, and hence the higher moral life of thepresent must be associated with national memories. The gloriouscommonplaces of historic teaching, as well as of moral inspiration, are tobe found in the fact "that the preservation of national memories is anelement and a means of national greatness, that their revival is a sign ofreviving nationality, and that every heroic defender, every patrioticrestorer, has been inspired by such memories and has made them hiswatchword. " To reject such memories, such social influences, she regards as"a blinding superstition, " and says that the moral visions of a nation arean effective bond which must be accepted by all its members. Two of hermost characteristic books are written to inculcate this teaching. In _TheSpanish Gypsy_ we learn that there is no moral strength and purpose for aman like Don Silva, who repudiates his country, its memories and itsreligion. The main purpose of _Daniel Deronda_ is to show how binding andinspiring is the vision of moral truth and life which comes fromassociation even with the national memories of an outcast and alien people. 

She wished to see individuals helped and good done in the present. Shemakes Theophrastus Such, in the essay on "Looking Backward, " speak her ownmind. 

 "All reverence and gratitude for the worthy dead on whose labors we have entered, all care for the future generations whose lot we are preparing; but some affection and fairness for those who are doing the actual work of the world, some attempt to regard them with the same freedom from ill-temper, whether on private or public grounds, as we may hope will be felt by those who will call us ancient! Otherwise, the looking before and after, which is our grand human privilege, is in danger of turning to a sort of other-worldliness, breeding a more illogical indifference or bitterness than was ever bred by the ascetic's contemplation of heaven. "

Again, she says that "the action by which we can do the best for futureages is of the sort which has a certain beneficence and grace forcontemporaries. " And this was not merely the teaching of her books, it wasthe practice of her life. Miss Edith Simcox has made it clear that she waszealously anxious to help men and women by personal effort. She tells usthat "George Eliot's sympathies went out more readily towards enthusiasmfor the discharge of duties than for the assertion of rights. It belongedto the positive basis of her character to identify herself more with whatpeople wished to do themselves than with what they thought somebody elseought to do for them. Her indignation was vehement enough against dishonestor malicious oppression, but the instinct to make allowance for the otherside made her a bad hater in politics, and there may easily have been somepersonal sympathy in her description of Deronda's difficulty about thechoice of a career. She was not an inviting auditor for those somewhatpachydermatous philanthropists who dwell complacently upon 'cases' andstatistics which represent appalling depths of individual suffering. Herimagination realized these facts with a vividness that was physicallyunbearable, and unless she could give substantial help, she avoided thefruitless agitation. At the same time, her interest in all rational goodworks was of the warmest, and she was inclined to exaggerate rather thanundervalue the merits of their promoters, with one qualification only. 'Help the millions, by all means, ' she has written; 'I only want people notto scorn the narrower effect. ' Charity that did not begin at home repelledher as much as she was attracted by the unpretentious kindness whichoverlooked no near opportunity; and perhaps we should not be far wrong inguessing that she thought for most people the scrupulous discharge of allpresent and unavoidable duties was nearly occupation enough. Not every onewas called to the high but difficult vocation of setting the world torights. But on the other hand, it must be remembered that her standard ofexactingness was 'high, and some of the things that in her eyes it wasmerely culpable to leave undone might be counted by others among virtues ofsupererogation. Indeed, it is within the limits of possibility that aphilanthropist wrapped in over-much conscious virtue might imagine her coldto the objects proposed, when she only failed to see uncommon merit intheir pursuit. No one, however, could recognize with more generous fervor, more delighted admiration, any genuine unobtrusive devotion in eitherfriends or strangers, whether it were spent in making life easier toindividuals, or in mending the conditions among which the masses live andlabor. ' This writer gives us further insight into George Eliot's characterwhen we are told that 'she came as a very angel of consolation to thosepersons of sufficiently impartial mind to find comfort in the hint that theworld might be less to blame than they were as to those points on whichthey found themselves in chronic disagreement with it. But she had nothingwelcome for those whose idea of consolation is the promise of a _deus exmachina_ by whose help they may gather grapes of thorns and figs ofthistles. She thought there was much needed doing in the world, andcriticism of our neighbors and the natural order might wait at all eventsuntil the critic's own character and conduct were free from blame. ' She hadfaith in ordinary lives, and these she earnestly desired to help andencourage. Those who themselves struggle with difficulties are bestcapable, she thought, of helping others out of theirs. In _Daniel Deronda_she said, 'Our guides, we pretend, must be sinless; as if those were notoften the best teachers who only yesterday got corrected for theirmistakes. '"

George Eliot's interest in the present amelioration of human conditions wasstrengthened by her faith in the future of the race. She expected no rapidimprovement, no revolutionizing development; but she believed the past ofmankind justifies faith in a gradual attainment of perfect conditions. Thisconviction was expressed when she said, --

 What I look to is a time when the impulse to help our fellows shall be as immediate and irresistible as that which I feel to grasp something firm if I am falling. 

She saw too much evil and suffering to be an optimist; she could not seethat all things are good or tending towards what is good. Yet her faith inthe final outcome was earnest, and she looked to a slow and painfulprogress as the result of human struggles. When called an optimist, sheresponded, "I will not answer to the name of optimist, but if you like toinvent Meliorist, I will not say you call me out of my name. " She trustedin that gradual development which science points out as the probable resultof the survival of the fittest in human life. In "A Minor Prophet" she haspresented her conception of human advancement, and tenderly expressed hersympathy with all humble, imperfect lives. 

 Bitterly I feel that every change upon this earth Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail To reach that high apocalyptic mount Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world, Or enter warmly into other joys Than those of faulty, struggling human kind, That strain upon my soul's too perfect wing Ends in ignoble floundering: I fall Into short-sighted pity for the men Who, living in those perfect future times, Will not know half the dear imperfect things That move my smiles and tears--will never know The fine old incongruities that raise My friendly laugh; the innocent conceits That like a needless eyeglass or black patch Give those who wear them harmless happiness; The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware, That touch me to more conscious fellowship (I am not myself the finest Parian) With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, To whom raw onions give prospective zest, Consoling hours of dampest wintry work, Could hardly fancy any regal joys Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent: Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear Of waftings from that energetic bulb: 'Tis well that onion is not heresy. Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. A clinging flavor penetrates ray life-- My onion is imperfectness: I cleave To nature's blunders, evanescent types Which sages banish from Utopia. "Not worship beauty?" say you. Patience, friend! I worship in the temple with the rest; But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elves Who stitched and hammered for the weary man In days of old. And in that piety I clothe ungainly forms inherited From toiling generations, daily bent At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine, In pioneering labors for the world. Nay, I am apt, when floundering confused From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox, And pity future men who will not know A keen experience with pity blent, The pathos exquisite of lovely minds Hid in harsh forms--not penetrating them Like fire divine within a common bush Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, So that men put their shoes off; but encaged Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell, Who leaps and fails to hold the window-bars; But having shown a little dimpled hand, Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts Whose eyes keep watch about the prison walls. A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox! For purest pity is the eye of love, Melting at sight of sorrow; and to grieve Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love Warped from its truer nature, turned to love Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. But I am Colin still: my prejudice Is for the flavor of my daily food. Not that I doubt the world is growing still, As once it grew from chaos and from night; Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, With earliest watchings of the rising light Chasing the darkness; and through many an age Has raised the vision of a future time That stands an angel, with a face all mild, Spearing the demon. I, too, rest in faith That man's perfection is the crowning flower Towards which the urgent sap in life's great tree Is pressing--seen in puny blossoms now, But in the world's great morrows to expand With broadest petal and with deepest glow. 

With no disgust toward the crude and wretched life man everywhere livesto-day, but with pity and tenderness for all sorrow, suffering andstruggle, she yet believed that the world is being shaped to a gloriousand a mighty destiny. This faith finds full and clear expression in theconcluding lines of the poem just quoted. 

 The faith that life on earth is being shaped To glorious ends, that order, justice, love, Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure As roundness in the dewdrop--that great faith Is but the rushing and expanding stream Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. Our finest hope is finest memory, As they who love in age think youth is blest Because it has a life to fill with love. Full souls are double mirrors, making still An endless vista of fair things before Repeating things behind: so faith is strong Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink. It comes when music stirs us, and the chords Moving on some grand climax shake our souls With influx new that makes new energies. It comes in swellings of the heart and tears That rise at noble and at gentle deeds-- At labors of the master-artist's hand Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, Trembling before an image seen within. It comes in moments of heroic love, Unjealous joy in love not made for us-- In conscious triumph of the good within, Making us worship goodness that rebukes. Even our failures are a prophecy, Even our yearnings and our bitter tears After that fair and true we cannot grasp; As patriots who seem to die in vain Make liberty more sacred by their pangs, Presentiment of better things on earth Sweeps in with every force that stirs our souls To admiration, self-renouncing love, Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one: Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night We hear the roll and dash of waves that break Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide, Which rises to the level of the cliff Because the wide Atlantic roils behind, Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs. 

George Eliot did all that could be done to make the morality she taughtcommendable and inspiring. In her own direct teachings, and in thedevelopment of her characters and her plots, she has done much to make itacceptable. Her strong insistence on the social basis of morality is to beadmired, and the truth presented is one of great importance. Even moreimportant is her teaching of the stern nature of retribution, that everythought, word and deed has its effect. There is need of such teaching, andit can be appropriated into the thought and life of the time with greatpromise of good. Yet the outcome of George Eliot's morality was ratherdepressing than otherwise. While she was no pessimist, yet she made herreaders feel that life was pessimistic in its main tendencies. She makes onthe minds of very many of her readers the impression that life has not verymuch light in it. This comes from the whole cast of her mind, and stillmore because the light of true ideal hopes was absent from her thought. Astern, ascetic view of life appears throughout her pages, one of theresults of the new morality and the humanitarian gospel of altruism. Unbending, unpitiful, does the universe seem to be when the idea of law andNemesis is so strongly presented, and with no relief from it in the theoryof man's free will. Not less depressing to the moral nature is anunrelieved view of the universe under the omnipotent law of cause andeffect, which is not lighted by any vision of God and a spiritual orderinterpenetrating the material. Her teaching too often takes the tone ofrepression; it is hard and exacting. She devotes many pages to showing theeffects of the law of retribution; she gives comparatively few to thecorrelative law that good always has its reward. Renunciation is presentedas a moral force, and as duty of supreme importance; life is to berepressed for the sake of humanity. The spontaneous tendencies of the mindand heart, the importance of giving a free and healthy development to humannature, is not regarded. Her morality is justly to be criticised for itsascetic and pessimistic tendencies. 

XIII. 

EARLIER NOVELS. 

The first four novels written by George Eliot form a group by themselves;and while all similar to each other in their main characteristics, are inimportant respects different from her later works. This group includes_Clerical Scenes, Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss_ and _Silas Marner_. With these may also be classed "Brother Jacob. " They are all alike novelsof memory, and they deal mainly with common life. Her own life and thesurroundings of her childhood, the memories and associations andsuggestions of her early life, are drawn upon. The simple surroundings andideas of the midland village are seldom strayed away from, and most of thecharacters are farmers and their laborers, artisans or clergymen. _The Millon the Floss_ offers a partial exception to this statement, for in thatbook we touch upon the border of a different form of society, but wescarcely enter into it, and the leading characters are from the same classas those in the other books of this group. "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story" aloneenters wholly within the circle of aristocratic society. There is more ofthe realism of actual life in these novels than in her later ones, greaterspontaneity and insight, a deeper sympathy and a more tender pathos. Theycame more out of her heart and sympathies, are more impassioned andpathetic. 

Throughout the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ are descriptions of actual scenesand incidents known to George Eliot in her girlhood. Mrs. Hackit is aportrait of her own mother. In the first chapter of "Amos Barton, "Shepperton Church is that at Chilvers Colon, which she attended throughouther childhood. It is from memory, and with an accurate pen, she describes--

 Shepperton Church as it was in the old days with its outer court of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windows patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight of steps with their wooden rail running up the outer wall, and leading to the school-children's gallery. Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses! which I began to look at with delight, even when I was so crude a member of the congregation that my nurse found it necessary to provide for the reinforcement of my devotional patience by smuggling bread-and-butter into the sacred edifice. There was the chancel, guarded by two little cherubims looking uncomfortably squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the escutcheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inexhaustible possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their death's-heads and cross-bones, their leopards' paws and Maltese crosses. There were inscriptions on the panels of the singing-gallery, telling of benefactions to the poor of Shepperton, with an involuted elegance of capitals and final flourishes which my alphabetic erudition traced with ever-new delight. No benches in those days; but huge roomy pews, round which devout churchgoers sat during "lessons, " trying to look everywhere else than into each others' eyes. No low partitions allowing you, with a dreary absence of contrast and mystery, to see everything at all moments; but tall dark panels, under whose shadow I sank with a sense of retirement through the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst into the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to stand up on the seat during the psalms or the singing. 

Not only is this description of Shepperton Church accurate in everyparticular, but a subject of neighborhood gossip is made the basis of thestory of "Amos Barton. " When George Eliot was about a dozen years old astrange lady appeared at the Cotou parsonage, and became a subject of muchdiscussion on the part of the parishioners. Much pity was felt for the wifeof the curate, an intimate friend of Marian Evans's mother, whose poverty, seven children and poor health made her burdens far from easy. She died notlong after, and her grave may be seen at Chilvers Coton. The Knebley Churchof "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story" is located only a short distance from ChilversCoton, and is the chancel of the collegiate church founded by Sir Thomas deAstley in the time of Edward III. Its spire was very high, and served as alandmark to travellers through the forest of Arden, and was called "Thelanthorn of Arden. " The spire fell in the year 1600, but was rebuilt later. The present church was repaired by the patron of George Eliot's father, SirRoger Newdigate. She describes it in the first chapter of "Mr. Gilfil'sLove Story" as--

 a wonderful little church, with a checkered pavement which had once rung to the iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters on the lofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses occupying a large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles with their heads very much on one side, holding didactic ribbons, painted in fresco on the walls. 

A delightful lane, overshadowed with noble trees, that ran by Griff House, the birthplace of George Eliot, led to the lodge of Arbury Hall, the homeof Sir Roger Newdigate. Arbury Hall was situated in the midst of a fine oldforest, and it was originally a large quadrangular brick house. Sir Rogerrebuilt it, acting as his own architect, and made it into a modern dwellingof the commodious gothic Order. This house and its owner appear in "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story" as Cheverel Manor and Sir Christopher Cheverel. In thefourth chapter the reader is told that, --

 For the next ten years Sir Christopher was occupied with the architectural metamorphosis of his old family mansion, thus anticipating through the prompting of his individual taste that general re-action from the insipid imitation of the Palladian style towards a restoration of the Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenth century. This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness of determination which was regarded with not a little contempt by his fox-hunting neighbors.... "An obstinate, crotchety man, " said his neighbors. But I, who have seen Cheverel Manor as he bequeathed it to his heirs, rather attribute that unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived and carried out through long years of systematic personal exertion, to something of the fervor of genius. 

In this story an incident in the life of Sir Roger Newdigate may have beenmade use of by George Eliot. He was childless, and adopted a cottager'schild he and his wife heard singing at its father's door one day. Theyeducated the child, who proved to have a fine voice and a passionate loveof music. 

_Janet's Repentance_ also has its scenes from actual life. Dr. Dempster wasthought to be recognized by his neighbors as a well-known person inNuneaton. Milby and its High street are no other than Nuneaton and itsmarket-place. The character of the town and the manner of life there areall sketched from the Nuneaton of George Eliot's childhood. The school sheattended was very near the vicarage. While she was attending this school, when about nine years old, a young curate from a neighboring hamlet waspermitted by the Bishop to give Sunday-evening lectures in the Nuneatonchurch, with the results described in _Janet's Repentance_. 

In _Adam Bede_ there is also a considerable element of actual history. Theheroine, Dinah Morris, is, in some slight particulars at least, sketchedfrom Elizabeth Evans, an aunt of George Eliot's. Elizabeth Evans was bornat Newbold, Lincolnshire, in 1776. [Footnote: This subject has been fullyworked out in a book published by Blackwood, "George Eliot in Derbyshire: avolume of gossip about passages in the novels of George Eliot, " by GuyRoslyn. Reprinted from London Society, with alterations and additions, andan introduction by George Barnett Smith. Its statements are mainly based ona small book published in London in 1859, by Talbot & Co. , entitled "SethBede, the Methody: his Life and Labors. " Guy Roslyn is a pseudonym forJoshua Hatton. ] She was a beautiful woman when young, with soft gray eyesand a fine face, and had a very simple and gentle manner. She was aMethodist preacher, lived at Wirksworth, Derbyshire, and preached whereveran opportunity occurred. When it was forbidden that women should preach, she continued to exhort in the cottages, and to visit the poor and the sickin their homes. She married Samuel Evans, who was born in Boston, and was acarpenter. He had a brother William, who was a joiner and builder. Theirfather was a village carpenter and undertaker, honest and respectable, butwho took to drink in his later years. He was at an ale-house very late onenight, and the next morning was found dead in a brook near his house. Samuel became a Methodist and a preacher, but was teased about it by hisbrother, who criticised his blunders in prayer and preaching. He was gentleand very considerate at home, and was greatly attached to his brother, though they could not agree in matters of religion. While they werepartners in business they prospered, but Samuel did not succeed when byhimself. Samuel and Elizabeth were married at St. Mary's Church, Nottingham. In company with a Miss Richards, Elizabeth attended, in 1801 or1802, a Mary Voce who had poisoned her child. They visited her in jail, andwere with her when she was hung in Nottingham. Elizabeth wrote an accountof her own life, especially of her conversion and her early work in theministry. Concerning the execution of Mary Voce, she gives this account:"At seven o'clock [on the morning of the execution] we all knelt down inprayer, and at ten minutes before eight o'clock the Lord in mercy spokepeace to her soul. She cried out, 'Oh, how happy I am! the Lord haspardoned all my sins, and I am going to heaven. ' She never lost theevidence for one moment, and always rejoiced in the hope of glory. Is itnot by grace we are saved through faith? And is not the Saviour exalted atthe Father's right hand to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness ofsins? If salvation were by works who would be saved? The vilest and worstmay come unto Him. None need despair. None ought to presume. Miss Richardsand I attended her to the place of execution. Our feelings on this occasionwere very acute. We rode with her in the cart to the awful place. Ourpeople sang with her all the way, which I think was a mile and a half. Wewere enabled to lift up our hearts unto the Lord in her behalf, and she wasenabled to bear a public testimony that God in mercy had pardoned all hersins. When the cap was drawn over her face, and she was about to be turnedoff, she cried, 'Glory! glory! glory! the angels are waiting around me. 'And she died almost without a struggle. At this awful spot I lost a greatdeal of the fear of man, which to me had been a great hindrance for a longtime. I felt if God would send me to the uttermost parts of the earth Iwould go, and at intervals felt I could embrace a martyr's flame. Oh, thisburning love of God, what will it not endure? I could not think I had anenemy in the world. I am certain I enjoyed that salvation that if they hadsmote me on one cheek, I could have turned to them the other also. I lived

 "'The life of heaven above, All the life of glorious love. '

"I seemed myself to live between heaven and earth. I was not in heavenbecause of my body, nor upon earth because of my soul. Earth was a scale toheaven, and all I tasted was God. I could pray without ceasing, and ineverything give thanks. I felt that the secret of the Lord is with themthat fear Him. If I wanted to know anything I had only to ask, and it wasgiven, generally in a moment. Whether I was in the public street, or at mywork, or in my private room, I had continued intercourse with my God; andmany, I think I may say hundreds of times, He shone upon His Word, andshowed me the meaning thereof, that is, texts of scripture, so as tofurnish me with sufficient matter to speak to poor sinners for a sufficientlength of time. "

The life of Elizabeth Evans was only a hint to the mind of the author of_Adam Bede_. Dinah was not intended as a portrait, and the resemblancesbetween the two were probably not the result of a conscious purpose on thepart of George Eliot. Soon after the publication of _Adam Bede_, whengossip had begun to report that Dinah Morris was an accurate sketch ofElizabeth Evans, and even that her sermon and prayers had been copied fromthe writings of the aunt, George Eliot wrote a letter to her intimatefriend, Miss Sara Hennell, in which she explained to what extent she wasindebted to Elizabeth Evans for the portrait of Dinah Morris. 

HOLLY LODGE, Oct. 7, 1850. 

Dear Sara, --I should like, while the subject is vividly present with me, totell you more exactly than I have ever yet done, _what_ I knew of my aunt, Elizabeth Evans. My father, you know, lived in Warwickshire all my lifewith him, having finally left Staffordshire first, and then Derbyshire, sixor seven years before he married my mother.... [Footnote: What is hereomitted of this letter will be found on page 12. ]

As to my aunt's conversation, it is a fact that the only two things of anyinterest I remember in our lonely sittings and walks are her telling me onesunny afternoon how she had, with another pious woman, visited an unhappygirl in prison, stayed with her all night, and gone with her to execution, and one or two accounts of supposed miracles in which she believed--amongthe rest, _the face with the crown of thorns seen in the glass_. In heraccount of the prison scenes. I remember no word she uttered--I onlyremember her tone and manner, and the deep feeling I had under the recital. Of the girl she knew nothing, I believe--or told me nothing--but that shewas a common coarse girl, convicted of child-murder. The incident lay in mymind for years on years as a dead germ, apparently, till time had made mymind a nisus in which it could fructify; it then turned out to be the germof _Adam Bede_. 

I saw my aunt twice after this. Once I spent a day and a night with myfather in the Wirksworth cottage, sleeping with my aunt, I remember. Ourinterview was less interesting than in the former time: I think I was lesssimply devoted to religious ideas. And once again she came with my uncle tosee me--when father and I were living at Foleshill; _then_ there was somepain, for I had given up the form of Christian belief, and was in a crudestate of free-thinking. She stayed about three or four days, I think. Thisis all I remember distinctly, as matter I could write down, of my dearaunt, whom I really loved. You see how she suggested Dinah; but it is notpossible you should see as I do how her entire individuality differed fromDinah's. How curious it seems to me that people should think Dinah'ssermon, prayers and speeches were _copied_--when they were written with hottears as they surged up in my own mind!

As to my indebtedness to facts of _locale_, and personal history of a smallkind connected with Staffordshire and Derbyshire--you may imagine of whatkind that is when I tell you that I never remained in either of thosecounties more than a few days together, and of only two such visits have Imore than a shadowy, interrupted recollection. The details which I knew asfacts and have made use of for my picture were gathered from such imperfectallusion and narrative as I heard from my father in his occasional talkabout old times. 

As to my aunt's children or grandchildren saying, if they _did_ say, thatDinah is a good portrait of my aunt--that is simply the vague, easilysatisfied notion imperfectly instructed people always have of portraits. Itis not surprising that simple men and women without pretension toenlightened discrimination should think a generic resemblance constitutes aportrait, when we see the great public so accustomed to be delighted with_mis_-representations of life and character, which they accept asrepresentations, that they are scandalized when art makes a nearer approachto the truth. 

Perhaps I am doing a superfluous thing in writing all this to you, but I amprompted to do it by the feeling that in future years _Adam Bede_ and allthat concerns it may have become a dim portion of the past, and I may notbe able to recall so much of the truth as I have now told you. 

Once more, thanks, dear Sara. Ever your loving

MARIAN. 

When, in 1876, a book was published to show the identity of Dinah Morrisand Elizabeth Evans, George Eliot wrote to the author to protest againstsuch a conclusion. She said to him that the one was not intended torepresent the other, and that any identification of the two would beprotested against as not only false in fact and tending to perpetuatefalse notions about art, but also as a gross breach of social decorum. Yetthese declarations concerning Elizabeth Evans have been repeated, and tothem has been added the assertion that she actually copied in _Adam Bede_the history and sermons of Dinah Morris. [Footnote: "Dinah Morris andElizabeth Evans, " an article by L. Buckley in The Century for August, 1882. ] During visits to her aunt in 1842 we are told they spent severalhours together each day. "They used to go to the house of one of Mrs. Evans's married daughters, where they had the parlor to themselves and hadlong conversations. These secret conversations excited some curiosity inthe family, and one day Mrs. Evans's daughter said, 'Mother, I can't thinkwhat thee and Mary Ann have got to talk about so much. ' To which Mrs. Evansreplied, 'Well, my dear, I don't know what she wants, but she gets me totell her all about my life and my religious experience, and she puts it alldown in a little book. I can't make out what she wants it for. ' While atWirksworth, Miss Evans made a note of everything people said in herhearing; no matter who was speaking, down it went into the note-book, whichseemed never out of her hand. These notes she transcribed every nightbefore going to rest. After her departure Mrs. Evans said to her daughter, 'Oh dear, Mary Ann has got one thing I did not mean her to take away, andthat is the notes of the first sermon I preached on Ellaston Green. ' Thesermon preached by Dinah on Hayslope Green has been recognized as one ofMrs. Evans's. " The purpose here seems to be to convey the impression thatGeorge Eliot actually carried away one of Mrs. Evans's sermons, and thatshe afterwards copied it into _Adam Bede_. George Eliot's own positivestatement on this subject ought to be sufficient to convince any candidmind the sermon was not copied. The evidence brought forward so far inregard to the relations of Dinah Morris to Elizabeth Evans is notsufficient to prove the one was taken from the other. George Eliot'sdeclarations, written soon after _Adam Bede_ was published, when all wasperfectly fresh in her mind, and after her relatives had made theirstatements about Mrs. Evans, ought to settle the matter forever. Unlessnew and far more positive evidence is brought forward, Dinah Morris oughtto be regarded as substantially an original creation. 

That some features of Elizabeth Evans's character were sketched into thatof Dinah Morris seems certain. It is also said that the names of Mrs. Poyser and Bartle Massey were the names of actual persons, the latter beingthe schoolmaster of her father. As showing her power of local coloring, Miss Mathilde Blind relates this incident: "On its first appearance, _AdamBede_ was read aloud to an old man, an intimate associate of Robert Evansin his Staffordshire days. This man knew nothing concerning either authoror subject beforehand, and his astonishment was boundless on recognizing somany friends and incidents of his own youth portrayed with unerringfidelity, he sat up half the night listening to the story in breathlessexcitement, now and then slapping his knees as he exclaimed, 'That'sRobert, that's Robert, to the life. '"

In _Adam Bede_, as well as in the _Clerical Scenes_ and _The Mill on theFloss_, she describes types of character instead of actual personages; andyet so much of the realistic is embodied that more than one of hercharacters has been identified as being in a considerable degree a sketchfrom life. This is true of _The Mill on the Floss_ even more fully than ofher previous books. In Maggie she has portrayed one side of her owncharacter, and made use of much of her early experience. Lucy is said to beher sister, and two of her aunts are sketched in the aunts of Maggie--Mrs. Glegg and Mrs. Pullett. Her brother recognized the minute faithfulness ofthis story, as he did that of _Adam Bede_. The town of St. Ogg's is a gooddescription of the tide-water town of Gainesborough in Lincolnshire. TheHayslope of _Adam Bede_ has been identified as the village of Ellaston, four miles from Ashbourne, in Derbyshire. It is near Wirksworth, the homeof Elizabeth Evans. 

The local exactness of George Eliot's descriptions is another evidence ofher realism. "It is not unlikely, " suggests Mr. Kegan Paul, "that the timewill come when with one or other of her books in their hand, people willwander among the scenes of George Eliot's early youth, and trace eachallusion, as they are wont to do at Abbotsford or Newstead, and they willrecognize the photographic minuteness and accuracy with which these scenes, so long unvisited, had stamped themselves on the mind of the observantgirl. " The historical setting of her novels is also faithful in even minutedetails. The time of "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story" is at the beginning of thelast quarter of the eighteenth century, and it well describes the countrycustoms of the earlier years of the present century. _Adam Bede_ describesthe first decade of the present century, while _Silas Marner_ is a littlelater. With "Amos Barton, " and _The Mill on the Floss_ we are in the seconddecade of the century, before hand-looms had gone out or railroads had comein. She has a fondness for these days of rustic simplicity, quiet habitsand homely disingenuousness, and she more than once expresses a doubt ifmuch has been gained by the introduction of machinery, suffrage andculture. She regrets that--

 Human advancement has no moments when conservative reforming intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a little toryism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear old brown, crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place to sick-and-span, new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yield endless diagrams, plans, elevations and sections; but, alas! no picture. Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated mind: it has an occasional tenderness for old abuses; it lingers with a certain fondness over the days of nasal clerks and top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the departed shades of vulgar errors. [Footnote: Amos Barton, chapter I. ]

In _Adam Bede_, when describing a leisurely walk home from church in thegood old days, she bursts out again into enthusiastic praise of the timebefore there was so much advancement and culture. 

 Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through the fields from "afternoon church"--as such walks used to be in those old leisurely times when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday books had most of them old brown leather covers, and opened with a remarkable precision always in one place. Leisure is gone--gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses and the slow wagons and the pedlers who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure for mankind. Do not believe them; it only creates a vacuum for eager thought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now--eager for amusement; prone to excursion trains, art museums, periodical literature and exciting novels; prone even to scientific theorizing and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old Leisure was quite a different personage; he only read one newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was free from that "periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. He was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion--of quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis, happy in his inability to know the causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chiefly in the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by the fruit-tree wall, and scenting the apricots when they were warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself under the orchard boughs at noon when the summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of week-day services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing--liking the afternoon service best, because the prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or port wine--not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure; he fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners and slept the sleep of the irresponsible; for had he not kept up his charter by going to church on the Sunday afternoon? Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him and judge him by our modern standard; he never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, or read _Tracts for the Times_ or _Sartor Resartus_. " [Footnote: Adam Bede, chapter LII. ]

Her faithfulness to the life she describes is seen in her skilful use ofdialect. The sense of local coloring is greatly heightened by the dialogueswhich speak the language of the people portrayed. When Luke describes hisrabbits as _nesh_ things, and Mrs. Jerome says little _gells_ should beseen and not heard, and Tommy Trounsom mentions his readiness to pick up a_chanch_ penny, we are brought closer to the homely life of these people. She has so well succeeded, in Mr. Carson's words, in portraying "what theycall the dileck as is spoke hereabout, " the reader is enabled to realize, as he could not so well do by any other method, the homeliness andrusticity of the life presented. 

George Eliot has not attempted a great variety in the use of dialect, forshe has avoided unfamiliar words, and has made use of no expressions whichwould puzzle her readers in the attempt to understand them. The words notto be found in the dictionary are those which may in almost every instancebe heard in the speech of the uncultured wherever the English language isspoken. Among others are these words: chapellin', chanch, coxy, corchey, dawnin', fettle, franzy, gell, megrim, nattering, nesh, overrun, queechy, plash. In a letter to Professor Skeats, published in the _Transactions ofthe English_ _Dialect Society_, she has explained her methods of usingdialect. 

 It must be borne in mind that my inclination to be as close as I could to the rendering of dialect, both in words and spelling, was constantly checked by the artistic duty of being generally intelligible. But for that check I should have given a stronger color to the dialogue in _Adam Sede_, which is modelled on the talk of North Staffordshire and the neighboring part of Derbyshire. The spelling, being determined by my own ear alone, was necessarily a matter of anxiety, for it would be as possible to quarrel about it as about the spelling of Oriental names. The district imagined as the scene of _Silas Marner_ is in North Warwickshire; but here, and in all my other presentations of English life except _Adam Bede_, it has been my intention to give the general physiognomy rather than a close portraiture of the provincial speech as I have heard it in the Midland or Mercian region. It is a just demand that art should keep clear of such specialties as would make it a puzzle for the larger part of its public; still, one is not bound to respect the lazy obtuseness or snobbish ignorance of people who do not care to know more of their native tongue than the vocabulary of the drawing-room and the newspaper. 

It may be said of George Eliot's realism that she did not borrow nearly somuch from actual observation as was done by Charlotte Brontë, in whosenovels, scenes, persons and events are described with great accuracy andfulness. In large measure Charlotte Brontë borrowed her materials from thelife about her. Large as was her invention, original as her mind was, andunique in its thought, yet she seems to have been unable to create theplots of her novels without aid from real events and persons. Persons andscenes and events were so vividly portrayed in _Jane Eyre_ as to be at oncerecognized, subjecting the author to much annoyance and mortification. In_Shirley_ there is even a larger use of local traditions and manners, thelocality of the story being described with great accuracy. George Eliot didnot use such materials to nearly so great an extent, being far lessdependent on them. Nor had she anything of Scott's need of localtraditions. Accurate as she is, she creates her own story, not depending, as he did, on the suggestive help of the stories of the past. Few of hisnovels are the entire creations of his own mind; but he used every hint andsuggestion he could find as the basis of his work. In this, George Eliot isno more a realist than either of her great predecessors. Even Goldsmith andFielding were no more creative and original than she, for they depended asmuch as she on the occurrences of real life for their plots. All genuinenovelists have drawn their materials from the life about them, and theycould not attain success otherwise. All depends, however, on how thematerial thus used is made to bear its results. If Charlotte Brontëborrowed more from actual life of event and scenery, yet she was not more arealist; rather her power lies in something higher than realism, in thatsubtle insight and creative power which gives originality to her work. Shewas an idealist keeping close to the actual; and in this fact is to befound her superiority to George Eliot in certain directions. George Eliotstudied life accurately and intimately, but she did not tie herself to anyindividual occurrences or persons. She had so absorbed the spirit of thelife amidst which she lived, as to give a true expression to it under analmost purely fictitious garb. 

There is less of distinct teaching in the _Scenes of Clerical Life_ than inGeorge Eliot's later novels. Yet even in these earlier stories there is tobe found many a clear indication of her thought. In "Amos Barton" she hasespecially set forth her sympathy with humble life. This fundamental canonof her art is presented more distinctly in this story, and dwelt upon morefully, than in any of her subsequent novels. It would be difficult todiscover any special teaching in "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story;" and this isperhaps the only production of George Eliot's pen which has not somedistinct object beyond the telling of the story itself. The religious motifis strong in _Janet's Repentance_, and not to be mistaken by any attentivereader who now for the first time takes up the story. The value of religionas a reforming force is plainly inculcated, as well as that the main andonly value of that force is altruistic. It presents a fine picture of theEvangelical movement and its work, though mainly on its humanitarian side. Its deeper spirit of devotion, its loftier religious ideal, its cravingafter a more intimate realization of the divine presence, is not portrayed. The real purport of the story is contained in its closing words, where thereader is told that the true memorial left behind him by Edgar Tryan is tobe found in a life saved to all noble thing's by his efforts. 

 It is Janet Dempster, rescued from self-despair, strengthened with divine hopes, and now looking back on years of purity and helpful labor. The man who has left such a memorial behind him must have been one whose heart beat with true compassion, and whose lips were moved by fervent faith. 

These _Scenes of Clerical Life_ surpass all George Eliot's later novels inone respect--their pathos. _Adam Bede_ comes nearer them in this particularthan any of the later works, but even that novel does not equal them intheir power to lay hold of feeling and sympathy and in moving the reader totears. They differ greatly in this respect from another short story, written only a few years later, entitled "Brother Jacob. " This story hasmore of light banter in it than any other novel of George Eliot's, and lessof tenderness and pathos. It is but another lesson on her great theme of_retribution_. The author says in the last sentence of the story that "wesee in it an admirable instance of the unexpected forms in which the greatNemesis hides herself. " The central thought of the story is, that even inthe lives of the most ordinary persons, and in the case of even thesmallest departures from the right, there is a power of retribution at workbringing us an unfailing punishment for the evil we do. 

The literary excellences of the _Scenes from Clerical Life_ are many. Theyare simple, charming stories, full of life, and delightful in tone. Theirhumor is rare and effective, never coarse, but racy and touching. Theirtenderness of tone lays warm hold upon the reader's sympathies and bringshim closer to the throbbing hearts of his fellow-men. There is a pureidyllic loveliness and homelikeness about these stories that is exquisite. They all evidently grew out of the tender memories and associations ofGeorge Eliot's girlhood. 

In _Adam Bede_ the author's purpose is concentrated on character and themoral unfoldment of the lives she describes, while the thorough dramaticunity is lacking which such a work demands. It is a delightful picture ofcountry life, and for idyllic loveliness is scarcely equalled, neversurpassed, in English literature. The charm of the narrative is onlyrivalled by the deep human interest the characters have for us. Thisexquisite picture of rural life is not merely a piece of fine painting; butthe deepest problems, the largest human interests, ever appear as aperpetual background of spiritual reality, giving a sublimity to the wholethat truly dignifies it. The thoughtful reader soon finds this inweaving ofa larger purpose adding greatly to the idyllic loveliness of these scenes. The moral tone is clear and earnest, and the religious element gives acharm and nobility to this delightful picture of rustic simplicity. 

_Adam Bede_ has probably delighted a larger number of her readers than anyother of George Eliot's books, and even a majority of her critics prefer itto any other. It at once arrests and fixes the attention of the reader. Thefirst chapter has an immediate interest in its wonderful picture of Adam, and its most vivid description of the workshop. The second chapter, withits account of Dinah Morris and her preaching, leaves no possibility ofdoubt about the genius and power of the book. The reader is brought at onceface to face with scenes and persons that act as enchantment on him; andthis complete absorption of interest never flags to the end. The elementsof this fascination, which is in itself so simple, natural and human, havebeen pointed out by various critics. They are to be found in thehomeliness, pathos and naturalness of the whole story from beginning toend. Little as the critics have noted it, however, much of this fascinationcomes of the high and pure moral tone of the story, its grasp on the highermotives and interests of life, and its undertone of yearning after areligious motive and ideal adequate to all the problems of human destiny. This religious motive is indeed more than a yearning, for it is a fixed andself-contained confidence in altruism, expressed in sympathy and feelingand pathos most tender and passionate. This novel is full of an eagerdesire to realize to men their need of each other, and of longing to showthem how much better and happier the world would be if we were moresympathetic and had more of fellow-feeling. Life is full of suffering, andthis can be lessened only as we help and love each other, only as we canmake our feelings so truly tender as to feel the sorrows of others as ourown, causing us to live for the good of those who suffer. It is said ofAdam Bede that--

 He had too little fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen consequences. Without this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough patience and charity toward our stumbling, falling companions in the long and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong determined soul can learn it--by getting his heart-strings bound round the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the outward consequence of their error but their inward suffering. 

This compassion for human suffering is conspicuous throughout, and it isregarded as the most effective means of binding men together in commonsympathy and helpfulness. Sorrow is regarded as the true means of man'selevation, as that purifying agent which is indispensable to his truedevelopment. This teaching is fully depicted in the chapter headed "TheHidden Dread, " and in which Hetty's flight is described. We are told inthat chapter that this looks like a very bright world on the surface, butthat as we look closer within man's nature we find sorrow and pain untold. 

 What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so when, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked to me like our English Loamshire: the rich land tilled with just as much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadows--I have come on something by the roadside which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire--an image of a great agony--the agony of the Cross. It has stood, perhaps, by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshine by the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook was gurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this world who knew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this image of agony would seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this joyous nature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or among the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there might be a human heart beating heavily with anguish--perhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from swift-advancing shame; understanding no more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb, wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath, yet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness. Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind the blossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your ear with a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion has much sorrow in it; no wonder he needs a Suffering God. 

The remedy for this sorrow, even in the pages of _Adam Bede_, is not theatoning love of Christ or the blessedness of a divine forgiveness, but thealtruistic compassion of man for man. There is, however, a, deeperrecognition in this novel of Christian belief than in any other by GeorgeEliot. The prayer and sermon of Dinah Morris have a truly Christian toneand thought. This is not the case with the teachings of Savonarola, who isalways much more an altruist than a Christian, and into whose mouthChristian phrases are put, while it is very evident the Christian spirit inits wholeness was not put into his heart. Sorrow and suffering are regardedin _Adam Bede_ as the means of baptism into a larger life of sympathy, asthe means of purification from selfishness and individual aims. Along withthis teaching goes the cognate one, that feeling is the true test of thereligious life. A feeling that draws us close to others in helpfulness isworth more than knowledge, culture and refinement of taste. 

The doctrine of retribution is presented as distinctly and positively in_Adam Bede_ as in any subsequent book George Eliot wrote. It is given theform of distinct statement, and it is developed fully in the working out ofthe plot. Parson Irwine speaks the thought of the author in these words:

 "There is no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can't isolate yourself, and say that the evil which is in you shall not spread. Men's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other as the air they breathe; evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others; but so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commit it. "

The tendency of selfishness and wrong to develop misery is fully unfolded. The terrible law of moral cause and effect is made apparent throughout thewhole work. The folly of Arthur and the vanity of Hetty work them terribleconsequences of evil and bitterness. Many others are made to suffer withthem. The fatal Nemesis is unmasked in these revelations of human nature. 

If the critics are right in pronouncing _Adam Bede_ artistically defective, it is not difficult to see that there is still less of unity in _The Millon the Floss_. Unconnected and unnecessary scenes and persons abound, whilethe Tulliver and Dodson families, and their stupidities, are described at atedious length. Yet the picture of child-life given here compensates forall we might complain of in other directions. Maggie is an immortal child, wonderfully drawn, out of the very heart of nature herself. Her joy inlife, her doubts and fears, her conflicts with self, are delineated with amaster's hand, and justify--such is their faithfulness to child-life--thesupposition that this is George Eliot's own childhood, so delicate andpenetrating is the insight of this description, Swinburne has justly saidthat "no man or woman, outside the order of poets, has ever written ofchildren with such adorable fidelity of affection as the spiritual motherof Totty, Eppie and of Lillo. " Nor have the poets surpassed her intruthfulness to child-life and intuitive insight into child-nature. Thechild Maggie is unsurpassed, not as an ideal being, but as a living childthat plays in the dirt, tears her frocks, and clips her hair in an hour ofchildish anger. 

In this novel we first come distinctly upon another element in the writingsof George Eliot, and this is a yearning after a fuller, larger life. Itdoes not appear as distinctly developed in _Adam Bede_, where there is moreof poise and repose. Maggie represents the restless spirit of thenineteenth century, intense dissatisfaction with self, and a profoundlyhuman passion for something higher and diviner. A passionate restlessnessand a profound spiritual hunger are united in this novel to an eager desirefor a deeper and fuller life, and for a satisfactory answer to the soul'sspiritual thirst. The spiritual repose of Dinah, who has found all thereligious cravings of her nature satisfied in Methodism, is abandoned forthe inward yearning of Maggie, whose passionate search for spiritual truthends in disaster. 

No other of George Eliot's books has been so severely criticised as thisone, except _Daniel Deronda_, and mainly because of Maggie. The apparentfall of the heroine, and the crude tragedy of the ending, have beenregarded as serious defects. The moral tone and purpose have been severelycondemned. In his essays on foul and fair fiction, Ruskin puts _The Mill onthe Floss_ into that class of novels which describe life's blotches, burrsand pimples, and calls it "the most striking instance extant of this studyof cutaneous disease. " He says the personages are picked up from behindthe counter and out of the gutter, and he finds "there is not a singleperson in the book of the smallest importance to anybody in the world butthemselves, or whose qualities deserved so much as a line of printer'stype in their description. " To the same effect is Swinburne's criticismof Maggie's relations to Stephen Guest. He calls it "the hideoustransformation by which Maggie is debased. " He says that most of GeorgeEliot's admirers would regard this as "the highest and the purest and thefullest example of her magnificent and matchless powers. The first twothirds of the book suffice to compose perhaps the very noblest of tragic aswell as of humorous prose idyls in the language; comprising one of thesweetest as well as saddest and tenderest, as well as subtlest examples ofdramatic analysis--a study in that kind as soft and true as Rousseau's, askeen and true as Browning's, as full as either's of the fine and bittersweetness of a pungent and fiery fidelity. But who can forget the horror ofinward collapse, the sickness of spiritual re-action, the reluctant, incredulous rage of disenchantment and disgust, with which he came upon thethrice-unhappy third part? The two first volumes have all the intensity andall the perfection of George Sand's best work, tempered by all the simplepurity and interfused with all the stainless pathos of Mrs. Gaskell's; theycarry such affluent weight of thought, and shine with such warm radiance ofhumor, as invigorates and illuminates the work of no other famous woman;they have the fiery clarity of crystal or of lightning; they go near toprove a higher claim and attest a clearer right on the part of their authorthan that of George Sand herself to the crowning crown of praise conferredon her by the hand of a woman ever greater and more glorious than either inher sovereign gift of lyric genius, to the salutation given as by an angelindeed from heaven, of 'large-brained woman and large-hearted man. '" In themomentary lapse of Maggie, Swinburne finds a fatal defect, which nosubsequent repentance atones for. He says that "here is the patent flaw, here too plainly is the flagrant blemish, which defaces and degrades thevery crown and flower of George Eliot's wonderful and most noble work; norent or splash on the raiment, but a cancer in the very bosom, a gangrenein the very flesh. It is a radical and mortal plague-spot, corrosive andincurable. "

Such criticism has little if any value, because there is no point ofsympathy between the critic and his author. That real life contains sucherrors as Maggie's cannot be doubted, and George Eliot wished to paint noideal scenes or heroines. To portray a passionate, eager, yearning nature, full of poetry, longing for a diviner spiritual life, surrounded by dulland unpoetic conditions and persons, was her purpose. That the hunger ofsuch a person for the expression of her inward cravings for joy, music andbeauty should lead her astray and make a sudden lapse possible, is not tobe doubted. The fault of the critics is in supposing that this lapse frommoral conduct was that of a physical depravity. Maggie's passion grewwholly out of that inward yearning for a fuller life which made all herdifficulties. It was not physical passion but spiritual craving; and in thepurpose of the novelist she was as pure after as before. 

The cause of what must be regarded as the great defect in _The Mill on theFloss_ is not that George Eliot chose to paint life in a diseased state, but that she had not the power to make her characters act what theythemselves were. While the delightful inward portraiture of Maggie is inprocess all are charmed with her, her soul is as pure and sweet as a rosenew-blown; but when the time arrives for her to act as well as to meditateand to dream, she is not made equal to herself. Through all her books thisis true, that George Eliot can describe a soul, but she cannot make her menand women act quite up to the facts of daily life. In this way Dinah andAdam are not equal to themselves, and settle down to a prosaic life such asis not in keeping with that larger action of which they were capable. George Eliot's characters are greater than their deeds; their inward lifeis truer and more rounded than their outward life is pure and noble. 

_The Mill on the Floss_ fully develops George Eliot's conception of thevalue of self-renunciation in the life of the individual, and gives a newemphasis to her ideas about the importance of the spiritual life as anelement in true culture. It has been said that she intended to indicatethe nature of physiological attraction between men and women, and howlarge an influence it has; but whether that was an aim of hers or not, she undoubtedly did attempt to indicate how altogether important isrenunciation to a life of true development, how difficult it is to attain, and that it is the vital result of all human endeavor. She surrounded atender, sensitive, musical and poetic soul, one quick to catch the tone ofa higher spiritual faith, with the common conditions of ordinary sociallife, to show how such an "environment" cripples and retards a soul full ofaspiration and capable of the best things. Maggie saw the way to the light, but the way was hard, beset with difficulties individual and social, andshe could neither overcome herself nor the world. She was taken suddenlyaway, and the novel comes to a hasty conclusion, because the author desiredto indicate the causes of spiritual danger to ardent souls, and not toinculcate a formula for their relief. Maggie had learned how difficult itis for the individual to make for himself a new way in life, how benumbingare the conditions of ordinary human existence; and through her death weare to learn that in such difficulties as hers there is no remedy for theindividual. Only through the mediation of death could Maggie be reconciledto those she had offended; death alone could heal the social wounds she hadmade, and restore her as an accepted and ennobled member of the corporateexistence of humanity. This seems to be the idea underlying the hurriedconclusion of this novel, that the path of renunciation once truly enteredon, brings necessarily such difficulties as only death can overcome; anddeath does overcome them when those we have loved and those we have helped, forget what seem to them our wrong deeds in the loving memories whichfollow the dead. Over the grave men forget all that separated them fromothers, and the living are reconciled to those who can offend them no more. All that was good and pure and loving is then made to appear, and memoryglorifies the one who in life was neglected or hated. Through death Maggiewas restored to her brother, and over her grave came perfect reconciliationwith those others from whom she had been alienated. That renunciation maylead to cruel martyrdoms is what George Eliot means; but she would say ithas its lofty recompense in that restoration which death brings, when theindividual becomes a part of the spiritual influence which surrounds andguides us all. For those who can accept such a conclusion as this the unityof the novel may seem complete. 

The poetry of Maggie's nature found itself constantly dragged down toconditions of vulgar prose by the life about her. That life was prosy andhard because those ideal aims which come from a recognition of the past andits traditions were absent from it. Maggie tried to overcome them byrenunciation, but by renunciation which did not rest on any genuine sorrowand pain. At last these came, and the real meaning of renunciation was madeclear to her. Her bitter sorrow taught her the great lesson which GeorgeEliot ever strives to inculcate, that what is hard, sorrowful and painfulin the world should move us to more and more of compassion and help for ourfellows who also find life sad and burdensome. At the last Maggie learnedthis greatest of all lessons which life can give us. 

 She sat quite still far on into the night, with no impulse to, change her attitude, without active force enough even for the mental act of prayer--only waiting for the light that would surely come again. It came with the memories that no passion could long quench: the long past came back to her, and with it the fountains of self-renouncing pity and affection, of faithfulness and resolve. The words that were marked by the quiet hand in the little old book that she had long ago learned by heart, rushed even to her lips, and found a vent for themselves in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of the rain against the window, and the loud moan and roar of the wind: "I have received the Cross, I have received it from Thy hand; I will bear it, and bear it till death, as Thou hast laid it upon me. "

 But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but in a sob: "Forgive me, Stephen. It will pass away. You will come back to her. "

 She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it burn slowly on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the last word of parting. 

 "I will bear it, and bear it till death... But how long it will be before death comes! I am so young, so healthy. How shall I have patience and strength? Am I to struggle and fall, and repent again? Has life other trials as hard for me still?" With that cry of self-despair Maggie fell on her knees against the table, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to the end. Surely there was something being taught her by this experience of great need, and she must be learning a secret of human tenderness and long-suffering that the less erring could hardly know. "O God, if my life is to be long, let me live to bless and comfort--"

Then the flood came, and death. Maggie could repent, she could acquire thetrue spirit of renunciation, she could even give herself to a life ofaltruism; but death only could restore her to the world. Death, says GeorgeEliot, is the great reconciler. 

_Silas Marner_ is the only one of these earlier novels in which there is acontinuous unity of purpose and action. Its several parts are thoroughlywrought into each other, the aim of the narrative is adhered to throughout, and there are no superfluous incidents. The plot is simple, cause andeffect flow on steadily to the end in the unfoldment of character andaction, and the design of the author is easily grasped. One of her critics, himself a novelist of a high order, has said that in its unity of purposeand dramatic expression _Silas Marner_ is more nearly a masterpiece thanany other of George Eliot's novels; "it has more of that simple, rounded, consummate aspect, that absence of loose ends and gaping issues, whichmarks a classical work. " [Footnote: Henry James, Jr. ] In this novel, too, her humor flows out with a richer fulness, a racier delight and a moresparkling variety of expression than in any other book of hers, notexcepting _Adam Bede_. She has here reached the very height of herqualities as a humorist, for in _Silas Marner_ her humor is constantlygenial and delightful. 

Certain ethical ideas appear very distinctly in this novel. It illustratesman's need of social ties and connections. Silas forsook his old life, thelife of his childhood and youth, and the world was a blank for him inconsequence. With the sundering of the ties which bound him to thetraditional environment amidst which he was reared, all the purpose andmeaning of his life was gone. The old ties, obligations and associationsgone, his life was without anchorage, its ideal aims perished, and he liveda selfish and worthless creature. When new social ties were formed by theyoung child he found then his life opened up to a larger meaning again, andhe recovered the better things in his nature. He was then led back againinto his relations to society, he became once more a man, a fresh life wasopened to him. This brought a new confidence in religion, a new trust inthe moral motives of life. In this way George Eliot presents the socialbasis of the higher life in man, and her theory that it cannot be brokenoff from its traditional surroundings without grave injury to the finerelements of our nature. The law of retribution manifests itself clearly inthese pages. Godfrey deserts wife and child. In after years he would fainrestore the child to its rightful place, but he finds it has grown up underconditions which alienate it from any sympathy with him. He pronounces hisown condemnation:

 "There's debts we can't pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. While I've been putting off and putting off, the trees have been growing--it's too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said about a man's turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody else. I wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy--I shall pass for childless now against my wish. "

A pure moral tone, a keen ethical instinct, mark all these earlier novelsby George Eliot. Quite as noticeable is their spiritual atmosphere andtheir high place assigned to the religious life. Their teaching in thesedirections has a conservative tendency, and it is based on the mostvigorous convictions. 

XIV. 

ROMOLA. 

Whatever differences there may exist between George Eliot's earlier andlater books are due rather to the materials used than to any change inpurpose, methods or beliefs. In writing of the distinction drawn betweenher earlier and later books, she said, --

 Though I trust there is some growth in my appreciation of others and in my self-distrust, there has been no change in the point of view from which I regard our life since I wrote my first fiction, the _Scenes of Clerical Life_. Any apparent change of spirit must be due to something of which I am unconscious. The principles which are at the root of my effort to paint Dinah Morris are equally at the root of my effort to paint Mordecai. 

Her later books grow more out of conscious effort and deliberate study thanthe earlier, are more carefully wrought out, and contain less ofspontaneity. The spiritual and ethical purpose, however, is not moredistinct and conscious in _Daniel Deronda_ than in _The Mill on the Floss_, in _Romola_ than in _Adam Bede_. The ethical purpose may be more apparentin _Daniel Deronda_ than in _Adam Bede_, more on the surface, and clearerto the view of the general reader, but this is because it takes an unusualform, rather than because it is really any more distinctly present. In _TheMill on the Floss_ her teaching first became known to her readers, and in_Romola_ this purpose to use the novel as the vehicle for propagating ideasbecame fully apparent. Her aim having once come clearly to view, it was notdifficult to see how large an element it was in her earlier books, where ithad not been seen before. If she had written nothing but _Adam Bede_ herteachings might not have come to light, though some of those she has mostoften insisted on are to be found clearly stated in that book. Herdoctrinal aim, however, became more clear and pronounced as she went on inher career as a novelist, and became more thoroughly conscious of her ownpowers and of the purposes which she wished to work out in her novels. Shegained courage to express her ideas, and their importance was more deeplyimpressed upon her mind and heart. 

In _Romola_ it was first made clear that George Eliot is to be judged as amoralist as well as a literary artist. That she is a great literary artist, surpassed only by a select few, is to be borne constantly in mind; but as amoralist she surpasses most others in the amount of her teaching, andteaching which is thoroughly incorporated into the literary fibre of herwork. She much resembles Wordsworth in this, that while she is an originalcreator of artistic forms and ideas, her books will be sought for theirviews of life as well for their qualities as novels. Wordsworth is a poetof vast original powers, but the poetic fire in him often burns low and hisverses become mere prose. Yet his ideas about nature, life and moralscommand for him a place higher than that occupied by any other poet of histime, and a school of thinkers and critics has been developed through hisinfluence. In much the same way, George Eliot is likely to attractattention because of her teachings; and it is probable her books will beresorted to and interpreted largely with reference to her moral andphilosophical ideas. Should such a movement as this ever spring up, _Romola_ will necessarily become one of the most important of all herbooks. Some of her principal ideas appear therein more distinctly, inclearer outline, and with a greater fulness of expression, than they obtainin any other of her books. The foreign setting of her story enabled her togive a larger utterance to her thoughts, while there was less of personaland pathetic interest to impede their expression. This is also true of _TheSpanish Gypsy_, that it has more of teaching and less of merely literaryattraction than any other of her longer poems. The purpose to do justice tothe homely life of rustic England was no longer present, and she was freeto give her intellectual powers a deliberate expression in the form of athoughtful interpretation of a great historic period. Mr. Henry James, Jr. , has recognized the importance of this effort, and says of _Romola_, thathe regards it, "on the whole, as decidedly the most important of herworks, --not the most entertaining nor the most readable, but the one inwhich the largest things are attempted and grasped. The figure ofSavonarola, subordinate though it is, is a figure on a larger scale thanany which George Eliot has elsewhere undertaken; and in the career of TitoMelema there is a fuller representation of the development of a character. Considerable as are our author's qualities as an artist, and largely asthey are displayed in _Romola_, the book is less a work of art than a workof morals. Like all of George Eliot's works, its dramatic construction isfeeble; the story drags and halts, --the setting is too large for thepicture. "

The book lacks in spontaneity, is too deliberate, contemplative andethical. While its artistic elements are great, and even powerful, it istoo consciously moral in its purpose to satisfy the literary requirementsof a work of art. It wants the sensuous elements of life and the _abandon_of poetic genius. There is little which is sensational about the book; toolittle, perhaps, of that vivid imaginative interest which impels the readerheadlong through the pages of a novel to the end. It is, however, a highmerit in George Eliot, that she does not resort to factitious elements ofinterest in her books, but works honestly, conscientiously, and with a purepurpose. If the reader is not drawn on by the sensational, he is amplyrepaid by the more deliberate and natural interest which gives a meaning toevery chapter. 

George Eliot selected for her book one of the most striking and picturesqueperiods of modern history, in the great centre of culture and art in thefifteenth century. Florence was the intellectual capital of the world inthe renaissance period, and the truest representative of its spirit. It wasthe time also of that remarkable monk-prophet, Savonarola, whose voice wasraised so powerfully against the corruptions of that most corrupt age. Thisunique character, doubtless, had much to do in causing George Eliot to takethis city and time for her story. No one of the reformers of the fifteenthand sixteenth centuries was more in earnest, had a loftier purpose, workedin a nobler spirit, than this Dominican monk of Florence. His opposition tothe Medici, his conflict with Rome, his visions and prophecies, hisleadership of the politics of Florence, his powerful preaching, hisuntimely death, all give a romantic and a tragic interest to his life, andconspire to make him one of the most interesting figures in modern history. His moral purpose was conspicuous even when tainted by personal ambition. His political influence was supreme while it lasted, and was wielded in theinterests of Florence, for its liberties and its moral regeneration. As areligious teacher he was profoundly in earnest; a prophet in his own beliefas well as in the depth of his religious insight, he accepted with the mostthorough intensity of conviction the spiritual truths he inculcated. In hisown belief he was constantly in communion with the spiritual world, and wasguided and taught by it. He swayed the people of Florence as the wind swaysthe branches of a tree, and they bowed utterly to his will for the moment, when he put forth all his moral and intellectual powers in the pulpit. Apuritan in morals, he had a most vivid realization of the terrible evils ofhis time; and he could make his congregation look at the world with his ownfaith and moral purpose. His influence on literature and art was alsogreat, and it was felt for many years after his death. 

Savonarola spoke in the pulpit with the authority of the profoundestpersonal conviction, and his hearers were impressed by his preaching withthe feeling that they listened to one who knew whereof he spoke. Wheneverhe preached there was a crowd to hear; people came three or four hoursbefore the time, and they came in throngs from the surrounding country. Heheld separate services for men, for women, for children, in order that allmight hear. And this eagerness to listen to him was not for a few weeks, but it continued for years. The greatest enthusiasm was awakened by hisinfluence, the people were melted into tears, every person listened withbated breath to his words. Thousands were converted, and among them many ofthe most learned of the poets, artists and statesmen of the time. The mostremarkable changes in the modes of life took place, money was restored, and contributed freely to buy bread when famine threatened, and theconfessional was daily crowded with penitents. One of his biographers saysthat "the most remarkable change that was apparent in the manners of thepeople, in their recreations and amusements, was the abandonment ofdemoralizing practices, of debauchery of all kinds, of profane songs of alicentious character which the lower grades of the people especially weregreatly addicted to; and the growth of a new taste and passion forspiritual hymns and sacred poetry that had succeeded that depraved taste. "

On one side of his nature, Savonarola seems to have been of a remarkablypure and noble character, with high aims, noble ambitions and a clear moralinsight. Looked at on its better side, his religious reformation waswholesome and salutary, and dictated by a genuine desire to elevate worshipand to purify faith. There was a very different side to his life and work, however, and in some features of his character he seems to have been afanatic and enthusiast of the most dangerous sort. He was credulous, superstitious and visionary. He had no clear, strong and well-reasonedpurpose to which he could hold consistently to the end. An earnestCatholic, he only sought to reform the Church, not to supersede it; but hismoral aims were not high enough to carry him to the logical results of hisposition. Involved by his visionary faith in claims of miraculous power andsupernatural communication, he had not the intellectual honesty to carrythose claims to their legitimate conclusion. Weakness, hesitation andinconsistency marked his character in his later years, and have made him apuzzle to modern students. These inconsistencies of character have led towidely divergent conclusions about the man, his sincerity of purpose andthe outcome of his work. 

Another influence of the time, more powerful because more permanent, wasthe renaissance movement, which was at this period working its greatestchanges and inspiring the most fervid enthusiasm. A new world had beendisclosed to the people of the fifteenth century in the revival ofknowledge concerning classic literature and art, and there came to be anabsorbing, passionate interest in whatever pertained to the ancients. Manuscripts were eagerly sought after, translations were diligently made, literature was modelled after the classic writers, to quote and to imitatethe ancients became the habit of the day. A change the most striking wasproduced in the modes of thought and of life. The love of nature wasrevived, and with it a graceful abandonment to the dominion of the senses. Paganism seemed likely to return upon the world again and to reconquer fromChristianity all that it had once lost. The pagan spirit revived, itstastes and modes of life came back again. Plato was restored to his oldplace, and in the minds of the cultured seemed worthier of homage thanChrist. With such as Lorenzo Medici and his literary friends, Platonism wasregarded as a religion. 

The recovery of classic literature came to the men of this period as arevelation. It opened a new world to them, it operated upon them like agalvanic shock, it kindled the most fervid enthusiasms. It also had theeffect to restore the natural side of life, to liberate men from a falsespiritualism and an excessive idealism. From despising the human faculties, men came back to an acceptance of their dictation, and even to an animaldelight in the senses and passions. The natural man was deified; but not inthe manner of the Greeks, in simplicity and with a pure love of beauty. An artificial love of nature and the natural in man was the result ofthe renaissance; a hothouse culture and a corrupting moral developmentfollowed. Passion was given loose rein, the senses took every form ofindulgence. Yet the Church was even worse, while many of the classicscholars were stoic in their moral purity and earnestness. This movementdeveloped individualism in thought, a selfish moral aim, and intellectualarrogance. The men who came under its influence cared more for culturethan for humanity, they were driven away from the common interests oftheir fellows by their new intellectual sympathies. It was the desire ofSavonarola to restore the old Christian spirit of brotherhood andhelpfulness. In this his movement was wide apart from that of therenaissance, which gave such tyrants as the Medici a justification fortheir deliberate attacks on the liberties of the people. He loved man, they loved personal development. 

George Eliot shows these two influences in antagonism with each other; onthe one hand a reforming Christianity, on the other the renaissancemovement. She admirably contrasts them in their spirit and influence, though she by no means indicates all of the tendencies of either. Herpurpose is not that of the historical novelist, who wishes simply to give acorrect and living picture of the time wherein he lays his plot. She visesthis portion of history because it furnishes an excellent opportunity tounfold her ideas about life, rather than because it gives an abundance ofpicturesque material to the novelist. Her primary object is not theinterpretation of Florentine life in the time of Savonarola; and thissubordination of the historical material must be kept fully in mind by thereader or he will be misled in his judgment on the book. It has well beensaid that the historical characters in _Romola_ are not so well sketched asthe original creations. Savonarola is not so lifelike as Tito. She seems tohave been cramped by the details of history; and she has not thoroughlyconquered and marshalled subordinate to her thought the mass of localincidents she introduces. Her account of Savonarola is inadequate, becauseit does not enter fully enough into his history, and because it omits muchwhich is necessary to a full understanding of the man and his influence. 

So far as the book has an historical purpose it is that of describing thegeneral life of the time rather than that of portraying Savonarola. Becauseof this purpose much is introduced into the story which is irrelevant tothe plot itself. Not only did the author desire to contrast a man likeSavonarola, led by the spirit of self-denial and renunciation, with onelike Tito Melema led by the spirit of self-love and personal gratification;but she wished to contrast worldliness and spirituality, or individualismand altruism, as social forces. Lorenzo and the renaissance give one formof life, Savonarola and Christianity give another; and these two appearas affecting every class in society and every phase of the social order. To bring out this contrast requires a broad stage and many scenes. Muchwhich seems quite irrelevant to the plot has its place in this largerpurpose, and serves to bring out the final unity of impression which theauthor sought to produce. Nor is the purpose of the book merely that ofcontrasting two great phases of thought and of social influence, but ratherto show them as permanent elements in human, nature and the nature of theeffect which each produces. 

_Romola_ demands for its thorough appreciation that the reader shall have aconsiderable acquaintance with Italian history in the fifteenth century andwith the social and literary changes of that period. Whether it is readwith a keen interest and relish will much depend on this previousinformation. To the mere novel-reader it may seem dull and too muchencumbered by uninteresting learning. To one who is somewhat familiar withthe renaissance period, and who can appreciate the ethical intention of thebook, it will be found to be a work of genius and profound insight. It willhelp such a reader to a clearer comprehension of this period than he couldwell obtain in any other manner, and the ethical purpose will add a new andliving interest to the story of Florentine life. He will be greatly helpedto comprehend the moral and intellectual life of the time, with its--

 strange web of belief and unbelief; of Epicurean levity and fetichistic dread; of pedantic impossible ethics uttered by rote, and crude passions acted out with childish impulsiveness; of inclination toward a self-indulgent paganism, and inevitable subjection to that human conscience which, in the unrest of a new growth, was filling the air with strange prophecies and presentiments. [Footnote: _Proem to Romola_. ]

The artistic features of this period were many and striking, but GeorgeEliot has not made so large a use of them as could have been wished; atleast they appear in her book too much under the influence of historicinformation. She could not be content merely to absorb and reflect anhistoric period; but her active intellect, full of ideas concerning thecauses of human changes, must give an explanation of what was before her. This philosophic tendency mars the artistic effect and blurs the picturewhich would otherwise have been given. Yet the critic must not be too sureof this, and he must be content simply to note that George Eliot was tooenergetic a thinker to be willing to portray the picturesque features ofFlorentine life in the fifteenth century and to do no more. She had atleast three objects, --to give a picture of Florentine life in the fifteenthcentury, to show the influence of the renaissance in conflict withChristianity, and to inculcate certain ethical ideas about renunciation, tradition and moral retribution. While the book thus gains in breadth andin a certain massive impression which it produces, yet it loses in thatconcentration of effect which a more limited purpose would have secured. Itgives the impression of having been written by a vigorous thinker ratherthan by a genius of the first order. The critic has no right to complain ofthis, however, or even to assume that genius might do other work than ithas done. Had George Eliot been less thoughtful than she was, she would nothave been George Eliot. _Romola_ grew out of a genius so large and originalthat it can well endure the criticisms caused by any defects it may have. 

The ideas of the time appear subtly expressed in the influence they produceon the persons who entertain them. Savonarola's mysticism and high moralpurpose made him at once a prophet and a reformer, but he was not able toseparate the spiritual realities of life from devotion to his party. Hiscourage, purity and holiness cannot but be admired, while his fanaticism isto be deplored. George Eliot has well conceived and expressed the effectproduced in all but the very greatest minds by the assumption ofsupernatural powers. Savonarola was strong and great as a preacher and areformer, weak only on the side of his visions and his faith that his partyrepresented the kingdom of God. Not that his visions were weak, nor arethey assumed to be untrue; but his mysticism clouded his intellect, and hisfanaticism led him to overlook the practical truths to be inculcated by agenuine reformer. He is a true type of the mystical churchman of the time, who saw the corruption about him and desired a better order of things, but who hoped to secure it by reviving the past in all its imaginedsupernatural features. He would have ruled the world by visions to bereceived by monks, and he would have made Jesus Christ the head of therepublic. Yet his visions entangled his clear intellect and perverted hismoral purpose. 

On the other hand, Tito Melema was intended to represent the renaissancemovement on its Greek, or its aesthetic and social side. He was not a badman at heart, but he had no moral purpose, no ethical convictions. He hadthe Greek love of ease, enjoyment and unconcern for the morrow; a spiritwhich the renaissance revived in many of its literary devotees. He livedfor the day, for self, in the delight of music, art, social intercourse andsensual enjoyment. He had the renaissance quickness of assuming all parts, its love of wide and pretentious learning, its superficial scholarship, its social and political deftness and flexibility. The dry, minute, unprofitable spirit of criticism is well indicated by Bardo Bardi, whichhad no originality and no fresh vitality, but which loved to comment on theclassic writers at tedious length, and to collate passages for purposes themost foreign from any practical aim life could possibly afford. In theconception of Tito, George Eliot has quite surpassed herself, and in allliterature there is no delineation of a character surpassing this. One ofher critics says there is no character in her novels "more subtly devisedor more consistently developed. His serpentine beauty, his winninggraciousness, his aesthetic refinement, his masculine energy of intellect, his insinuating affectionateness, with his selfish love of pleasure and hiscowardly recoil from pain, his subdulous serenity and treacherous calm, asof a faithless summer sea, make up a being that at once fascinates andrepels, that invites love, but turns our love into loathing almost beforewe have given it. " [Footnote: Westminster Review, July, 1881. ] Mr. R. H. Hutton has expressed his conviction that this is one of the most skilfullypainted of all the characters in fictitious literature. He says, "Acharacter essentially treacherous only because it is full of soft placidselfishness is one of the most difficult to paint;" but in sketching Tito'scareer, "the same wonderful power is maintained throughout, of stamping onour imagination with the full force of a master hand a character whichseems naturally too fluent for the artist's purpose. There is not a moremasterly piece of painting in English romance than this figure of Tito. "

Romola represents the divided interests of one who was affected by both therenaissance and Christianity. Brought up to know only what the renaissancehad to teach, to delight in culture and to ignore religion, her contactwith Savonarola opened a new world to her mind. Her experience in life ledher to seek some deeper moral anchorage than was afforded by the culture ofher father and husband, yet she could not follow Savonarola into the regionof mystical visions and other-worldliness. Her life having broken loosefrom the ties of love through the faithlessness of Tito, and from the tiesof tradition through the failure of culture to satisfy her heart, shedrifts out into the world, to find, under the leadership of the greatpreacher, that life's highest duty is renunciation. His influence over thenoblest souls of his time is indicated in Romola's trust in him, and in heracceptance of him as a master and a guide. When this guide failed, as allhuman guides must fail, she found peace in the service of others. In livingfor humanity, her sorrows were turned into strength, and her renunciationbecame a religion. It is Romola who represents George Eliot in this book, gives voice to her ideas, and who preaches the new gospel she would havethe world learn. If Romola has her limitations as a conception of womanlycharacter, is too "passionless and didactic, " yet she does admirablyrepresent the influence on a thoughtful woman of a contention betweenculture and religion, and how such a person may gradually attain to aself-poised life in loving service toward others. She is not an idealwoman. She was given a character which prevents her being quite attractive, because she was made to represent ideas and social tendencies. 

The altruistic doctrine of renunciation, and of living for others, is morefully developed in _Romola_ than in any other of George Eliot's booksexcept _The Mill on the Floss_. That the truest satisfaction life canafford is to be found in work done for human good is conspicuously shown inthe experiences of Romola. She finds no peace as a follower of Savonarola, she finds no abiding content in philosophy; but toil for others among thesick, suffering and dying, brings heavenly joy and a great calm. She had nospecial love for this work, her early education had even made it repulsive;but Savonarola had shown her that in this direction lay life's true aim. Hecommunicated to her his own enthusiasm for humanity, and she retained thisfaith even after her loss of confidence in him had loosened her hold on hisreligious teachings. She went beyond her teacher and inspirer, learned hislessons better than he did himself, and came to see that a true religion isnot of a sect or party, but humanitarian. When she warned him against hisfanatical devotion to his party, he attempted to justify his narrow policyby identifying true Christianity with his own work, Romola replied, --

 "Do you then know so well what will further the coming of God's kingdom, father, that you will dare to despise the plea of mercy--of justice--of faithfulness to your own teaching? Take care, father, lest your enemies have some reason when they say that, in your visions of what will further God's kingdom, you see only what will strengthen your own party. "

 "And that is true!" said Savonarola, with flashing eyes. Romola's voice had seemed to him in that moment the voice of his enemies. "The cause of my party _is_ the cause of God's kingdom. "

 "I do not believe it!" said Romola, her whole frame shaken with passionate repugnance. "God's kingdom is something wider--else let me stand outside it with the beings that I love. "

 The two faces were lit up, each with an opposite emotion, each with an opposite certitude. Further words were impossible. Romola hastily covered her head and went out in silence. [Footnote: Chapter LIX. ]

Savonarola forgot the better spirit of his own teachings, he sought tobecome a political leader. It was his ruin, for his purpose was vitiated, and his influence waned. George Eliot well says that "no man ever struggledto retain power over a mixed multitude without suffering vitiation; hisstandard must be their lower needs, and not his own best insight. " This wasthe sad fate of the great Florentine preacher and reformer. He lost hisfaith, and he spoke without the moment's conviction. When this result cameabout, all hope for Savonarola as a reformer was gone. He was then only theleader of a party. George Eliot has well painted the effect upon Romola ofthis fall, and given deep insight into the results of losing our trust inthose great souls who have been our guides. All the ties of life hadsnapped for Romola; her marriage had proved a failure, her friend hadbecome unworthy of her confidence; and she fled. 

Romola went away, found herself in the midst of a plague-stricken people, gave her life to an assuagement of suffering and sorrow. Then she couldcome back to her home purified, calm and noble. In the "Epilogue, " we findher speaking the word which gives meaning to the whole book. Tessa's child, whom she had rescued, says to her that he would like to lead a life whichwould give him a good deal of pleasure. Romola says to him, --

 "That is not easy, my Lille. It is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We can only have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great man, by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so much pain with it that we can only tell it from pain by its being what we would choose before everything else, because our souls see it is good. There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world that no man can be great--he can hardly keep himself from wickedness--unless he gives up thinking much about pleasures or rewards, and gets strength to endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than falsehood. And there was Fra Girolamo--you know why I keep to-morrow sacred; _he_ had the greatness which belongs to a life spent in struggling against powerful wrong, and in trying to raise men to the highest deeds they are capable of, And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and seek to know the best things God has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix your mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it. And remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the rule of your life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, calamity might come just the same; and it would be calamity falling on a base mind, which is the one form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may well make a man say, 'It would have been better for me if I had never been born. ' I will tell you something, Lillo. "

 Romola paused a moment. She had taken Lillo's cheeks between her hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers. 

 "There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great deal of his life, who made almost every one fond of him, for he was young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and kind. I believe when I first knew him, he never thought of anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he came at last to commit some of the basest deeds--such as make men infamous. He denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed every trust that was reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him. "

Aside from this altruistic teaching which is developed in connection withthe life of Romola, the doctrine of retribution is vigorously unfoldedin the history of Tito Melema. The effects of selfishness and personalself-seeking have nowhere been so wonderfully studied by George Eliot as inthis character. His career is minutely traced from step to step of hisdownfall, and with a remarkable faithfulness and courage. The effects ofvice and sin are nowhere so finely presented and with such profound ethicalinsight. A careful study of this character alone will give a clearcomprehension of George Eliot's conception of retribution, how the naturallaws of life drag us down when we are untrue to ourselves and others. It isa great moral lesson presented in this character, a sermon of the mostpowerful kind. Nemesis follows Tito ever onward from the first false step, lowers the tone of his mind, corrupts his moral nature, drags him into anever-widening circle of vice and crime, makes him a traitor, and causes himto be false to his wife. Step by step, as he gives way to evil, we see thedegradation of his heart and mind, how the unfailing Nemesis is wreakingits vengeance upon him. He is surely punished, and his death is the fit endof his career. We are shown how his evil deeds affect others, how the greatlaw of retribution involves the innocent in his downfall. Here George Eliothas unfolded for us how true it is that our lives are linked on every sidewith the lives of our fellows, and how the deeds of any one must affect forgood or evil the lives of many others. 

Almost every leading thought of George Eliot's philosophy and ethics isunfolded in greater or less degree in this novel. It is full of brave, wholesome teaching, and of clear insight into the consequences of conduct. 

_Romola_ is the most thoughtful, the most ambitious, the most philosophicalof George Eliot's works; and it is also the most lacking in spontaneity, and more than any other shows the evidences of the artist's labors. Yetby many persons it will be accepted as the greatest of her works, andnot without the best of reasons. It contains some of her most originalcharacters, gives a remarkable emphasis to great moral laws, and interpretsthe spiritual influence of the conflict which is ever waging betweentradition and advancing culture as no other has done. It is athought-provoking book, a book of the highest moral aims. 

XV. 

FELIX HOLT AND MIDDLEMARCH. 

The scenes of George Eliot's later novels are laid in England, but for themost part among a town rather than a rural population. Instead of Hayslopeand Raveloe, Mrs. Poyser and Silas Marner, we have Middlemarch and TrebyMagna, Dorothea Brooke and Felix Holt. If Felix Holt is quite as much aworking-man as Adam Bede, occupying a social position higher in no respectwhatever, yet he is a workingman of a far different type. If Adam is thenobler character, the truer type of man, Felix represents a larger socialpurpose and has higher moral aims. In _Adam Bede_, we find rusticsimplicity and contentment, but in _Felix Holt_ we touch social aspirationsand political ambitions. The horizon has widened, the plane of social lifehas lifted, there are new motives and larger ideals. 

Very many of her readers and critics regard _Middlemarch_ as George Eliot'sgreatest novel. This is said to have been her own opinion. With greatunanimity her readers pronounce _Felix Holt_ her weakest and leastinteresting work. So far as the dramatic and artistic execution areconcerned, these judgments are not entirely correct. The machinery of_Middlemarch_ is clumsy, and the plot desultory in aim and method. On theother hand, _Felix Holt_ is strongly thought out and skilfully planned. Ithas much of passion and enthusiasm in it, and not a little of pure andnoble sentiment, while _Middlemarch_ is never impassioned, but flows oncalmly. The author evidently put herself into _Felix Holt_ with the purposeof teaching her own views about moral and social life. She lived in thecharacters, felt and hoped with them, and wrote out of a deep, spontaneouspurpose. The sensational element has been more fully used, and the unity ofthe plot more thoroughly developed, than in any other of her works, whilethere is a living, breathing purpose in the story which is absent from herlater works. _Felix Holt_ is one of the two or three novels by George Eliotwhich have an affirmative and thoroughly constructive purpose. It is thispurpose which makes the chief interest of the work. It is a story of socialreform, and is to be read as an embodiment of the author's political ideas. From this point of view it is a story full of interest, and it is the oneof George Eliot's novels which will most strongly impress those who arefully in sympathy with her ideas of progress and social regeneration. Thepurpose of _Middlemarch_ is critical, to show how our modern social lifecramps the individual, limits his energies, and destroys his power ofhelpful service to the world. This critical aim runs through the whole workand colors every feature of it. The impression made by the whole work issaddening; and the reader, while admiring the artistic power and theliterary finish of the book, is depressed by the moral issue. In strengthof imagination, intellectual insight, keen power of analysis, this novelsurpasses anything else George Eliot has written. 

_Felix Holt_ is a novel with an ethical purpose. It aims to show how socialand political reform can be brought about. Felix is George Eliot's idealworking-man, a man who remains true to his own class, seeks his own moralelevation, does not have much faith in the ballot, and who is zealous forthe education of his fellows. He is a radical who believes in heredity, whois aware of our debt to the past, and who would use the laws of socialinheritance for the elevation of mankind. The account Felix gives of hisconversion contains George Eliot's conception of what is to be done by allworkingmen who rightly understand what social reform is and how it can bemost truly brought about. It is to be secured by each workingman living notfor self and pleasure, but to do what good he can in the world. 

 "I'm not speaking lightly, " said Felix. "If I had not seen that I was making a hog of myself very fast, and that pig-wash, even if I could have got plenty of it, was a poor sort of thing, I should never have looked life fairly in the face to see what was to be done with it. I laughed out loud at last to think of a poor devil like me, in a Scotch garret, with my stockings out at heel and a shilling or two to be dissipated upon, with a smell of raw haggis mounting from below, and old women breathing gin as they passed me on the stairs--wanting to turn my life into easy pleasure. Then I began to see what else it could be turned into. Not much, perhaps. This world is not a very fine place for a good many of the people in it. But I've made up my mind it shan't be the worse for me, if I can help it. They may tell me I can't alter the world--that there must be a certain number of sneaks and robbers in it, And if I don't lie and filch, somebody else will. Well, then, somebody else shall, for I won't. That's the upshot of my conversion. Mr. Lyon, if you want to know it. "

When Felix gives Esther an account of his plans, and describes to her hispurpose to do what he can to elevate his class, we have George Eliot's ownviews on the subject of social reform. Felix says, --

 "I want to be a demagogue of a new sort: an honest one, if possible, who will tell the people they are blind and foolish, and neither flatter them nor batten on them. I have my heritage--an order I belong to. I have the blood of a line of handicraftsmen in my veins, and I want to stand up for the lot of the handicraftsmen as a good lot, in which a man may be better trained to all the best functions of his nature, than if he belonged to the grimacing set who have visiting-cards, and are proud to be thought richer than their neighbors. "

That the leading aim of _Felix Holt_ is to show the nature of true socialreform may be seen in the address made by Felix at the election, and evenmore distinctly in the address put into his mouth in _Blackwood's Magazine_for 1868. In the election speech Felix gives it as his belief that ifworkingmen "go the right way to work they may get power sooner withoutvotes" than with them, by the use of public opinion, "the greatest powerunder heaven. " The novel points out the social complications of life, theinfluence of hereditary privileges and abuses, and how every attempt atreform is complicated by many interests, and is likely to fall into thehands of demagogues who use the workingmen for their own purposes. Theaddress of Felix in _Blackwood's_ is really a commentary on the novel, orrather a fine and suggestive summary of the moral, social and politicalidea; it was meant to inculcate. 

In _Felix Holt_, George Eliot would teach the world that true social reformis not to be secured by act of Parliament, or by the possession of theballot on the part of all workingmen. It is but another enforcement of thetheory that it is not rights men are to seek after, but duties; that socialand political reform is not to be secured by insistence on rights, but bythe true and manly acceptance of altruism. Felix Holt is a social reformerwho is not a demagogue, who does not seek office or personal advancement, but who wishes to show by his own conduct how a larger life is to be won. He would introduce universal education; he would teach the great principlesof right living, physically and morally; he would inculcate the spirit ofhelpfulness and mutual service. As a brave, earnest, self-sacrificing, pure-minded lover of humanity, he is an inspiring character. George Eliotevidently wished to indicate in his creation what can be done by workingmentowards the uplifting of their own class. A better social order, she wouldhave us believe, cannot be secured from external sources; but it must behad by an internal impulse moving those whose lives are degraded to seekfor higher things because of their own intrinsic good. The demagogueseeks the elevation of workingmen because he can use them for his ownadvancement; but Felix desires their elevation for the good of the wholesocial structure. To this end he would inspire in his fellows a greatermoral ambition and zeal for the common good. He is a Mazzini, Castelar orJohn Bright in his own social order; one who loves his own class, wishes toremain in it, and who desires above all things that it shall do its part inthe work of national elevation. His aim is not to oppose the other classesin society, but to make his own necessary to the prosperity of his country. Felix is not an ideal character, for he is rough, uncultured andheadstrong; but he is an inspiring personality, with gifts of intellectualfascination and moral courage. George Eliot has created no other characterlike him, for Deronda and Zarca, whose aims somewhat resemble his, are verydifferent. He is no hero, he is not altogether an attractive person. Hehas, however, the power, which some of the noblest of George Eliot'scharacters possess, of attracting and uplifting other persons. He madeEsther realize the wide gulf between self-pleasing and duty, he inspiredher with moral courage and awakened her mind to the higher aims andsatisfactions life has to give us. He was undoubtedly meant for a moralhero of the working class, a prophet to the laborers. With all hislimitations he is one of the noblest and most helpful characters in GeorgeEliot's books. 

Other distinctive ideas of George Eliot's appear throughout this book. Hertheories of heredity, altruism and environment affect the whole developmentof the story. Perhaps no more striking illustration of the law ofretribution is to be found in her books than in the case of Mrs. Transome. This woman's sin corrupted her own life, and helped to darken the lives ofothers. 

The aim had in view in _Middlemarch_ is to illustrate the impotence ofmodern life so far as it relates in moral heroism and spiritual attainment. High and noble action is hindered and baulked by the social conditions inthe midst of which we live; and those who would live grandly and purely, and in a supreme unselfishness devote themselves to the world, find thattheir efforts are in vain. Dorothea has longings after a life of loveand service; she would live for high purposes and give herself for others'good. Her hopes end in disaster almost; and she is cramped and baulkedon every side. Lydgate would devote himself to science, to patientinvestigations for the sake of alleviating human misery and disease. Hissocial environment cripples him, and his life comes to nothing comparedwith what he had aimed at, and what he was capable of attaining. Dorotheais presented as capable of becoming a saint, being of an ardent, heroicnature, a woman who yearned after some lofty conception of the world thatwas to be made, not merely poetry, but an actual fact about her; who was"enamoured of intensity and greatness, " and "likely to seek martyrdom. " Thedifficulties which most beset such a nature are presented in the very firstchapter, where these saintly tendencies are considered as probableobstacles to her making a good marriage. 

 A young lady of some birth and fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sick laborer and prayed fervidly, as if she thought herself living in the time of the Apostles--who had strange whims of fasting like a Papist, and of sitting up at night to read old theological books! Such a wife might awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for the application of her income which would interfere with political economy, and the keeping of saddle-horses; a man would naturally think twice before he risked himself in such fellowship. 

The social life of Tipton really had no room for such a woman, could notemploy her rare gifts, knew not what to make of her yearnings and hercharity. And Tipton is the world and modern life, which spurns the heroic, has no place for the poetry of existence, can make nothing of yearnings andlongings for high heroism. Because the social order into which she was borncould not use her gifts, because the vision of life in her soul was otherand higher than that which society had marked out for such as she, her lifewas wasted in an unhappy marriage. In an earlier age she would have becomea St. Theresa, for society then had a place for such souls. Now she bows inreverence to a man of learning, dreams great things of tender service tohim; but this proves not to be the place in which she belongs. In the lastparagraphs of the book the author gives her own account of Dorothea'sfailure to reach the good she sought. 

 Sir James never ceased to regard Dorothea's second marriage as a mistake; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it in Middlemarch, where she was spoken of to a younger generation as a fine girl who married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be her father, and in little more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marry his cousin--young enough to have been his son, with no property, and not well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usually observed that she could not have been "a nice woman, " else she would not have married either the one or the other. 

 Certainly those determining acts of her life were not ideally beautiful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse struggling under prosaic conditions. Among the many remarks passed on her mistakes, it was never said in the neighborhood of Middlemarch that such mistakes could not have happened if the society into which she was born had not smiled on propositions of marriage from a sickly man to a girl less than half his own age--on modes of education which make a woman's knowledge another name for motley ignorance--on rules of conduct which are in flat contradiction with its own loudly asserted beliefs. While this is the social air in which mortals begin to breathe, there will be collisions such as those in Dorothea's life, where great feelings take the aspect of error, and great faith the aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother's burial; the medium in which their ardent deeds took place is forever gone. But we insignificant people with our daily words and acts, are preparing the lives of many Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that of the Dorothea whose story we know. 

 Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Alexander broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive; for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. 

The influence of social environment is also presented in _Felix Holt_ as achief determining agent in the lives of individuals. However high the aimsand noble the purposes of the individual, he must succumb to those socialinfluences which are more powerful than he. In the third chapter we aretold that--

 This history is chiefly concerned with the private lot of a few men and women; but there is no private life which has not been determined by a wider public life, from the time when the primeval milkmaid had to wander with the wanderings of her clan, because the cow she milked was one of a herd which had made the pastures bare. Even in that conservatory existence where the fair Camelia is sighed for by the noble young Pineapple, neither of them needing to care about the frost or rain outside, there is a nether apparatus of hot-water pipes liable to cool down on a strike of the gardeners or a scarcity of coal. And the lives we are about to look back upon do not belong to those conservatory species; they are rooted in the common earth, having to endure all the ordinary chances of past and present weather. As to the weather of 1832, the Zadkiel of that time had predicted that the electrical condition of the clouds in the political hemisphere would produce unusual perturbations in organic existence, and he would perhaps have seen a fulfilment of his remarkable prophecy in that mutual influence of dissimilar destinies which we shall see gradually unfolding itself. For if the mixed political conditions of Treby Magna had not been acted on by the passing of the Reform Bill, Mr. Harold Transome would not have presented himself as a candidate for North Loamshire, Treby would not have been a polling-place, Mr. Matthew Jermyn would not have been on affable terms with a Dissenting preacher and his flock, and the venerable town would not have been placarded with handbills, more or less complimentary and retrospective--conditions in this case essential to the "where" and the "what, " without which, as the learned know, there can be no event whatever. 

In the case of Lydgate, if the ambition was less noble and pure, the fallwas greater, and the disaster sadder to contemplate. He, too, was hinderedby his "environment, " but it was much more of his own creating, the resultof his own nature, than in the case of Dorothea. We are told that "he wasfired with the possibility that he might work out the proof of ananatomical conception, and make a link in the chain of discovery. " That hewas fully capable of achieving such a result is made to appear by theauthor. The account given of the discovery he wished to make, abundantlyconfirms this opinion of him; it also shows how large was George Eliot'slearning, and how well she could use it for the novelist's purposes. 

To show how a person capable of such work could be entangled in theordinary affairs of life and lose sight of his youthful vision, or at leastthe power of realizing it, is the purpose developed in the career ofLydgate. There were "spots of commonness" in his nature. These--

 lay in the complexion of his prejudices, which, in spite of noble intention and sympathy, were half of them such as are found in ordinary men of the world: that distinction of mind which belonged to his intellectual ardor did not penetrate his feeling and judgment about furniture, or women, or the desirability of its being known (without his telling) that he was better born than other country surgeons. 

The egotism of his nature, his incapacity for hard, severe economy and theexclusion of luxury and refined pleasure, proved his destruction. Alongwith this egotism went a too susceptible impressiveness in the presence ofbeautiful women of soft, delicate ways. He meant to do great things inscience, but he could not endure the discipline, the sacrifice, the longyears of waiting, by which the great result was to be attained. Even if hecould have done this, he lost the power of doing it through the socialenvironment of marriage. How a man's love for a woman may corrupt theheroic purposes of his life is hinted at in one of the paragraphs in whichGeorge Eliot describes Lydgate, and the vision which enamoured his younglife until the woman turned all his gold into dross. 

 We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally parted from her. Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we are never weary of describing what King James called a woman's "makdom and her fairnesse, " never weary of listening to the twanging of the old Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other kind of "makdom and fairnesse" which must be wooed with industrious thought and renunciation of small desires? In the story of this passion, too, the development varies: sometimes it is the glorious marriage, sometimes frustration and final parting. And not seldom the catastrophe is wound up with the other passion, sung by the Troubadours. For in the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of their coming to be shapen after the average, and fit to be packed by the gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness for perhaps their ardor for generous, unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardor of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier self walked like a ghost in its old home and made the new furniture ghastly. Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradual change! In the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly: you and I may have sent some of our breath toward infecting them when we uttered our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclusions; or perhaps it came with the vibration from a woman's glance. 

The pathetic and saddening tragedy of a man's failure to realize thepossibilities of his own nature was never more clearly and minutely toldthan in the case of Lydgate. We see all the steps of his fall, we know allthe reasons why it came, we comprehend fully what he might have been anddone. The bitterness of his own failure made him call his wife a basilplant--"a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man'sbrains. " His hair never became white, but having won a large practice inhis profession, he had his life heavily insured, and died at the age offifty. He regarded his own life as a failure, though he was outwardlysuccessful and "his skill was relied on by many paying patients. " Againsthis will, by ways and causes he could not foresee, through the tendernessand ease of his own nature, the vision of his youth did not come true. 

Perhaps _Middlemarch_ is the most perfect example among George Eliot'snovels of her purpose to show how we are guided, controlled and modified inour thought and action by the whole society of which the individual forms asingle atom. Many characters appear in _Middlemarch_, drawn with wonderfulskill and finish, each having some part to perform in the complicated, playof life, and each some subtle, scarce-understood influence on all. Tragedyand comedy, selfishness and renunciation, greed and charity, love andjealousy, mingle here as in life. Many of these characters, such as CalebGarth, Farebrother, Mrs. Cadwallader and Mr. Brooke, are remarkableportraitures, original and well conceived; but they all have their place inthe social structure, and serve a purpose in the moral issue to be workedout. 

It has been said of _Felix Holt_, and justly, that its characters are tootypical, too much representative of a class, and too little personal intheir natures and individual in their actions. Yet this method of treatingcharacter is consistent with the purpose of the novel, which is quite asmuch ethical as literary. Here we have imbruted and ignorant workingmen, laborers who would elevate their class, pious Dissenters, typical clergymenof the Church of England, old hereditary families with the smoulderingevils which accumulate about them, ambitious and unscrupulous adventurers, and all the other phases of character likely to be found in such a town asTreby Magna. Each person stands for a class; and the aim of the novel is toindicate how the relative position of the classes represented may bechanged with as little as possible of disorder and disruption. 

It should be borne in mind, however, that the aim of George Eliot is notexclusively ethical. _Felix Holt_ and _Middlemarch_ are not ethical orsocialistic treatises, and the whole purpose does not run in thesedirections. She ever keeps in mind, however, the great fact that on theethical basis of right and wrong rests all the tragedy and comedy of theworld. Her ideas are made alive with genius, and her ethical purposes takecolor in the glow of a brilliant imagination. She never did violence to therule which she stated in her essay on the poet Young. 

 On its theoretic and perceptive side, morality touches science; on its emotional side, art. Now the products of art are great in proportion as they result from that immediate prompting of innate power which we call genius, and not from labored obedience to a theory or rule; and the presence of genius, or innate prompting, is directly opposed to the perpetual consciousness of a rule. The action of faculty is imperious, and excludes the reflection _why_ it should act. In the same way, in proportion as morality is emotional, _i. E. _, has affinity with art, it will exhibit itself in direct sympathetic feeling and action, and not as the recognition of a rule. Love does not say, "I ought to love"--it loves. Pity does not say, "It is right to be pitiful"--it pities. Justice does not say, "I am bound to be just"--it feels justly. It is only where moral emotion is comparatively weak that the contemplation of a rule or theory habitually mingles with its action; and in accordance with this; we think experience, both in literature and life, has shown that the minds which are pre-eminently didactic--which insist on a "lesson, " and despise everything that will not convey a moral, are deficient in sympathetic emotion. 

The moral and social problems of life seem to fire her creative powers, kindle her imagination, and give rein to her genius. While the thoughtfulreader may find in _Felix Holt_ and _Middlemarch_ more that interests hisspeculative faculties than of what will satisfy his sentiments andimagination, yet he must keep in mind the fact that these are worksdepending largely for their effect on the mind to their poetic qualities. There is in them both a large and thoughtful contemplation of life, butwith a constant reference to its passion, sentiment and ideal aims. If theyare realistic it is not to the exclusion of spiritual elements; and thepoetic, sentimental phases of human existence are never ignored. 

XVI. 

DANIEL DERONDA. 

The purpose of George Eliot's last novel is distinctly constructive. Whilethere is much of criticism in its pages, and criticism of the severestkind, its aim is that of spiritual renewal and upbuilding. It unfolds herconception of social growth, and of the influence of tradition and thenational idea, much more completely than any other of her works. Moreover, it is all aglow with moral enthusiasm and spiritual ardor. It indicates agreater spontaneity than any of her books after _The Mill on the Floss_, and gives ample evidence that it possessed and absorbed the author's mindwith its purpose and spirit. It is written from a great depth of convictionand moral earnestness. That it is her greatest book, artisticallyconsidered, there is no reason for believing; that it has its seriouslimitations as a literary creation all the critics have said. Yet itremains also to be said, that for largeness of aim, wealth of sentiment, and purity of moral teaching, no other book of George Eliot's surpasses_Daniel Deronda_. Indeed, in its realization of the spiritual basis oflife, and in its portrayal of the religious sentiment, as these areunderstood by positivism, this book surpasses every other, by whomsoeverwritten. 

_Daniel Deronda_ is a romance, and hence differs in kind, conception, scope, circumstance and form from her other works. It is less a study ofcharacter than most of her other works, has more of adventure and action;and while it is no less realistic, yet it has higher ideal aims, and seeksto interpret what ought to be. 

At least three distinct purposes may be seen running through the book, which blend into and confirm each other: to show the all-powerful influenceof heredity, that blood will assert itself as more effective than anyconditions of social environment or education; to indicate that ideals, subjective feelings and sentiments form the reality and the substance ofreligion, and that tradition affords the true medium of its expression; andto contrast a form of social life based on individualism with one based ontradition. The aim of _Daniel Deronda_, however, is many-sided, and cannotbe expressed in a few phrases. It is too vital with life, touches theemotions and sentiments too often, has an ideal motive too large, to bedismissed with a quickly spoken word of contempt. Professor Dowden, one ofher best and most sympathetic critics, has said that it is "an homage tothe emotions rather than to the intellect of man. Her feeling findsexpression not only in occasional gnomic utterances in which sentiments aredeclared to be the best part of the world's wealth, and love is spoken ofas deeper than reason, and the intellect is pronounced incapable ofascertaining the validity of claims which rest upon loving instincts of theheart, or else are baseless. The entire work possesses an impassionedaspect, an air of spiritual prescience, far more than the exactitude ofscience. The main forces which operate in it are sympathies, aspirations, ardors; and ideas chiefly as associated with these. " The object aimed at isideal and religious, much more than intellectual and scientific, to showhow necessary is religion, how weak and imperfect is man when the idealside of his nature is undeveloped. It makes clear the author's convictionconcerning the importance of religion, that she prized its spiritual hopes, found satisfaction in its enthusiasms and aspirations. When Gwendolen wascast down in utter dejection, all of joy and delight the world had affordedher gone, and she felt the greatest need of something to comfort andsustain her in her distrust of self and the world, Deronda said to her, "The refuge you are needing from personal trouble is the higher, thereligious life, which holds an enthusiasm for something more than our ownappetites and vanities. "

The religion inculcated, to be sure, is not that of faith in a personal Godand a personal immortality, but that which is based on the mystery of lifeand nature, impressed on the sensitive soul of man in fears, sorrows, hopes, aspirations, and built up into great ideals and institutions throughtradition. _Daniel Deronda_ gives us the gospel of altruism, a newpreaching of love to man. _Daniel Deronda_ proves as no other writing hasever done, what is the charm and the power of these ideas when dissociatedfrom any spiritual hopes which extend beyond humanity. 

In order to give the most adequate expression to her ideas, and to showforth the power of the spiritual life as she conceived it, George Eliotmade use of that race and religion which presents so remarkable anillustration of the influence of tradition and heredity. She saw in Judaisma striking confirmation of her theories, and a proof of what idealinterests can do to preserve a nation. To vindicate that race in the eyesof the world, to show what capacity there is in its national traditions, was also a part of her purpose. That this was her aim may be seen in whatshe said to a young Jew in whom she was much interested. 

 I wrote about the Jews because I consider them a fine old race who have done great things for humanity. I feel the same admiration for them as I do for the Florentines. 

The same idea is to be seen very clearly in the last essay in the_Impressions of Theophrastus Such_. She regarded the great memories andtraditions of this people as a priceless legacy which may and ought to drawall the scattered Israelites together and unite them again in a commonnational life. 

 A people having the seed of worthiness in it must feel an answering thrill when it is adjured by the deaths of its heroes who died to preserve its national existence; when it is reminded of its small beginnings and gradual growth through past labors and struggles, such as are still demanded of it in order that the freedom and well-being thus inherited may be transmitted unimpaired to children and children's children; when an appeal against the permission of injustice is made to great precedents in its history and to the better genius breathing in its institutions. It is this living force of sentiment in common which makes a national consciousness. Nations so moved will resist conquest with the very breasts of their women, will pay their millions and their blood to abolish slavery, will share privation in famine and all calamity, will produce poets to sing "some great story of a man, " and thinkers whose theories will bear the test of action. An individual man, to be harmoniously great, must belong to a nation of this order, if not in actual existence, yet existing in the past, in memory, as a departed, invisible, beloved ideal, once a reality, and perhaps to be restored. A common humanity is not yet enough to feed the rich blood of various activity which makes a complete man. The time is not come for cosmopolitanism to be highly virtuous, any more than for communism to suffice for social energy. 

This was one of the favorite ideas of George Eliot, which she has again andagain expressed. She was impressed with the conviction that such a nationallife is necessary to the world's growth and welfare, that the era of acommon brotherhood, dissociated from national traditions and hopes, has notyet come. Hence her belief that Judaism ought to speak the voice of aunited race, occupying the old home of this people, and sending forth itsideas as a national inheritance and inspiration. This belief inspires theconcluding words of her essay, as well as the last chapters of the novel. 

 There is still a great function for the steadfastness of the Jew: not that he should shut out the utmost illumination which knowledge can throw on his national history, but that he should cherish the store of inheritance which that history has left him. Every Jew should be conscious that he is one of a multitude possessing common objects of piety in the immortal achievements and immortal sorrows of ancestors who have transmitted to them a physical and mental type strong enough, eminent enough in faculties, pregnant enough with peculiar promise, to constitute a new beneficent individuality among the nations, and, by confuting the traditions of scorn, nobly avenge the wrongs done to their fathers. 

 There is a sense which the worthy child of a nation that has brought forth industrious prophets, high and unique among the poets of the world, is bound by their visions. 

 Is bound?

 Yes; for the effective bond of human action is feeling, and the worthy child of a people owning the triple name of Hebrew, Israelite and Jew, feels his kinship with the glories and the sorrows, the degradation and the possible renovation of his national family. 

 Will any one teach the nullification of this feeling and call his doctrine a philosophy? He will teach a blinding superstition--the superstition that a theory of human well-being can be constructed in disregard of the influences which have made us human. 

The purpose of _Daniel Deronda_, however, is not merely to vindicateJudaism. This race and its religion are used as the vehicles for largerideas, as an illustration of the supreme importance to mankind of spiritualaims concentrated into the form of national traditions and aspirations. Herown studies, and personal intercourse with the Jews, helped to attract herto this race; but the main cause of her use of them in this novel is theirremarkable history. Their moral and spiritual persistence, their wonderfuldevotedness to their own race and its aims, admirably adapted them todevelop for her the ideas she wished to express. What nation could she havetaken that would have so clearly illustrated her theory of nationalmemories and traditions? In the forty-second chapter of _Daniel Deronda_she has put into the month of Mordecai her own theories on this subject. Hevindicates his right to call himself a _rational_ Jew, one who accepts whatis reasonable and true. 

 "It is to see more and more of the hidden bonds that bind and consecrate change as a dependent growth--yea, consecrate it with kinship; the past becomes my parent, and the future stretches toward me the appealing arms of children. Is it rational to drain away the sap of special kindred that makes the families of man rich in interchanged wealth, and various as the forests are various with the glory of the cedar and the palm?"

He declares that each nation has its own work to do in the world, in theuplifting and maintenance of some special idea which is necessary to thewelfare and development of humanity. The place he assigns to Judaism isprecisely that which made it dear to George Eliot, because it embodied herconception of religion and its social functions. 

 "Israel is the heart of mankind, if we mean by heart the core of affection which binds a race and its families in dutiful love, and the reverence for the human body which lifts the needs of our animal life into religion, and the tenderness which is merciful to the poor and weak and to the dumb creature that wears the yoke for us. "

Again, he utters words which are simply an expression of George Eliot's ownsentiments. 

 "Where else is there a nation of whom it may be as truly said that their religion and law and moral life mingled as the stream of blood in the heart and made one growth--where else a people who kept and enlarged their spiritual store at the very time when they were hunted with a hatred as fierce as the forest fires that chase the wild beast from his covert? There is a fable of the Roman that, swimming to save his life, he held the roll of his writings between his teeth and saved them from the waters. But how much more than that is true of our race? They struggled to keep their place among the nations like heroes--yea, when the hand was hacked off, they clung with the teeth; but when the plow and the harrow had passed over the last visible signs of their national covenant, and the fruitfulness of their land was stifled with the blood of the sowers and planters, they said, 'The spirit is alive, let us make it a lasting habitation--lasting because movable--so that it may be carried from generation to generation, and our sons unborn may be rich in the things that have been, and possess a hope built on an unchangeable foundation. ' They said it and they wrought it, though often breathing with scant life, as in a coffin, or as lying wounded amid a heap of slain. Hooted and scared like the unowned dog, the Hebrew made himself envied for his wealth and wisdom, and was bled of them to fill the bath of Gentile luxury; he absorbed knowledge, he diffused it; his dispersed race was a new Phoenicia working the mines of Greece and carrying their products to the world. The native spirit of our tradition was not to stand still, but to use records as a seed, and draw out the compressed virtues of law and prophecy. "

Then Mordecai unfolds his theory of national unity and of a regeneratednational life; and it is impossible to read his words attentively withoutaccepting them as an expression of George Eliot's own personal convictions. As an embodiment of her conception of the functions of national life theyare full of interest aside from their place in the novel. 

 "In the multitudes of the ignorant on three continents who observe our rites and make the confession of the Divine Unity, the soul of Judaism is not dead. Revive the organic centre: let the unity of Israel which has made the growth and form of its religion be an outward reality. Looking toward a land and a polity, our dispersed people in all the ends of the earth may share the dignity of a national life which has a voice among the peoples of the East and the West--which will plant the wisdom and skill of our race so that it may be, us of old, a medium of transmission and understanding. Let that come to pass, and the living warmth will spread to the weak extremities of Israel, and superstition will vanish, not in the lawlessness of the renegade, but in the illumination of great facts which widen feeling, and make all knowledge alive as the young offspring of beloved memories.... The effect of our separateness will not be completed and have its highest transformation unless our race takes on again the character of a nationality. That is the fulfilment of the religious trust that moulded them into a people, whose life has made half the inspiration of the world. What is it to me that the ten tribes are lost untraceably, or that multitudes of the children of Judah have mixed themselves with the Gentile populations as a river with rivers? Behold our people still! Their skirts spread afar; they are torn and soiled and trodden on; but there is a jewelled breast-plate. Let the wealthy men, the monarchs of commerce, the learned in all knowledge, the skilful in all arts, the speakers, the political counsellors, who carry in their veins the Hebrew blood which has maintained its vigor in all climates, and the pliancy of the Hebrew genius for which difficulty means new device--let them say, 'We will lift up a standard, we will unite in a labor hard but glorious like that of Moses and Ezra, a labor which shall be a worthy fruit of the long anguish whereby our fathers maintained their separateness, refusing the ease of falsehood. ' They have wealth enough to redeem the soil from debauched and paupered conquerors; they have the skill of the statesman to devise, the tongue of the orator to persuade. And is there no prophet or poet among us to make the ears of Christian Europe tingle with shame at the hideous obloquy of Christian strife which the Turk gazes at as at the fighting of beasts to which he has lent an arena? There is store of wisdom among us to found a new Jewish polity, grand, simple, just, like the old--a republic where there is equality of protection, an equality which shone like a star on the forehead of our ancient community, and gave it more than the brightness of Western freedom amidst the despotisms of the East. Then our race shall have an organic centre, a heart and brain to watch and guide and execute; the outraged Jew shall have a defence in the court of nations, as the outraged Englishman or American. And the world will gain as Israel gains. For there will be a community in the van of the East which carries the culture and the sympathies of every great nation in its bosom; there will be a land set for a halting-place of enmities, a neutral ground for the East as Belgium is for the West. Difficulties? I know there are difficulties. But let the spirit of sublime achievement move in the great among our people, and the work will begin.... 

 "What is needed is the leaven--what is needed is the seed of fire. The heritage of Israel is beating in the pulses of millions; it lives in their veins as a power without understanding, like the morning exultation of herds; it is the inborn half of memory, moving as in a dream among writings on the walls, which it sees dimly but cannot divide into speech. Let the torch of visible community be lighted! Let the reason of Israel disclose itself in a great outward deed, and let there be another great migration, another choosing of Israel to be a nationality whose members may still stretch to the ends of the earth, even as the sons of England and Germany, whom enterprise carries afar, but who still have a national hearth, and a tribunal of national opinion. Will any say, 'It cannot be'? Baruch Spinoza had not a faithful Jewish heart, though he had sucked the life of his intellect at the breasts of Jewish tradition. He laid bare his father's nakedness and said, 'They who scorn him have the higher wisdom. ' Yet Baruch Spinoza confessed he saw not why Israel should not again be a chosen nation. Who says that the history and literature of our race are dead? Are they not as living as the history and literature of Greece and Home, which have inspired revolutions, enkindled the thought of Europe and made the unrighteous powers tremble? These were an inheritance dug from the tomb. Ours is an inheritance that has never ceased to quiver in millions of human frames.... 

 "I cherish nothing for the Jewish nation, I seek nothing for them, but the good which promises good to all the nations. The spirit of our religious life, which is one with our national life, is not hatred of aught but wrong. The masters have said an offence against man is worse than an offence against God. But what wonder if there is hatred in the breasts of Jews who are children of the ignorant and oppressed--what wonder, since there is hatred in the breasts of Christians? Our national life was a growing light. Let the central fire be kindled again, and the light will reach afar. The degraded and scorned of our race will learn to think of their sacred land not as a place for saintly beggary to await death in loathsome idleness, but as a republic where the Jewish spirit manifests itself in a new order founded on the old, purified, enriched by the experience our greatest sons have gathered from the life of the ages. How long is it?--only two centuries since a vessel earned over the ocean the beginning of the great North American nation. The people grew like meeting waters; they were various in habit and sect. There came a time, a century ago, when they needed a polity, and there were heroes of peace among them. What had they to form a polity with but memories of Europe, corrected by the vision of a better? Let our wise and wealthy show themselves heroes. They have the memories of the East and West, and they have the full vision of a better. A new Persia with a purified religion magnified itself in art and wisdom. So will a new Judea, poised between East and West--a covenant of reconciliation. Will any say the prophetic vision of your race has been hopelessly mixed with folly and bigotry; the angel of progress hag no message for Judaism--it is a half-buried city for the paid workers to lay open--the waters are rushing by it as a forsaken field? I say that the strongest principle of growth lies in human choice. The sons of Judah have to choose, that God may again choose them. The Messianic time is the time when Israel shall will the planting of the national ensign. The Nile overflowed and rushed onward; the Egyptian could not choose the overflow, but he chose to work and make channels for the fructifying waters, and Egypt became the land of corn. Shall man, whose soul is set in the royalty of discernment and resolve, deny his rank and say, I am an onlooker, ask no choice or purpose of me? That is the blasphemy of this time. The divine principle of our race is action, choice, resolved memory. Let us contradict the blasphemy, and help to will our own better future and the better future of the world--not renounce our higher gift and say, 'Let us be as if we were not among the populations;' but choose our full heritage, claim the brotherhood of our nation, and carry into it a new brotherhood with the nations of the Gentiles. The vision is there: it will be fulfilled. "

These words put into the mouth of Mordecai, indicate how thoroughly GeorgeEliot entered into the spirit of Judaism. She read Hebrew with ease, andhad delved extensively in Jewish literature, besides being familiar withthe monumental works in German devoted to Jewish history and opinions. Thereligious customs, the home life, the peculiar social habits of the race, she carefully studied. The accuracy of her information has been pointed outby her Jewish critics, by whom the book has been praised with the utmostenthusiasm. One of these, Prof. David Kaufmann, of Buda-Pesth, in anexcellent notice of _Daniel Deronda_, bears testimony to the author'slearning and to the faithfulness of her Jewish portraitures. He says that, "led by cordial and loving inclination to the profound study of Jewishnational and family life, she has set herself to create Jewish characters, and to recognize and give presentment to the influences which Jewisheducation is wont to exercise--to prove by types that Judaism is anintellectual and spiritual force, still misapprehended and readilyoverlooked, but not the less an effective power, for the future of which itis good assurance that it possesses in the body of its adherents a noble, susceptible and pliant material which only awaits its final casting toappear in a glorious form. " He also says of the author's learning, that itis loving and exact, that her descriptions of Jewish life are alwaysfaithful and her characters true to nature. 

"Leader of the present so-called realistic school, our author keeps up inthis work the reputation she has won of possessing the most minuteknowledge of the subjects she handles, by the manner in which she hasdescribed the Jews--the great unknown of humanity. She has penetrated intotheir history and literature affectionately and thoroughly; and herknowledge in a field where ignorance is still venial if not expresslyauthorized, has astonished even experts. In her selection of almost alwaysunfamiliar quotations, she shows a taste and a facility of reference reallyamazing. When shall we see a German writer exhibiting the courteouskindliness of George Eliot, who makes Deronda study Zunz's _SynagogalePoesie_, and places the monumental words which open his chapter entitled'Leiden, ' at the head of the passage in which she introduces us to EzraCohen's family, and at the club-meeting at which Mordecai gives utteranceto his ideas concerning the future of Israel? She is familiar with theviews of Jehuda-ha-Levi as with the dreams and longings of the cabalists, and as conversant with the splendid names of our Hispano--Arabian epoch aswith the moral aphorisms of the Talmud and the subtle meaning contained inJewish legends.... It is by the piety and tenderness with which she treatsJewish customs that the author shows how supreme her cultivation andrefinement are; and the small number of mistakes which can be detected inher descriptions of Jewish life and ritual may put to blush even writerswho belong to that race. " Again this critic says of the visionary Mordecai, who has been pronounced a mere dreamer and untrue to nature, that he is analtogether probable character and portrayed with a true realistic touch. "Mordecai is carved of the wood from which prophets are made, and so far asthe supersensuous can be rendered intelligible, it may even be said that instudying him we are introduced into a studio or workshop of the propheticmind. He is one of the most difficult as well as one of the most successfulessays in psychological analysis ever attempted by an author; and in hiswonderful portrait, which must be closely studied, and not epitomized orreproduced in extracts, we see glowing enthusiasm united to cabalisticprofundity, and the most morbid tension of the intellectual powers unitedto clear and well-defined hopes. How has the author succeeded in makingMordecai so human and so true to nature? By mixing the gold with an alloyof commoner metal, and by giving the angelic likeness features which arefamiliar to us all. "

Another Jew has borne equally hearty testimony to the faithfulness withwhich George Eliot has described Jewish life and the spirit of the Jewishreligion. "She has acquired, " this writer says, "an extended and profoundknowledge of the rites, aspirations, hopes, fears and desires of theIsraelites of the day. She has read their books, inquired into their modesof thought, searched their traditions, accompanied them to the synagogue;nay, she has taken their very words from their lips, and, like Asmodeus, has unroofed their houses. To say that some slight errors have crept into_Daniel Deronda_ is to say that no human work is perfect; and theseinaccuracies are singularly few and unimportant. " [Footnote: JamesPicciotto, author of "sketches of Anglo-Jewish History, " in the Gentleman'sMagazine for November, 1876. ] Still another Jewish critic says that in hergallery of portraits she "gives in a marvellously full and accurate way allthe many sides of the Jewish complex national character. " He also says thatMordecai is a true successor of the prophets and moral leaders of the race, that the national spirit and temper are truly represented in him. [Footnote: Joseph Jacobs, in Macmillian's Magazine for 1877. ]

That the main purpose of _Daniel Deronda_ is not that of defending Judaism, must be apparent to every attentive reader. The Jewish race is made use offor purposes of illustration, as a notable example in proof of hertheories. There is a deeper purpose conspicuous throughout the hook, whichrests on her conceptions of the spiritual life as a development oftradition. This larger purpose also jests on her altruistic conception ofthe moral and spiritual life. As Professor Kaufmann has pointed out, thestory falls into two widely separated portions, in one of which the Jewishelement appears, in the other the English. Jewish life and its religiousspirit are contrasted with English life and a common type of its religion. This is not a contrast, however, which is introduced for the purpose ofdisparaging Christianity or English social life, but with the object ofcomparing those whose life is anchored in the spiritual traditions of agreat people, with those who find the centre of their life in egotism andan individualistic spirit. Grandcourt is a type of pure egotism; Gwendolenis a creature who lives for self and with no law outside of her ownhappiness. This is the spirit of the society in which they both move. Onthe other hand, Mordecai lives in his race, Deronda gives his lifeconstantly away for others, and Mirah is unselfishness and simplicityitself. So distinctly is this contrast drawn, so clearly are these twophases of life brought over against each other, that the book seems to bedivided in the middle, and to be two separate works joined by a slenderthread. This artistic arrangement has been severely criticised, but itshigher purpose is only understood when this comparison and antagonism isrecognized. Then the true artistic arrangement vindicates itself, and theunity of the book becomes apparent. Deronda moves in both these worlds, andtheir influence on him is finely conceived. He finds no spiritual aim andmotive for his life until he is led into the charmed circle of atraditional environment, and learns to live in and for his race. Living forself, the life of Gwendolen is blasted, her hopes crushed, and she finds nopeace or promise except in the steadfast spiritual strength yielded her byDeronda. That such a contrasting of the two great phases of life was a partof George Eliot's purpose she has herself acknowledged. A comparison of thespiritual histories of Gwendolen and Deronda will show how earnest was thispurpose of the author. Gwendolen is a type of those souls who have nospiritual anchorage in the religious life and traditions of their people. At the opening of chapter third we are told she had no home memories, that"this blessed persistence in which affection can take root had been wantingin Gwendolen's life. " At the end of the sixth chapter we are also told thatshe had no insight into spiritual realities, that the bonds of spiritualpower and moral retribution had not been made apparent to her mind. 

 Her ideal was to be daring in speech and reckless in braving dangers, both moral and physical; and though her practice fell far behind her ideal, this shortcoming seemed to be due to the pettiness of circumstances, the narrow theatre which life offers to a girl of twenty, who cannot conceive herself as anything else than a lady, or as in any position which would lack the tribute of respect. She had no permanent consciousness of other fetters, or of more spiritual restraints, having always disliked whatever was presented to her under the name of religion, in the same way that some people dislike arithmetic and accounts: it had raised no other emotion in her, no alarm, no longing; so that the question whether she believed it, had not occurred to her, any more than it had occurred to her to inquire into the conditions of colonial property and banking, on which, as she had had many opportunities of knowing, the family fortune was dependent. All these facts about herself she would have been ready to admit, and even, more or less indirectly, to state. What she unwillingly recognized, and would have been glad for others to be unaware of, was that liability of hers to fits of spiritual dread, though this fountain of awe within her had not found its way into connection with the religion taught her, or with any human relations. She was ashamed and frightened, as at what might happen again, in remembering her tremor on suddenly feeling herself alone, when, for example, she was walking without companionship and there came some rapid change in the light. Solitude in any wide scene impressed her with an undefined feeling of immeasurable existence aloof from her, in the midst of which she was helplessly incapable of asserting herself. The little astronomy taught her at school used sometimes to set her imagination at work in a way that made her tremble; but always when some one joined her she recovered her indifference to the vastness in which she seemed an exile; she found again her usual world, in which her will was of some avail, and the religious nomenclature belonging to this world was no more identified for her with those uneasy impressions of awe than her uncle's surplices seen out of use at the rectory. With human ears and eyes about her, she had always hitherto recovered her confidence, and felt the possibility of winning empire. 

Her difficulties all came out of this egoistic spirit, this want ofspiritual anchorage and religious faith. Gradually her bitter experiencesawakened in her a desire for a purer life, and the influence of Derondaworked powerfully in the same direction. She is to be regarded, however, assimply a representative of that social, moral and spiritual life bred inour century by the disintegrating forces everywhere at work. No moralideal, no awe of the divine Nemesis, no spiritual sympathy with the largerlife of the race, is to be found in her thought. The radicalism of thetime, which neglects religious training, which scorns the life of the past, which lives for self and culture, is destroying all that is best in modernsociety. Gwendolen is one of the results of these processes, an example ofthat impoverished life which is so common, arising from religious rebellionand egotism. 

Another motive and spirit is represented in the character of Deronda. As aboy, his mind was full of ideal aspirations, he was chivalrous and eager tohelp and comfort others. He would take no mean advantages in his ownbehalf, he loved the comradeship of those whom he could help, he was alwaysready with his sympathy. 

 He was early impassioned by ideas, and burned his fire on those heights. 

He would not regard his studies as instruments of success, but as the meanswhereby to feed motive and opinion. He had a strong craving forcomprehensiveness of opinion, and was not content to store up knowledgethat demanded a mere act of memory in its acquisition. He had a cravingafter a larger life, an ideal aim of the most winning attractiveness. Though Deronda was educated amidst surroundings almost identical with thosewhich helped to form Gwendolen's character, yet a very different result wasproduced in him because of his _inherited_ tendencies of mind. After he hadseen his mother, learned that he was a Jew, he said to Mordecai, --

 "It is you who have given shape to what I believe was an inherited yearning--the effect of brooding, passionate thoughts in my ancestors-- thoughts that seem to have been intensely present in my grandfather. Suppose the stolen offspring of some mountain tribe brought up in a city of the plain, or one with an inherited genius for painting, and born blind--the ancestral life would be within them as a dim longing for unknown objects and sensations, and the spell-bound habit of their inherited frames would be like a cunningly wrought musical instrument never played on, but quivering throughout in uneasy, mysterious moanings of its intricate structure that, under the right touch, gives music. Something like that, I think, has been my experience. Since I began to read and know, I have always longed for some ideal task in which I might feel myself the heart and brain of a multitude--some social captainship which would come to me as a duty, and not be striven for as a personal prize. You have raised the image of such a task for me--to bind our race together in spite of heresy. "

This inherited sense of a larger life made Deronda what he was, anddeveloped in him qualities absent in Gwendolen. This inherited power madehim a new Mazzini, a born leader of men, a new saviour of society, apersonal magnet to attract and inspire other souls. A magnetic power ofinfluence drew Gwendolen to him from the first time they met, he shamed hernarrow life by his silent presence, and he quickened to life in her adesire for a purer and nobler existence. George Eliot probably meant toindicate in his character her conception of the true social reformationwhich is needed to-day, and how it is to be brought about. The basis onwhich it is to be built is the traditional and inherited life of the past, inspired with new energies and meanings by the gifted souls who haveinherited a large and pure personality, and who are inspired by a quickenedsense of what life ought to be. On the one side a life of altruism, on theother a life of egotism, teach that the liner social and moral qualitiescome out of an inheritance in the national ideals and conquests of a worthypeople, while the coarser qualities come of the neglect of this source ofspiritual power and sustenance. Two letters written to Professor DavidKaufmann indicate that this was the purpose of the hook. At the same time, they show George Eliot's mind on other sides, and give added insights intoher character. As an indication of her attitude towards Judaism, and herfaith in the work she had done in Daniel Deronda, they are of great value. 

THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, May 31, '77. 

MY DEAR SIR, --Hardly, since I became an author, have I had a deepersatisfaction, I may say a more heartfelt joy, than you have given me inyour estimate of _Daniel Deronda_. [Footnote: George Eliot and Judaism: anAttempt to Appreciate Daniel Deronda. By Prof. David Kaufmann, of theJewish Theological Seminary, Buda-Pesth. ]

I must tell you that it is my rule, very strictly observed, not to read thecriticisms on my writings. For years I have found this abstinence necessaryto preserve me from that discouragement as an artist which ill-judgedpraise, no less than ill-judged blame, tends to produce in me. For farworse than any verdict as to the proportion of good and evil in our work, is the painful impression that we write for a public which has nodiscernment of good and evil. 

My husband reads any notices of me that come before him, and reports to me(or else refrains from reporting) the general character of the notice, orsomething in particular which strikes him as showing either an exceptionalinsight or an obtuseness that is gross enough to be amusing. Very rarely, when he has read a critique of me, he has handed it to me, saying, "_You_must read this. " And your estimate of _Daniel Deronda_ made one of theserare instances. 

Certainly, if I had been asked to choose _what_ should be written about mybook and _who_ should write it, I should have sketched--well, not anythingso good as what you have written, but an article which must be written by aJew who showed not merely sympathy with the best aspirations of his race, but a remarkable insight into the nature of art and the processes of theartistic mind. Believe me, I should not have cared to devour even ardentpraise if it had not come from one who showed the discriminatingsensibility, the perfect response to the artist's intention, which mustmake the fullest, rarest joy to one who works from inward conviction andnot in compliance with current fashions. Such a response holds for anauthor not only what is best in "the life that now is, " but the promise of"that which is to come. " I mean that the usual approximative, narrowperception of what one has been intending and professedly feeling in one'swork, impresses one with the sense that it must be poor perishable stuffwithout roots to hike any lasting hold in the minds of men; while anyinstance of complete comprehension encourages one to hope that the creativeprompting has foreshadowed, and will continue to satisfy, a need in otherminds. 

Excuse me that I write but imperfectly, and perhaps dimly, what I have feltin reading your article. It has affected me deeply, and though theprejudice and ignorant obtuseness which has met my effort to contributesomething to the ennobling of Judaism in the conception of the Christiancommunity and in the consciousness of the Jewish community, has never for amoment made me repent my choice, but rather has been added proof to me thatthe effort has been needed, --yet I confess that I had an unsatisfied hangerfor certain signs of sympathetic discernment, which you only have given. Imay mention as one instance your clear perception of the relation betweenthe presentation of the Jewish element and those of English social life. 

I work under the pressure of small hurries; for we are just moving into thecountry for the summer, and all things are in a vagrant condition aroundme. But I wished not to defer answering your letter to an uncertainopportunity.... 

My husband has said more than once that he feels grateful to you. For he ismore sensitive on my behalf than on his own. 

Hence he unites with me in the assurance of the high regard with which Iremain

Always yours faithfully, M. E. LEWES. 

This first letter was followed a few months later by a second. 

THE PRIORY, 21 NORTH BANK, REGENT'S PAKE, Oct. 12, '77. 

MY DEAR SIR, --I trust it will not be otherwise than gratifying to you toknow that your stirring article on _Daniel Deronda_ is now translated intoEnglish by a son of Prof. Ferrier, who was a philosophical writer ofconsiderable mark. It will be issued in a handsomer form than that of thepamphlet, and will appear within this autumnal publishing season, Messrs. Blackwood having already advertised it. Whenever a copy is ready we shallhave the pleasure of sending it to you. There is often something to beborne with in reading one's own writing in a translation, but I hope thatin this case you will not be made to wince severely. 

In waiting to send you this news I seem to have deferred too long theexpression of my warm thanks for your kindness in sending me the Hebrewtranslations of Leasing and the collection of Hebrew poems, a kindnesswhich I felt myself rather presumptuous in asking for, since your time mustbe well filled with more important demands. Yet I must further beg you, when you have an opportunity, to assure Herr Bacher that I was mostgratefully touched by the sympathetic verses with which he enriched thegift of his work. 

I see by your last letter to my husband that your Theological Seminary wasto open on the 4th of this month, so that this too retrospective letter ofmine will reach you in the midst of your new duties. I trust that this newinstitution will be a great good to professor and students, and that yourposition is of a kind that you contemplate as permanent. To teach the youngpersonally has always seemed to me the most satisfactory supplement toteaching the world through books, and I have often wished that I had such ameans of having fresh, living, spiritual children within sight. 

One can hardly turn one's thought toward Eastern Europe just now without amingling of pain and dread; but we mass together distant scenes and eventsin an unreal way, and one would like to believe that the present troubleswill not at any time press on you in Hungary with more external misfortunethan on us in England. 

Mr. Lewes is happily occupied in his psychological studies. We both look, forward to the reception of the work you kindly promised us, and he begs meto offer you his best regards. 

Believe me, my dear sir, Yours with much esteem, M. E. LEWES. 

It was a part of George Eliot's purpose in _Daniel Deronda_ to criticisethe social life of England in the spirit in which she had criticised it in_Middlemarch_, as being deficient in spiritual power, moral purpose andnoble sentiment. If she made it clear in _Middlemarch_ that the individualis crippled and betrayed by society, it was her purpose to make it quite asclear in _Daniel Deronda_ how society may become the true inspirer of theindividual. We may quarrel with her theory of the origin and nature of thespiritual life in man, but she has somewhat truly conceived its vastimportance and shown the character of that influence it everywhere has overman's life. As types of spiritual lifts, and as individual conceptions ofhuman character, the personages of this novel are drawn with marvellousskill. Mr. E. P. Whipple says that Daniel Deronda is "one of the noblestand most original characters among the heroes imagined by poets, dramatistsand novelists. " With equal or even greater justice can it be said thatGwendolen Harleth is one of the most powerful and grandly conceived ofimaginary creations in all literature. In the characters, the situations, and the whole working out of this novel, George Eliot shows herself one ofthe great masters of literary creation. 

When the prejudices aroused by the Jewish element in it are allayed, and_Daniel Deronda_ is read as a work of literary genius, it will be found notto be the least interesting and important of George Eliot's books. It hasthe religious interest and inspiration of _Adam Bede_, the historic valueof _Romola_, and the critical elements of _Middlemarch_; and these arewrought into a work of lofty insight and imagination, along with a highspiritual ardor and a supreme ethical purpose. In this novel, for the firsttime, as Professor Dowden says, her poetical genius found adequateexpression, and in complete association with the non-poetical elements ofher nature. 

XVII. 

THE SPANISH GYPSY AND OTHER POEMS. 

It was _The Spanish Gypsy_, published in 1868, which brought the name ofGeorge Eliot before the public as a poet. This work is a novel written inblank verse, with enough of the heroic and tragic in it to make the storyworthy of its poetic form. The story is an excellent one, well conceivedand worked out, and had it been given the prose form would have made apowerful and original novel. While it would doubtless have gained indefiniteness of detail and clearness of purpose by being presented in theprose form, yet its condensation into a poem is a gain, and the wholesetting of the story has been made of greater interest by this method ofexpression. The poetic form is as original as are the theories of lifewhich the poem is designed to inculcate. In structure it combines, with amethod quite its own, the descriptive and dramatic forms of poetry. In thisit nearly approaches the method followed in her novels of combiningdescription and dialogue in a unitary structure of great strength andperfection. The descriptive passages in her prose works are strong andimpressive, lofty in tone, and yet lovingly faithful in detail. Herconversations are often highly dramatic and add greatly to the wholeoutcome of these novels. In _The Spanish Gypsy_ the surroundings of thestory are first described in verse which, if not always perfectly poetic, is yet imaginatively thought out and executed in a manner befitting thesubject. Suddenly, however, the narrative and descriptive form ceases andthe dramatic begins. By means also of full "stage directions" to thedramatic portions of the poem, the story is wrought out quite as much indetail as it needs to be; and much is gained of advantage over the lengthof her novels by this concentration of scene and narrative. While thenarrative portion of the poem is much less in extent than the dramatic, yetit has in it some of the main elements of the plot, and those without whichthe action could not be worked out. The dramatic element gives it a realand living power. The characters are strongly conceived, and nearly all ofthem are individualities of an original type and of an action thoroughlydistinct and human. 

As a work of art, the most serious defect in _The Spanish Gypsy_ is itsdoctrinal tone. It is speculative in its purpose quite as much as poetical, and the speculation is so large an element as to intrude upon the poetry. Thought overtops imagination, the fervor and enthusiasm of the poet aremore than matched by the ethical aims of the teacher. This ethical purposeof unfolding in a dramatic form the author's theories of life has filledthe book, as it has her novels, with epigrams which are original, splendidand instructive. Into a few lines she condenses some piece of wisdom, andin words full of meaning and purpose. Into the mouth of Sephardo, acharacter distinctive and noteworthy, she puts some of her choicest wisdom. He says, --

 Thought Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, And seizing some fine thread of verity Knows momentary godhead. 

Again he utters the same idea, but in more expressive words. 

 Our growing thought Makes growing revelation. 

Don Silva is made to use this highly poetic imagery. 

 Speech is but broken light upon the depth Of the unspoken. 

Zarca, that truest and most original character in the poem, says of thegreat work he purposes to accomplish, To my inward vision Things are achieved when they are well begun. 

Again, he says, --

 New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings. 

Expressive and original as _The Spanish Gypsy_ is, yet it gives theimpression of lacking in some poetic quality which is necessary to thehighest results. Difficult as it may be to define precisely what it is thatis wanting, nearly every reader will feel that something which makes poetryhas been somehow left out. Is it imagination, or is it a flexible poeticexpression, which is absent? While George Eliot has imagination enough tomake a charming prose style, and to adorn her prose with great beauty andan impressive manner, yet its finer quality of subtle expression is not tobe found in her poetry. Those original and striking shades of meaning whichthe poet employs by using words in unique relations, she does not oftenattain to. It is the thought, the ethical meaning, in her poetry as in herprose, which is often of more importance than the manner of expression; andshe is too intent on what is said to give full heed always to how it issaid. She has, however, employed that form of verse which is best suited toher style, and one which does not demand those lyrical or those imaginativequalities in which she is deficient. The blank verse is well adapted to herrealism, though it does not always answer well to the more dramatic andtragical and impassioned portions of the story. 

As a study of an historic period, _The Spanish Gypsy_ is not so great asuccess as _Romola_; yet it more perfectly unfolds a unitary moral purpose, and the various types of character are more originally developed. Theconflict of motives, the contrasted and opposed national interests, aredistinctly brought out, but the aroma of the time and place are wanting. Todescribe a poetic and heroic era she is never content to do. Her method istotally different from that of Scott, who reflects the spirit and life ofthe time he depicts with almost absolute faithfulness. No gypsy was eversuch a character as Zarca, no gypsy girl ever had the conscience ofFedalma. As in the case of _Romola_, so here, an historic period is used, not so much for artistic as for philosophic purposes, because it is welldesigned to present her ideas about heredity and tradition. _The SpanishGypsy_ is essentially a romance, and contains much of those more poeticand ideal elements which distinguish _Daniel Deronda_ from her othernovels. This romantic element, if it does not develop poetry of the highestquality, does bring out in its most perfect form all the finestcharacteristics of her style. 

While _The Spanish Gypsy_ affords many points of attack for the critic, yetit cannot be dismissed by saying it is not a great poem. Its strongqualities are too many to permit of its being disposed of in haste. Withall its defects it is a noble piece of work, and genuinely adds to theauthor's expression of genius. It is one of those poems which win, notpopularity, but the heartiest admiration of a choice and elect few who findlife and highest inspiration in it, because giving strength to theirthoughts and purpose to their moral convictions. As a study of some of thedeeper problems of the ethical and social life of man, it is unsurpassed, and the teaching imparted by it is singularly well and impressivelyconveyed by the whole make of the poem. It is also remarkable for its largeand impressive style, its rich command of words, and the lofty beauty ofits diction. One of its most striking qualities, as Mr. Henry James, Jr. , suggests, "is its extraordinary rhetorical energy and eloquence, " and "itssplendid generosity of diction. " The same writer says of the character ofDon Silva, that "nowhere has her marvellous power of expression, themingled dignity and pliancy of her style, obtained a greater triumph. " Thecritics have almost without exception dealt severely with the poem, butthey have applied to it the canons of poetic art as interpreted bythemselves. Genius creates its own laws, makes its own methods, reversesold decisions and triumphs against the whole brood of critics. The worldaccepts what is true and excellent, however defective in technicalrequirements. Imperfect meters, and poetic structures not orthodox, maydisturb those who deal in criticism, but such limitations as these are notsufficient to fix the final acceptance of a poem. More than one of thegreatest poems could not endure such tests. That _The Spanish Gypsy_ hasvitality of purpose, enduring interest in treatment, and a lofty eloquenceof diction, is doubtless enough to insure it an accepted place among thefew greater poems in the language. Its profoundly thoughtful interpretationof some of the greater social problems mankind has to deal with, willnecessarily give a permanent interest for the lovers of speculative poetry, while its genuine poetic merits will largely add to that interest, and addto it by its tragic power, its rich ethical wisdom, and its fine portrayalof character. 

No other book of George Eliot's is so filled and inspired by the spirit ofher teachings as _The Spanish Gypsy_. Its inspiration and its interest liemainly in the direction of its moral and spiritual inculcations. Verse didnot stimulate her, but was a fetter; it clogged her highest powers. Therich eloquence of her prose, with its pathos and sentiment, its broadperspective and vigorous thought, was to her a continual stimulus andincentive. Her poems are more labored than her novels, and for this veryreason they show the philosophy which gives them meaning more clearly. Their greater concentration and less varied elements also largely help tomake apparent the teachings they contain. Her sympathy with the evolutionphilosophy of the day is conspicuous in _The Spanish Gypsy_. It is simply adramatic interpretation of the higher phases of Darwinism. The doctrinalelement does not intrude itself, however; it is not on the surface, it iswell subordinated to the artistic elements of the poem. Even intelligentreaders may not detect it, and the majority of those who read the poemwithout any preconceptions may not discover its philosophic bearings. Yetto the studious reader the philosophy must be the most conspicuous elementwhich enters into the poem, and it gives character and meaning to the workfar more fully than in the case of any of her novels. 

The aim of the poem is to show how hereditary race influences act as atragic element in opposition to individual emotions and inclinations. Theteaching of _Romola_ is much of it reproduced, at least that portion of itwhich inculcates renunciation and altruism. Its distinguishing features, however, more nearly resemble those of _Daniel Deronda_. The race elementis introduced, and the effect of the past is shown as it forms characterand gives direction to duties. One phase of its meaning has been veryclearly described by Mr. R. H. Hutton, who says the poem teaches "how theinheritance of the definite streams of impulse and tradition stored up inwhat we call race, often puts a veto upon any attempt of spontaneousindividual emotion or volitions to ignore or defy their Control, and toemancipate itself from the tyranny of their disputable and apparently cruelrule. " "How the threads, " he says again, "of hereditary capacity andhereditary sentiment control as with invisible chords the orbits of eventhe most powerful characters, --how the fracture of those threads, so far ascan be accomplished by mere _will_, may have even a greater effect inwrecking character than moral degeneracy would itself produce, --how the manwho trusts and uses the hereditary forces which natural descent hasbestowed upon him, becomes a might and a centre in the world, while theman, intrinsically the nobler, who dissipates his strength by trying toswim against the stream of his past, is neutralized and paralyzed by thevain effort, --again, how a divided past, a past not really homogeneous, mayweaken this kind of power, instead of strengthening it by the command of alarger experience--all this George Eliot's poem paints with tragicalforce. "

The main thought of _The Spanish Gypsy_ is, that the moral and spiritual inman is the result of social conditions which, if neglected, lead to thedestruction of all that is best in human nature. In the description of MineHost, in the opening pages of the poem, this evil result of a severing oflife from tradition is described. He was educated in the Jewish faith, butwas made a Christian at the age of ten. 

 So he had to be converted with his sire, To doff the awe he learned as Ephriam, And suit his manners to a Christian name. 

The poet then delivers one of her doctrinal utterances, and one which is inthis case the keynote of the whole poem. 

 But infant awe, that unborn moving thing, Dies with what nourished it, can never rise From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. 

That awe which grows up in childhood, if destroyed later, brings anarchyinto human life. All the characters of the poem exemplify this teaching, and each is but a product of his past, individual or social. Don Silva, Zarca, Fedalma, the Prior, Sephardo, illustrate this idea. The latter givesutterance to the thought of the poem, when Don Silva says to him that hehas need of a friend who is not tied to sect or party, but who is capableof following his "naked manhood" into what is just and right, withoutregard to other considerations. 

 My lord, I will be frank; there's no such thing As naked manhood. If the stars look down On any mortal of our shape, whose strength Is to judge all things without preference, He is a monster, not a faithful man. While my heart beats, it shall wear livery-- My people's livery, whose yellow badge Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile: That suits the rich _marranos_; but to me My father is first father and then man. So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass. 'Tis true at least, I am no Catholic But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, Willing to serve Don Silva. 

[Footnote: In a note George Eliot gives the following explanation of theword _marranos_: "The name given by the Spanish Jews to the multitudes oftheir race converted to Christianity at the end of the fourteenth centuryand beginning of the fifteenth. The lofty derivation from _Maran-atha_, theLord cometh, seems hardly called for, seeing that _marrano_ is Spanish for_pig_. The 'old Christians' learned to use the word as a term of contemptfor the 'new Christians, ' or converted Jews and their descendants; but nottoo monotonously, for they often interchanged it with the fine old crustedopprobrium of the name _Jew_. Still, many Marranos held the highestsecular and ecclesiastical prizes in Spain, and were respectedaccordingly. "]

In the conversation between Don Silva and this uncle, the Prior expressesin the strongest language his conviction that Fedalma will in time revealher gypsy blood, and that any rejection on the part of Don Silva of thelife assigned him by his birth will end in sorrow and misery. When DonSilva declares his intention of following his own inclinations the Prioranswers, --

 Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood? You are a Christian, with the Christian awe In every vein. A Spanish noble, born To serve your people and your people's faith. Strong, are you? Turn your back upon the Cross-- Its shadow is before you. Leave your place: Quit the great ranks of knighthood: you will walk Forever with a tortured double self, A self that will be hungry while you feast, Will blush with shame while you are glorified, Will feel the ache and chill of desolation Even in the very bosom of your love. 

This eloquent expostulation against rejection of any of those ties andobligations imposed by birth and race is repeated again in the plea ofZarca to his daughter, when he urges that there is no life and joy forFedalma apart from that race to which she belongs and those socialconditions which gave her mind its characteristics. 

 Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts, Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood? Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke And not wed shame at mention of your race, And not wed hardness to their miseries-- Nay, wed not murder. 

Zarca and the Prior are each faithful to race, religion and socialtradition. Each knows his duty, is content with the opportunities given himby social inheritance, is thoroughly in harmony with his own past. Both areconsequently strong, resolute, successful. Zarca is a grand character, andthough a hero in a nation of vagabonds, he wholly identifies himself withhis people and accepts their destiny as his own. The Prior is a haughtySpanish Churchman, who has inherited all the traits of a noble family, andis proud of his priestly functions. 

In the case of Don Silva and Fedalma there is a conflict between love andrace. The one is a Spanish nobleman, the other the daughter of a Zincalachief. Yet they love, and feel that no outward circumstances are sufficientto separate them. This verdict of their hearts is the verdict of mankind inall ages; but it is not the one arrived at by George Eliot in obedience toher philosophy. The reasons why these two should not wed grew entirely outof the social circumstances of the time. An English nobleman of to-daycould marry such a woman as Fedalma without social or other loss. Thecapacities of soul are superior to conditions of race. Virtue and genius donot depend on social circumstances. Yet _The Spanish Gypsy_ has for itsmotive the attempt to prove that the life of tradition and inheritance isthe one which provides all our moral and social and religious obligations. In conformity with this theory the conflict of the poem arises, because DonSilva is not in intellectual harmony with his own character. A thoughtful, fastidious, sensitive soul was his, not resolute and concentrated inpurpose, He was no bigot, could not be content with any narrow aim, sawgood on many sides. 

 A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious In his acceptance, dreading all delight That speedy dies and turns to carrion: His senses much exacting, deep instilled With keen imagination's airy needs;-- Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes, Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. Silva was both the lion and the man; First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. A nature half-transformed, with qualities That oft betrayed each other, elements Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. Haughty and generous, grave and passionate; With tidal moments of devoutest awe, Sinking anon to furthest ebb of doubt; Deliberating ever, till the sting Of a recurrent ardor made him rush Right against reasons that himself had drilled And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed Too proudly special for obedience, Too subtly pondering for mastery: Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 

Too noble and generous to accept the narrow views of his uncle, Don Silvainsisted on marrying Fedalma, because he loved her and because she was apure and true woman. He had a poet's nature, was sensitive to all beauty, and his heart vibrated to all ideal excellence. His love became to him athing apart, a sacred shrine; and Fedalma was made one with all joy andbeauty. 

 He thought all loveliness was lovelier, She crowning it; all goodness credible, Because of that great trust her goodness bred. 

His love gave a delicious content and melody to his day dreams. 

 O, all comforters, All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, Came with her coming, in her presence lived. Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall Pencilled upon the grass; high summer morns When white light rains upon the quiet sea And cornfields flush with ripeness; odors soft-- Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague Of far-off moments when our life was fresh; All sweetly tempered music, gentle change Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons At sunset when from black far-floating prows Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream Made placid in the fulness of a lake-- All came with her sweet presence, for she brought The love supreme which gathers to its realm All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand Waked with a touch the far-linked harmonies In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, Fastidiousness became the prelude fine For full contentment; and young melancholy, Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain Of waiting for that perfect happiness. 

So strong was Don Silva's love, so ardent his passion for Fedalma, that heforsook all duties and social obligations and became a Zincala for hersake. Yet once awakened to the real consequences of his act, he killedZarca and sought to regain by hard penances his lost knighthood. 

With Fedalma also love was an absorbing passion. The passionate devotion ofa woman is in her words. 

 No ills on earth, though you should count them up With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh For me his ill who is my supreme love. All sorrows else are but imagined flames, Making me shudder at an unfelt smart; But his imagined sorrow is a fire That scorches me. 

With great earnestness she says she will--

 Never forsake that chief half of her soul Where lies her love. 

With what depth of love does she utter these words:

 I belong to him who loves me--whom I love-- Who chose me--whom I chose--to whom I pledged A woman's truth. And that is nature too, Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth. 

Though her love is deep and passionate and full of a woman's devotedness, the mark of race is set deep within her soul. The moment the claim of raceis brought clearly before her as the claim of duty, as the claim of fatherand of kindred, she accepts it. Her love is not thrown hastily aside, forshe loves deeply and truly, and it tears her heart in sunder to renounceit; but she is faithful to duty. Her love grows not less, loses none of itshold upon her heart. 

 No other crown Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. 

Hers is not a divided self, however; to see the way of duty with her, wasto follow in it. Her father's invincible will, courage and patient purposeare her own by inheritance. Once realizing the claim of birth and race, shedoes not falter, love is resolutely put aside, all delight in culture andrefinement becomes dross in her eyes. 

 I will not count On aught but being faithful. I will take This yearning self of mine and strangle it. I will not be half-hearted: never yet Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. Die, my young joy--die, all my hungry hopes! The milk you cry for from the breast of life Is thick with curses. O, all fatness here Snatches its meat from leanness--feeds on graves. I will seek nothing but to shun base joy. The saints were cowards who stood by to see Christ crucified: they should have flung themselves Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain-- The grandest death, to die in vain--for love Greater than sways the forces of the world! That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed The curse that blights my people. Father, come!

The poem distinctly teaches that Fedalma was strong, because the ties ofblood were strongly marked upon her mind and willingly accepted by herintellect and conscience; while Don Silva was weak, because he did notacknowledge those ties and accept their law. In the end, however, bothdeclare that the inherited life is the only one which gives joy or duty, and that all individual aims and wishes are to be renounced. The closingscene of this great poem is full of sadness, and yet is strong with moralpurpose. Don Silva and Fedalma meet for the last time, she on her way toAfrica with her tribe to find a home for it there, he on his way to Rome, to seek the privilege of again using his knightly sword. Both are sad, bothfeel that life has lost all its joy, both believe it is a bitter destinywhich divides them from the fulfilment of their love, and yet both areconvinced that love must be forsworn for a higher duty. Their lastconversation, opened by Don Silva, is full of power, and concentrates intoits last words the total meaning of the poem. 

 I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma--ask No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul For others' bleeding wounds: I am not come To say, "Forgive me:" you must not forgive, For you must see me ever as I am-- Your father's... 

 FEDALMA. 

 Speak it not! Calamity Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, Till sin is hidden in woe. You--I--we two, Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight, Opened the sluices of that deep. 

 DON SILVA. 

 We two?-- Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. 

 FEDALMA. 

 No! It shall not be that you did aught alone. For when we loved I willed to reign in you, And I was jealous even of the day If it could gladden you apart from me. 

 And so, it must be that I shared each deed Our love was root of. 

 DON SILVA. 

 Dear! you share the woe-- Nay, the worst part of vengeance fell on you. 

 FEDALMA. 

 Vengeance! She does but sweep us with her skirts. She takes large space, and lies a baleful light Revolving with long years--sees children's children, Blights them in their prime. Oh, if two lovers leane To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, They would but lie two livid victims dead Amid the city of the dying. We With our poor petty lives have strangled one That ages watch for vainly. 

 DON SILVA. 

 Deep despair Fills all your tones as with slow agony. Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape: Tell me what dread is close before you?

 FEDALMA. 

 None. No dread, but clear assurance of the end. My father held within his mighty frame A people's life: great futures died with him Never to rise, until the time shall ripe Some other hero with the will to save The outcast Zincali. 

 DON SILVA. 

 And yet their shout-- I heard it--sounded as the plenteous rush Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls With power that promised sway. 

 FEDALMA. 

 Ah yes, that shout Came from full hearts: they meant obedience. But they are orphaned: their poor childish feet Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray Forgetful after little lures. For me-- I am but as the funeral urn that bears The ashes of a leader. 

 DON SILVA. 

 O great God! What am I but a miserable brand Lit by mysterious wrath? I lie cast down A blackened branch upon the desolate ground. Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink No cup of purest water but will taste Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma. 

 FEDALMA. 

 Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees A light serene and strong on one sole path Which she will tread till death... He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: My life shall be its temple. I will plant His sacred hope within the sanctuary And die its priestess--though I die alone, A hoary woman on the altar-step, Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good. The deepest hunger of a faithful heart Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And you-- You too will live.... 

 DON SILVA. 

 I go to Rome, to seek The right to use my knightly sword again; The right to fill my place and live or die So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. I sate one hour upon the barren rock And longed to kill myself; but then I said, I will not leave my name in infamy, I will not be perpetual rottenness Upon the Spaniard's air. If I must sink At last to hell, I will not take my stand Among the coward crew who could not bear The harm themselves had done, which others bore. My young life yet may fill some fatal breach, And I will take no pardon, not my own, Not God's--no pardon idly on my knees; But it shall come to me upon my feet And in the thick of action, and each deed That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting That drives me higher up the steep of honor In deeds of duteous service to that Spain Who nourished me on her expectant breast, The heir of highest gifts. I will not fling My earthly being down for carrion To fill the air with loathing: I will be The living prey of some fierce noble death That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud I said, "I will redeem my name, " and then-- I know not if aloud: I felt the words Drinking up all my senses--"She still lives. I would not quit the dear familiar earth Where both of us behold the self-same sun, Where there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts So deep as their communion. " Resolute I rose and walked. --Fedalma, think of me As one who will regain the only life Where he is other than apostate--one Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows Of Spanish knight and noble. But the breach-- Outside those vows--the fatal second breach-- Lies a dark gulf where I have naught to cast, Not even expiation--poor pretence, Which changes naught but what survives the past, And raises not the dead. That deep dark gulf Divide us. 

 FEDALMA. 

 Yes, forever. We must walk Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite Is our resolve that we will each be true To high allegiance, higher than our love. Our dear young love--its breath was happiness! But it had grown upon a larger life Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled-- The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed; For we shall carry each the pressure deep Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. The winds to-night will bear me far away. My lord, farewell!

What has been said of _The Spanish Gypsy_ applies very nearly as well toall her other poems. They are thoughtful, philosophic, realistic; they aresonorous in expression, stately in style, and of a diction eloquent andbeautiful. On the whole, the volume containing the shorter poems is apoetical advance on _The Spanish Gypsy_, containing more genuine poetry, more lyrical fire, and a greater proportion of humor, sympathy and passion. They are carefully polished and refined; and yet that indefinable somethingwhich marks the truest poetry is wanting. They are saturated with herideas, the flavor of her thought impregnates them all, with but two orthree exceptions. 

Her artistic conceptions are more fully developed in some of these poemsthan in any of her novels, especially in "Armgart" and "The Legend ofJubal. " The special thought of "Armgart" is, that no artistic success is ofso much worth as a loving sympathy with others. The longing of Armgart wasto be--

 a happy spiritual star Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose Of light in Paradise, whose only self Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, Music, life, power--I moving in the midst With a sublime necessity of good. 

Her ambition runs very high. 

 May the day be near when men Think much to let my horses draw me home, And new lands welcome me upon their beach, Loving me for my fame. That is the truth Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie? Pretend to seek obscurity--to sing In hope of disregard? A vile pretence! And blasphemy besides. For what is fame But the benignant strength of One, transformed To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come As necessary breathing of such joy; And may they come to me!

Armgart is beloved of the Graf, and he tries to persuade her to abandon herartistic career and become his wife. He says to her, --

 A woman's rank Lies in the fulness of her womanhood: Therein alone she is loyal. 

Again he says to her, --

 Pain had been saved, Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned As woman only, holding all your art As attribute to that dear sovereignty-- Concentering your power in home delights Which penetrate and purify the world. 

Armgart will not listen; her whole heart is enlisted in music. She says tothe Graf, --

 I will live alone and pour my pain With passion into music, where it turns To what is best within my better self. 

A year later Armgart's throat has failed, and her career has ended innothing. Then her servant and friend, Walpurga, who has devoted her life toArmgart, speaks that lesson George Eliot would convey in this little story, that a true life is a life of service. Walpurga chides Armgart's falseambition in these words:

 I but stand As a small symbol for the mighty sum Of claims unpaid to needy myriads; I think you never set your loss beside That mighty deficit. Is your work gone-- The prouder queenly work that paid itself And yet was overpaid with men's applause! Are you no longer chartered, privileged, But sunk to simple woman's penury, To ruthless Nature's chary average-- Where is the rebel's right for you alone? Noble rebellion lifts a common load; But what is he who flings his own load off And leaves his fellows toiling? Rebel's right? Say, rather, the deserter's. 

Armgart learns from her master, the old and noble Leo, that he had alsobeen ambitious, that he had won only small success, and that he now livedfor the sake of the good he could do to those about him. He says to her, --

 We must bury our dead joys, And live above them with a living world. 

Then Armgart is brought to see that there is a noble privilege in living asher friend has lived, in making music a joy to others, and in doing whatshe can to make life better for humanity. 

There are two very distinct ideas running through the poem, that a lifeguided by altruism is better than--a merely artistic life, and that womanis to find in home and wedded joys that opportunity for the development ofher soul, without which no artistic career can be complete. The words ofthe Graf speak George Eliot's own thought, that Armgart's life and her artwould have been both more perfect and more noble had she held all her artas attribute to the dear sovereignty of affection. 

The same artistic conception pervades "The Legend of Jubal. " That fame forwhich Jubal also yearns comes to him, he is taught, in the good which heleaves behind him for humanity to enjoy. He dies, and ceases to be as apersonal being. At least this may be inferred from the concluding lines. 

 Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, The All-creating Presence for his grave. 

A _sun-wave_ while living, his being is now _quenched_. But he lives on inthe life of the race, lives on in man's joy of music, in the deeper lifewhich music awakens in all bosoms through all ages. He is told that he hasno need of--

 aught else for share Of mortal good, than in his soul to bear The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest Of the world's springtide in his conscious breast. 

His own loved Past says to him, --

 This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow, And that immeasurable life to know From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, A seed primeval that has forests bred. 

This poem views death as positivism conceives it, and gives a poeticinterpretation of that subjective immortality, or that immortality in therace, in which George Eliot so heartily believed. No other artisticpresentation of this theory has ever been made which equals that given inthis poem, and in the one beginning, "O may I join the choir invisible. "This latter poem is not only beautiful in itself, but it has made altruismattractive and lovely. Its tone of thought is elevated, its spirit loftyand noble, and its ideal pure and gracious. All that can be said to makealtruism lovely and winning, to inspire men with its spirit and motive, ishere said. The thought presented in these two poems is repeated in "TheDeath of Moses. " Here we have Moses living forever in the human influencehe created. 

 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law. 

For her ideas about resignation we must turn to the pages of _The Mill onthe Floss and Romola_, for those about heredity and the past to _TheSpanish Gypsy_ and _Daniel Deronda_; but in these shorter poems she hascompletely unfolded the positivist conception, as she accepted it, of deathand immortality. The degree to which she was moved and inspired by thisbelief in an immortality in humanity is seen in the greater ardor andpoetic merit of these poems than any others she wrote. 

It is interesting to note that she introduces music into "The Legend ofJubal" and "Armgart". It was the art she most loved. She even said that ifshe could possess the power most satisfactory to her heart, it would bethat of making music the instrument of the homage which the greatperformers secure. Yet she teaches in "Armgart" that there is a powerhigher than this, the power of affectionate service. Her books are full ofthe praise of music. She makes Maggie Tulliver express her own delight init. 

 "I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music. "

In _Adam Bede_ she becomes most poetic when extolling the power ofexquisite music to work on the soul. 

 To feel its wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate fibres of life wherein memory can penetrate, and binding together your whole being, past and present, in one unspeakable vibration, melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love, that has been scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of self-renouncing sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow, and your present sorrow with all your past joy. 

In the "Minor Prophet" is to be found George Eliot's theory of progress. That poem also repeats her faith in common humanity, and gives new emphasisto her joy in the common toils and affections of men. In the "CollegeBreakfast Party" and "Self and Life, " her thoughts take a more trulyphilosophic form than in any of her other poems, but the first of these isthe poorest piece of poetic work she gave to the public. Nothing new in theway of teaching appears in these or her other poems. 

George Eliot is the poet of positivism. What is beautiful, touching andinspiring in that conception of the world she has sung, and in as poetic amanner as that philosophy is ever likely to inspire. Her poetry is full ofthe thoughts and sentiments of the time. It reflects the mood of hergeneration. Prof. Sidney Colvin has truly said that "there is nothing inthe literature of the day so rousing--to the mind of the day there isscarcely anything so rousing in all literature--as her writing is. What shewrites is full of her time. It is full of observation, imagination, pathos, wit and humor, all of a high class in themselves; but what is more, allsaturated with modern ideas poured into a language of which every wordbites home with peculiar sharpness to the contemporary consciousness. " Thisis true even more of her poetry than of her prose. That poetry lacks wherethe age lacks, in true poetic quality. The ideal, the breath of eternalspring, is not in it. 

XVIII. 

LATER ESSAYS. 

The later essays of George Eliot have the same characteristics as theearlier ones, and are mainly of interest because they furnish additionalevidences of her philosophical, ethical and political opinions. While theyindicate the profound thoughtfulness of her mind, her deep concern aboutthe largest problems of human existence, and her rare ethical tone andpurpose, they add little or nothing to her literary reputation. It is veryplain that while George Eliot was not a poet in the largest, truest sense, she was still less an essayist in that genial, widely sympathetic sensewhich has adorned English literature with so many noble books of comment onthe foibles and the virtues of man. Her manner is heavy, her thoughtsphilosophical, her purpose doctrinal: and the result is far fromsatisfactory to the lover of fine essay-writing. 

She needs the glow of her imagination, the depth of her emotions, torelieve and lighten the burden of her thoughts. But in her essays she isless wise, less racy and expressive, than in the didactic passages of hernovels. She could best make her comment on the ways of life whiledescribing a character or studying an action. These additions to hernarrative and conversation are, to the thoughtful reader, among the bestportions of her novels, for they give meaning to all the rest, and throw aflood of light on the hidden facts of life. She is never so great, so wise, so profoundly inspired by her theme, as in many of these passages. 

There is need, however, in her case, of the large surrounding life of hernovels in order to draw out this wisdom and inspiration. Her essays lack inthe fine sentiment and the fervid eloquence of the chorus-utterances in hernovels. They give little evidence that she would have attained to greatthings had she followed the early purpose of her life. In view of what shehas written in the shape of essays, no one can regret that she confined herchief efforts to her imaginative prose creations. Yet her essays have aspecial value on account of their subjects, and they will be read by manywith a hearty appreciation, simply because they were George Eliot's. No onethoroughly interested in the work done by the great realistic novelist canafford to overlook her essays, even if they do not nearly touch the highestmark in their kind. 

After she began her career as a novelist George Eliot wrote about twentyessays, nearly all of which are included in her last book, _Impressions ofTheophrastus Such_. Previous to this, however, she had published in thefirst number of the _Fortnightly Review_, issued May 15, 1865, and editedby Lewes, an article on "The Influence of Rationalism, " in review of Mr. W. H. Lecky's book on that subject. A year after the appearance of _FelixHolt_ she wrote out her views on the subject of political reform, in theshape of an "Address to Workingmen by Felix Holt, " which appeared in_Blackwood's Magazine_ for January, 1868. These essays are significant, because of the light they afford concerning the author's views on religiousand political subjects. The first is a piece of thorough reviewing, andshows what George Eliot might have done in that direction. She is amerciless critic, and yet one inclined to appreciate all that is best in anauthor. Her sympathies with positivism and with the "scientific method" inphilosophy find expression in the pages of this essay. In it she gives amost expressive utterance to her ideas about the universality of law andthe influence of tradition. Her point of view is so antagonistic to Mr, Lecky's that she does not do full justice to his work. His idealism isrepugnant to her, and he does not give prominence enough to please her tothose positivist influences in which she so strongly believed. Herdissatisfaction with his idealism appears in her very first words. 

 There is a valuable class of books on great subjects which have something of the character and functions of good popular lecturing. They are not original, not subtle, not of close logical texture, not exquisite either in thought or style; but by virtue of these negatives they are all the more fit to act on the average intelligence. They have enough of organizing purpose in them to make their facts illustrative, and to leave a distinct result in the mind even when most of the facts are forgotten; and they have enough of vagueness and vacillation in their theory to win them ready acceptance from a mixed audience. The vagueness and vacillation are not devices of timidity; they are the honest result of the writer's own mental character, which adapts him to be the instructor and the favorite of "the general reader. " For the most part, the general reader of the present day does not exactly know what distance he goes; he only knows that he does not go "too far. " Of any remarkable thinker, whose writings have excited controversy, he likes to have it said "that his errors are to be deplored. " leaving it not too certain what those errors are; he is fond of what may be called disembodied opinions, that float in vapory phrases above all systems of thought or action; he likes an undefined Christianity which opposes itself to nothing in particular, an undefined education of the people, an undefined amelioration of all things: in fact, he likes sound views--nothing extreme, but something between the excesses of the past and the excesses of the present. This modern type of the general reader may be known in conversation by the cordiality with which he assents to indistinct, blurred statements. Say that black is black, he will shake his head and hardly think it; say that black is not so very black, he will reply, "Exactly. " He has no hesitation, if you wish it, even to get up at a public meeting and express his conviction that at times, and within certain limits, the radii of a circle have a tendency to be equal; but, on the other hand, he would urge that the spirit of geometry may be carried a little too far. His only bigotry is a bigotry against any clearly defined opinion; not in the least based on a scientific scepticism, but belonging to a lack of coherent thought--a spongy texture of mind, that gravitates strongly to nothing. The one thing he is staunch for is the utmost liberty of private haziness. 

 But precisely these characteristics of the general reader, rendering him incapable of assimilating ideas unless they are administered in a highly diluted form, make it a matter of rejoicing that there are clever, fair-minded men who will write books for him--men very much above him in knowledge and ability, but not too remote from him in their habits of thinking, and who can thus prepare for him infusions of history and science that will leave some solidifying deposit, and save him from a fatal softening of the intellectual skeleton. Among such serviceable writers, Mr. Lecky's _History of the Rise and Influence of the Spirit of Rationalism in Europe_ entitles him to a high place. He has prepared himself for its production by an unusual amount of well-directed reading; he has chosen his facts and quotations with much judgment; and he gives proof of those important moral qualifications, impartiality, seriousness and modesty. This praise is chiefly applicable to the long chapter on the history of Magic and Witchcraft, and to the two chapters on the antecedents and history of Persecution. 

A further evidence of her wide culture and reading, and of her largecritical ability, may also be found in the first number of the _FortnightlyReview_, for which she wrote the first of the "notices of new books" whichit published. This was a review of Mr. Owen Jones's _Grammar of Ornament_. The author was one of her friends, and the decorator of the rooms in whichher Sunday receptions were held. She praised the book very highly. Thefirst paragraph of this notice betrays her appreciation of the aestheticmovement in England, and her sympathy with its objects and spirit. Themoral value of aesthetic influences is characteristically expressed. Theinfluence of the environment, as she understood it, is here seen. Thelargeness of her faith in the moral efficiency of material causes isnowhere so strongly expressed by her as in the words which follow. 

 The inventor of movable types, says the venerable Teufelsdröckh, was disbanding hired armies, cashiering most kings and senates, and creating a whole new democratic world. Has any one yet said what great things are being done by the men who are trying to banish ugliness from our streets and our homes, and to make both the outside and the inside of our dwellings worthy of a world where there are forests, and flower-tressed meadows, and the plumage of birds; where the insects carry lessons of color on their wings, and even the surface of a stagnant pool will show us the wonders of iridescence and the most delicate forms of leafage? They, too, are modifying opinions, for they are modifying men's moods and habits, which are the mothers of opinions, having quite as much to do with their formation as the responsible father--Reason. Think of certain hideous manufacturing towns where the piety is chiefly a belief in copious perdition, and the pleasure is chiefly gin. The dingy surface of wall pierced by the ugliest windows, the staring shop-fronts, paper-hangings, carpets, brass and gilt mouldings, and advertising placards, have an effect akin to that of malaria; it is easy to understand that with such surroundings there is more belief in cruelty than in beneficence, and that the best earthly bliss attainable is the dulling of the external senses. For it is a fatal mistake to suppose that ugliness which is taken for beauty will answer all the purposes of beauty; the subtle relation between all kinds of truth and fitness in our life forbids that bad taste should ever be harmless to our moral sensibility or our intellectual discernment; and--more than that--as it is probable that fine musical harmonies have a sanative influence over our bodily organization, it is also probable that just coloring and lovely combinations of lines may be necessary to the complete well-being of our systems, apart from any conscious delight in them. A savage may indulge in discordant chuckles and shrieks and gutturals, and think that they please the gods, but it does not follow that his frame would not be favorably wrought upon by the vibrations of a grand church organ. One sees a person capable of choosing the worst style of wall-paper become suddenly afflicted by its ugliness under an attack of illness. And if an evil state of blood and lymph usually goes along with an evil state of mind, who shall say that the ugliness of our streets, the falsity of our ornamentation, the vulgarity of our upholstery, have not something to do with those bad tempers which breed false conclusions?

The address to workingmen which George Eliot put into the mouth of FelixHolt is a suggestive and valuable piece of political writing. Tradition istherein presented as a moral and political influence. The spiritualtreasures mankind possesses she says are the products of tradition, andthese must be preserved. This can be done only by keeping the oldinstitutions and forms until they can be organically supplanted by others. All the various portions of society are mutually dependent, and thedestruction of any one of them will be to the injury of all. This she saysto workingmen as a reason why they should not antagonize the social ordersabove them, whose work is as important as their own. The organs of societyare the various social classes of which it is composed, and society is tobe improved by turning class interests into the functions by which Humanityis to be developed. The spiritual treasures of the past are only to bepreserved by order and good government; hence all revolutionary methods aresuicidal. Life is to be advanced by giving social influence into the handsof the wisest. True principles must regulate society, and these GeorgeEliot would have rest on science and altruism. 

Such are some of the ideas of this remarkable essay, one of the mostsuggestive and instructive of all she wrote. The emphasis she laid onretribution, tradition, heredity and duties appears here in all its force. Perhaps nothing else she wrote so clearly brings out some of thecharacteristics of her mind. Her intense distrust of individualism does notpermit her to say a single word of the _rights_ of the laboring classes. The right of rebellion and revolution is totally disregarded, rather it isnot recognized that any rights whatever exist. The workingman is not tothink of himself or his class, but of society and humanity; he is to becomean altruistic worker for the common good. While this is fine in theory, yethistory indicates that the aristocratic classes have yielded to the broadersocial spirit only when they have been compelled to do so. The concessionsmust come from above, not from beneath. George Eliot's politicalphilosophy, if carried into actual life, would keep the proletariate wherethey are, and strengthen the social power of the aristocratic classes. These words may indicate the drift of the essay:

 But I come back to this: that, in our old society there are old institutions, and among them the various distinctions and inherited advantages of classes, which have shaped themselves along with all the wonderful slow-growing system of things made up of our laws, our commerce and our stores of all sorts, whether in material objects, such as buildings and machinery, or in knowledge, such as scientific thought and professional skill. Just as in that case I spoke of before, the irrigation of a country, which must absolutely have its water distributed or it will bear no crop; these are the old channels, the old banks and the old pumps, which must be used as they are until new and better have been prepared, or the structure of the old has been gradually altered. But it would be fool's work to batter down a pump only because a better might be made, when you have no machinery ready for a new one: it would be wicked work, if villages lost their crops by it. Now the only safe way by which society can be steadily improved and our worst evils reduced, is not by any attempt to do away directly with the actually existing class distinctions and advantages, as if everybody could have the same sort of work or lead the same sort of life (which none of my hearers are stupid enough to suppose), but by turning of Class Interests into Class Functions or duties. What I mean is, that each class should be urged by the surrounding conditions to perform its particular work under the strong pressure of responsibility to the nation at large; that our public affairs should be got into a state in which there should be no impunity for foolish or faithless conduct. In this way, the public judgment would sift out incapability and dishonesty from posts of high charge, and even personal ambition would necessarily become of a worthier sort, since the desires of the most selfish men must be a good deal shaped by the opinions of those around them: and for one person to put on a cap and bells, or to go about dishonest or paltry ways of getting rich that he may spend a vast sum of money in having more finery than his neighbors, he must be pretty sure of a crowd who will applaud him. Now changes can only be good in proportion as they help to bring about this sort of result: in proportion as they put knowledge in the place of ignorance, and fellow-feeling in the place of selfishness. In the course of substitution class distinctions must inevitably change their character, and represent the varying Duties of men, not their varying Interests. But this end will not come by impatience. "Day will not break the sooner because we get up before the twilight. " Still less will it come by mere undoing, or change merely as change. And moreover, if we believed that it would be unconditionally hastened by our getting the franchise, we should be what I call superstitious men, believing in magic, or the production of a result by hocus-pocus. Our getting the franchise will greatly hasten that good end in proportion only as every one of us has the knowledge, the foresight, the conscience, that will make him well-judging and scrupulous in the use of it. The nature of things in this world has been determined for us beforehand, and in such a way that no ship can be expected to sail well on a difficult voyage, and reach the right port, unless it is well-manned: the nature of the winds and the waves, of the timbers, the sails and the cordage, will not accommodate itself to drunken, mutinous sailors. 

 You will not suspect me of wanting to preach any cant to you, or of joining in the pretence that everything is in a fine way and need not be made better. What I am striving to keep in our minds is the care, the precaution, with which we should go about making things better, so that the public order may not be destroyed, so that no fatal shock may be given to this society of ours, this living body in which our lives are bound up. After the Reform Bill of 1832, I was in an election riot, which showed me clearly, on a small scale, what public disorder must always be; and I have never forgotten that the riot was brought about chiefly by the agency of dishonest men who professed to be on the people's side. Now the danger hanging over change is great, just in proportion as it tends to produce such disorder by giving any large number of ignorant men, whose notions of what is good are of a low and brutal sort, the belief that they have got power into their hands and may do pretty much as they like. If any one can look round us and say that he sees no signs of any such danger now, and that our national condition is running along like a clear broadening stream, safe not to get choked with mud, I call him a cheerful man; perhaps he does his own gardening, and seldom takes exercise far away from home. To us who have no gardens, and often walk abroad, it is plain that we can never get into a bit of a crowd but we must rub clothes with a set of roughs, who have the worst vices of the worst rich--who are gamblers, sots, libertines, knaves, or else mere sensual simpletons and victims. They are the ugly crop that has sprung up while the stewards have been sleeping; they are the multiplying brood begotten by parents who have been left without all teaching save that of a too-craving body, without all well-being save the fading delusions of drugged beer and gin. They are the hideous margin of society, at one edge drawing towards it the undesigning ignorant poor, at the other darkening imperceptibly into the lowest criminal class. Here is one of the evils which cannot be got rid of quickly, and against which any of us who have got sense, decency and instruction have need to watch. That these degraded fellow-men could really get the mastery in a persistent disobedience to the laws and in a struggle to subvert order, I do not believe; but wretched calamities would come from the very beginning of such a struggle, and the continuance of it would be a civil war, in which the inspiration on both sides might soon cease to be even a false notion of good, and might become the direct savage impulse of ferocity. We have all to see to it that we do not help to rouse what I may call the savage beast in the breasts of our generation--that we do not help to poison the nation's blood, and make richer provision for bestiality to come. We know well enough that oppressors have sinned in this way--that oppression has notoriously made men mad; and we are determined to resist oppression. But let us, if possible, show that we can keep sane in our resistance, and shape our means more and more reasonably towards the least harmful, and therefore the speediest, attainment of our end. Let us, I say, show that our spirits are too strong to be driven mad, but can keep that sober determination which alone gives mastery over the adaptation of means. And a first guarantee of this sanity will be to act as if we understood that the fundamental duty of a government is to preserve order, to enforce obedience of the laws. It has been held hitherto that a man can be depended on as a guardian of order only when he has much money and comfort to lose. But a better state of things would be, that men who had little money and not much comfort should still be guardians of order, because they had sense to see that disorder would do no good, and had a heart of justice, pity and fortitude to keep them from making more misery only because they felt some misery themselves. There are thousands of artisans who have already shown this fine spirit, and have endured much with patient heroism. If such a spirit spread and penetrated us all, we should soon become the masters of the country in the best sense and to the best ends. For, the public order being preserved, there can be no government in future that will not be determined by our insistence on our fair and practicable demands. It is only by disorder that our demands will be choked, that we shall find ourselves lost amongst a brutal rabble, with all the intelligence of the country opposed to us, and see government in the shape of guns that will sweep us down in the ignoble martyrdom of fools. 

The eighteen essays published as the _Impressions of Theophrastus Such_purport to have been the work of a bachelor of singular habits and tastes, who had written a book which proved a failure, and who left this volume toappear posthumously. He had been in the habit of giving an account tohimself of the characters he met with, and he begins his book by describinghis own weaknesses. He classes himself as one of the blunderers he wouldportray, as having the faults and foibles he finds in others. Expressivelythe author says, "If the human race has a bad reputation, I perceive that Icannot escape being compromised. " This may be taken as the sentiment ofGeorge Eliot herself; and it is she who really speaks in these wordsconcerning the satirical criticisms of those she describes:

 If I laugh at you, O fellow-men! if I trace with curious interest your labyrinthine self-delusions, note the inconsistencies in your zealous adhesions, and smile at your helpless endeavors in a rashly chosen part, it is not that I feel myself aloof from you: the more intimately I seem to discern your weaknesses, the stronger to me is the proof that I share them. How otherwise could I get the discernment?--for even what we are averse to, what we vow not to entertain, must have shaped or shadowed itself within us as a possibility before we can think of exorcising it. No man can know his brother simply as a spectator. 

After the second essay Theophrastus disappears, and no further hint isgiven that it is he who is the reputed author. This slight fictitiousmachinery is too weak to carry the load put upon it. The reader soon feelsthat it is George Eliot who is talking, and the opinions put forth, thesentiments expressed, are recognized as her own. Indeed, it would have beenbetter, so the reader may probably come to say to himself, if thisattempted disguise had been entirely dispensed with. By the time he hasreached the sixth essay, "Only Temper, " the discerning reader, familiarwith George Eliot's books, will be ready to affirm that this is no otherthan the author herself speaking very frankly and finely her ownsentiments. In this essay the moral temper of her mind appears, and herstrong inclination to subordinate the individual to the social requirementsof life. 

These papers are modelled on those of the great essay-making period inEnglish literature. Old-fashioned names are adopted, which have a greateror less significance in connection with the purpose of the essay. The manwith the excitable temper is called Touchwood, while the man who slidesinto a deferential acceptance of opinions made for him is Mixtus. Thismethod of the old essayists seems antiquated, cumbersome and unsuitable tothe subjects discussed. The persons described lose their individuality byits use, and the reader forgets that they were meant to be creatures offlesh and blood. For the most part, they are mere abstractions, merefigures of straw, to be knocked over by the ingenious pen of the author. Some special fault or sin is given the name of a personality, but it is toomuch isolated from actual existence to produce the impression of a livingthing. 

These essays much resemble occasional chapters in her novels, and mighthave been studies for a new work. They are studies simply, done with a fineskill and polish, but fragmentary. The large setting of her novels isneeded to give them relief and proportion. They disappoint as they are, forthe satire is too apparent, and we do not see these characters in action, where their follies would obtain for them a more living interest. They arestudies of individual character, portraying types of social and literaryweakness, such as may have come under George Eliot's observation. They arecareful dissections of motives and conduct, and full of a minute analysisof the moral and intellectual nature of her characters. There is abundanceof candid criticism, shrewd observation and compressed wisdom of statement. Occasionally she is at her very best; but she uses many long, cumbersomesentences, the satire is too harsh and the wisdom too unwieldy. Hersympathy, love, pathos and pity are not so apparent as in her novels; shetakes less delight in these creations, and evidently created them forpurposes of dissection. She is never so weak in her other writings as inthese essays, so wanting in genius and large-heartedness. She scourges manyof the intellectual follies of the time, the conceit of culture, the prideof literature, and the narrowness of politics; but in most of the essaysthis is all. 

The artistic conception of the book is too slight and fragmentary, and itgives the impression of being unfinished in execution and desultory inpurpose. Yet there is in it much of fine feeling, pure sentiment, livelysatire and apt wisdom. Sometimes the thought is labored; but there is awealth of clear-cut conviction, strong thoughts and rich experience. Thereis force in the arguments, richness of ideas throughout, and a wonderfulaptness of allusion and illustration. Her culture and learning areeverywhere apparent in the fine perception of the most exact analogies andin the ease with which she brings science to the support of morals. Thoseof her admirers who come closest to her spirit, thoroughly appreciate herideas, and delight in them, will read this book with satisfaction, and feelthankful that she wrote it. No one who would know the mind of George Eliotcan afford to overlook it. 

When George Eliot writes on subjects involving a moral purpose or ideal, she is always wise and interesting. When, however, she attempts to satirizesome weakness or laugh at some folly, she is not always successful. Rich asmay be the satire and the wit of her novels, both are often heavy and dullin her essays. 

The greater number of essays in this volume are devoted to the analysis ofspecial types of character, but a few are given to moral problems. Theselatter are of the more interest and value, and they present some newdiscussions of those problems with which George Eliot was so muchfascinated. Her earnest faith in altruism, realism, tradition, naturalretribution and the social value of morality, is as distinct here as in hernovels or poems. In the essay on "False Testimonials" she gives a goodrealistic definition of imagination, which she says is "always based on akeen vision, a keen consciousness of what is, and carries the store ofdefinite knowledge as material for the construction of its inward visions. "She is no realist, however, in the sense of confining poetry merely to aphotographic picture of outward nature. She accepts Dante as a genuinerealist, for "he is at once the most precise and homely in his reproductionof actual objects, and the most soaringly at large in his imaginativecombinations. " She would have faithfulness to facts, but no limitation ofvision; she would have the imagings exact and legitimate, but she wouldgive our moral and intellectual insights no narrow bounds. Her realism iswell defined when she criticises one of those persons who take mere fancyfor imagination, to whom all facts are unworthy of recognition. 

In at least two of these essays, those on "Debasing the Moral Currency" and"The Modern Hep, Hep, Hep!" she has newly expressed herself concerningtradition. In the first she protests against the too-common custom ofsatirizing what is noble and venerable. Our need of faith in the higherthings of life is very great, and that faith is to be established onlythrough our regard for what has been given us by those who have gone beforeus. Whatever lowers our trust in the results of human efforts iscorrupting, for it breaks down our faith in the true sources of humanauthority. "This is what I call debasing the moral currency, " she says;"lowering the value of every inspiring fact and tradition so that it willcommand less and less of the spiritual products, the generous motives whichsustain the charm and elevation of our social existence--the somethingbesides bread by which man saves his soul alive. " With her conception oftradition, as the legitimate source of the moral and spiritual life in man, and as the influence which builds up all which is truest and purest in ourcivilization, she can endure to see no contempt put upon its products. Thisessay, more perhaps than anything else she wrote, gives an insight into herconception of the higher life and her total lack of faith in any idealisticsources of human motive or inspiration. Contempt for the traditional, withher, implies contempt for the spiritual and moral. To destroy thetraditional is revolutionary, dangerous and immoral. She cannot rejecttradition in the name of higher wisdom, in the name of higher truth andauthority. It gone, and all is gone; hence her fear of all iconoclastic andrevolutionary methods. So she would keep whole and pure the nationalmemories of every people. In the last essay of the book she says, "Thepreservation of national memories is an element and a means of nationalgreatness, and their revival a sign of reviving nationality. " It is "thedivine gift of memory" as it expresses itself in the life and purposes of apeople, "which inspires the moments with a past, a present and a future, and gives the sense of corporate existence that raises man above thebrutes. " All which lowers the influence or the sacredness of this memory isdebasing. The corrupting of this memory "is the impoverishment thatthreatens our posterity;" and this "new famine, a meagre fiend, with lewdgrin and clumsy hoof, is breathing a moral mildew over the harvest of ourhuman sentiments. " That eager yearning of the nineteenth century for truthand reality, for something more than traditions and national memories, which displays itself in reforms and revolutions of every kind, had littleof George Eliot's sympathy. Yet this spirit is stronger even thantradition, and creates for us a new world and a higher life. 

Throughout these essays it is the social side of morality which is praisedand commended. What will increase the altruistic spirit, what will widensympathy and helpfulness, is regarded as truly ethical in its import. Idealaims are brought to the level of present needs and the possibilities ofhuman nature as it now exists. 

 Wide-reaching motives, blessed and glorious as they are, and of the highest sacramental virtue, have their dangers, like all else that touches the mixed life of the earth. They are archangels with awful brow and flaming sword, summoning and encouraging us to do the right and the divinely heroic, and we feel a beneficent tremor in their presence; but to learn what it is they summon us to do, we have to consider the mortals we are elbowing, who are of our own stature and our own appetites.... On the whole, and in the vast majority of instances, the action by which we can do the best for future ages is of the sort which has a certain beneficence and grace for contemporaries. A sour father may reform prisons, but considered in his sourness he does harm. 

In another essay, that entitled "Only Temper, " the social side of moralityis again presented. Especially does it appear in that on "Moral Swindlers. ""Let us refuse to accept as moral, " says George Eliot, "any politicalleader who should allow his conduct in relation to great issues to bedetermined by egoistic passion, and boldly say that he would be lessimmoral even though he were as lax in his personal habits as Sir RobertWalpole, if at the same time his sense of the public welfare were supremein his mind, quelling all pettier impulses beneath a magnanimousimpartiality. " George Eliot is almost without exception sound and just inher moral judgments, but here her theories have made her overlook the trueconditions of a moral life. 

 Seeing that Morality and Morals under their _alias_ of Ethics are the subject of voluminous discussion, and their true basis a pressing matter of dispute--seeing that the most famous book ever written on Ethics, and forming a chief study in our colleges, allies ethical with political science, or that which treats of the constitution and prosperity of States, one might expect that educated men would find reason to avoid a perversion of language which lends itself' to no wider view of life than that of village gossips. Yet I find even respectable historians of our own and of foreign countries, after showing that a king was treacherous, rapacious, and ready to sanction gross breaches in the administration of justice, end by praising him for his pure moral character, by which one must suppose them to mean that he was not lewd nor debauched, not the European twin of the typical Indian potentate whom Macaulay describes as passing his life in chewing bang and fondling dancing-girls. And since we are sometimes told of such maleficent kings that they were religious, we arrive at the curious result that the most serious wide-reaching duties of man lie quite outside both Morality and Religion--the one of these consisting in not keeping mistresses (and perhaps not drinking too much), and the other in certain ritual and spiritual transactions with God which can be carried on equally well side by side with the basest conduct toward men. With such a classification as this, it is no wonder, considering the strong re-action of language on thought, that many minds, dizzy with indigestion of recent science and philosophy, are fain to seek for the grounds of social duty; and without entertaining any private intention of committing a perjury which would ruin an innocent man, or seeking gain by supplying bad preserved meats to our navy, feel themselves speculatively obliged to inquire why they should not do so, and are inclined to measure their intellectual subtlety by their dissatisfaction with all answers to this "Why?"

It would be quite impossible for George Eliot to write an essay withoutsome fresh thought or some new suggestion. To those who admire her geniusand are in sympathy with her teachings this volume will have a specialinterest. Its few essays which touch upon moral or speculative subjects areof the utmost value as interpretations of her life and thought. 

All her essays, the later as the earlier, are mainly of interest as aids toan understanding of her philosophy. Nothing is worthless which helps usclearly to comprehend an original mind. 

XIX. 

THE ANALYTIC METHOD. 

George Eliot's literary method was that of Fielding and Thackeray, both ofwhom evidently influenced her manner. Their realism, and especially theirmethod of comment and moral observation, she made her own. She had littlesympathy with the romanticism of Scott or the idealism of Dickens. Hermoral aims, her intense faith in altruism, kept her from making her art amere process of photographing nature. Nature always had a moral meaning toher, a meaning in reference to man's happiness and health of soul; and thatmoral bearing of all human experiences gave dignity and purpose to her art. 

It was the method of Scott to present the romantic, picturesque and poeticside of life. He was not untrue to nature, but he cared more for beauty andsentiment than for fact. He sometimes perverted the historic incidents hemade use of, but he caught the spirit of the time with which he was dealingwith absolute fidelity. In this capacity for historic interpretation hesurpassed George Eliot, who had not his instinctive insight into the past. Scott had no theory about the past, no philosophy of history was known tohim; but above all novelists he had the power to see by the light of otherdays, and to make the dead times live again. Not George Eliot and notThackeray was his rival in this historic insight and poetic power ofinterpretation; and his superior success was due not only to his peculiargenius but also to his romanticism. Scott failed where George Eliotsucceeded, in giving an intellectual interpretation of life. With certainsocial and moral tendencies he was clearly at home. On its side ofadventure and social impulse and craving for a wider life, as a singleinstance of his power, he was a true interpreter of the age of Elizabeth. Its deeper spirit, its intellectual movements, he did not, and could not, bring within the range of his story. It was here George Eliot was superior, as is abundantly shown in _Romola_. The thoughtful aspects of Florentinelife she truthfully presented; but its more romantic elements it needed aScott to make living and real. In _The Spanish Gypsy_ there is very littleof genuine interpretation. Certain local features may be accurate, but thespirit of the time is not there; the characters are not such as that ageand country developed. Scott, with all his romanticism, would haveintroduced _reality_ into such an historic picture. 

Within her own lines of power George Eliot is much greater than Scott, whocould not have written _Adam Bede_ or _Middlemarch_, or brought out what isbest in those works. Adventure was necessary to Scott; he could not havetransfigured the plain and homely with beauty as George Eliot has done. Where she is at her best, as in the simple scenes of _Silas Marner_, thereis a charm, pathos and sympathy in her work which must endear it to allhearts. That peculiar power Scott did not have; yet it would be mostdifficult to decide which is the truer to nature. Genuine art, it is true, has its foundation in the realities of human experience: but thoserealities are not always best interpreted by the methods of realism. In hisown province Scott was truer to nature than George Eliot was in the samefield, as may be seen at once by comparing _The Spanish Gypsy_ with_Ivanhoe_, or any of Scott's novels dealing with the mediaeval and feudalages, he took the past into himself, caught its spirit, reflected it inits wholeness. In this he was a genuine realist, and all the more faithfulto reality because he did not accept realism as a theory. 

In comparing George Eliot with Dickens, it must first of all be noted thateach is the superior of the other in his own special province. Dickens hasmore imagination; he appeals to more universal sentiments, touches a widercircle of experiences, captivates his readers with a resistless interestand tenderness of spirit. His characters are unreal, mere caricaturesoften, mere puppets. Yet he had an imagination of marvellous power, so thathis characters appeared to his own mind as if real, and he describes themas if they actually stood before him, making them intensely real to hisreaders. Many of his persons never lived, never could have lived; yet theyare types or certain traits of character made living and brought out into adistinctive existence. What those traits of character are he makes all themore apparent by this method. 

Dickens had not a fine literary taste, he had no clear insight into some ofthe purer human sentiments, he was grossly untrue and false in many of hispictures. Yet all in all, with his many faults, it is to be said that hisidealism, which was not of a high type, made him a true interpreter oflife. If his characters are less faithfully drawn than George Eliot's, hisinsight into some of the sentiments and emotions was truer. His picturesmay be false in some particulars, but he has given them the true spiritwith which they should be animated. 

In thoughtful fidelity to the facts of life, George Eliot surpasses Scottor Dickens. Scott by his insight, Dickens by his imagination, were able todo what she could not; but they put little thought into their work. Theydid not think about what life meant; she did. They worked instinctively, she thoughtfully. Her characters are more often to be met with than theirs;and there is a freshness, a wholesomeness, about them theirs do not have. She is more simple and refined than Fielding, more elevated in tone ofthought, there is a deeper and a richer purpose in her work. None of thecynicism and hardness of Thackeray appear in her pages. She is fresher, more genuine, more poetic than he, with more of humanity. 

In her essay on "The Natural History of German Life" she said of Dickensthat he was "gifted with the utmost power of rendering the external traitsof our town population. " City life Dickens and Thackeray most trulyphotographed in all its features of snobbishness and selfishness. Itsbetter side, its nobler sentiments, its humanity, they did not succeedin so well; not so well as George Eliot did, and simply because they didnot so much sympathize with it. Country life they did not understand, andcould not have sketched. Where George Eliot best succeeded they would havefailed. Her real advance upon Dickens and Thackeray, however, lay inanother direction. She says in the essay just quoted, speaking of Diekens'sportraitures of town populations, that "if he could give us theirpsychological character--their conception of life and their emotions--withthe same truth as their idiom and manners, his books would be the greatestcontribution art has ever made to the awakening of social sympathies. "In the two directions here indicated lay her superiority over othernovelists, --her humanitarian sympathies and her psychologic insight. Inreality, she did not contribute anything new to the realism of literaryart. All which can be said for faithfulness to nature in art and poetry hasbeen said by Ruskin, and George Eliot was early a reader of his books. Herpredecessors, especially Thackeray, opened the way in the application ofthe realistic principles in its newer spirit. The enlargement of realism, however, was carried on to a much greater extent by the pre-Raphaelites inpainting and poetry, and George Eliot was influenced by them as well. Theirprinciple of loyal fidelity to the time and circumstances depicted was herown, at least in theory. 

It was in another direction her chief characteristic lay, that ofdescribing "psychologic character. " Here she was no imitator, but she madea way of her own, and developed a new method. The method of science sheapplied to literature. Science has adopted the method of analysis, ofinductive inquiry, of search in all the facts of nature for the laws whichunderlie them. So magnificent have been the results obtained by thisprocess in the study of the material world, that it has been applied withthe hope of securing the same thorough investigation of the phenomenapresented by history, ethics and religion. Even here the method hasjustified itself, and has in recent years opened up new and valuableresults, giving to the world an enriched conception of the life of man. The speculative mind has been stimulated to fresh activity, and newphilosophies, of vast and imposing proportions, have been the result. Thestudies of Charles Darwin, and the elaboration of the theory of evolution, have given a marvellous incentive to the new method, resulting in itswide-spread application to all the questions of nature and life. 

A method so productive in all directions must have its effect onliterature. What claims the attention of all thinking men cannot longbe kept out of poetry and art. In painting and in music it has beenlargely developed in the direction of a more intimate and sympatheticinterpretation of nature and man. In literature the new method has beenmainly brought into application hitherto in the form of photographicstudies of human life. To describe what is, to make a true word-picture, has been the chief aim. With George Eliot began a wider use of the newmethod and its application in a more sympathetic spirit to the deeperproblems of the mind and heart. She was not content to paint the surface ofnature, to give photographic sketches of the outside of human life, but shewished to realize every subtle fact and every most secret impulse. Anadmirer of the Dutch school in painting, and of Jane Austen as a novelist, she was not content with their results and methods, wishing to interpretthe spirit as well as the letter of nature and life. 

In literature, the new method as developed in recent years consists in anapplication of psychology to all the problems of man's nature. GeorgeEliot's intimate association with the leaders of the scientific movement inEngland, naturally turned her mind into sympathy with their work, and madeher desirous of doing in literature what they were doing in science. In thespecial department of physiological psychology, no one did more than GeorgeHenry Lewes, and her whole heart went out in genuine appreciation of hiswork. He studied the mind as a function of the brain, as being developedwith the body, as the result of inherited conditions, as intimatelydependent on its environment. Here was a new conception of man, whichregarded him as the last product of nature, considered as an organic whole. This conception George Eliot everywhere applied in her studies of life andcharacter. She studied man as the product of his environment, not as abeing who exists above circumstances and material conditions. "In the eyesof the psychologist, " says Mr. James Sully, "the works of George Eliot mustalways possess a high value by reason of their large scientific insightinto character and life. " This value consists, as he indicates, in the factthat she interprets the inner personality as it is understood by thescientific student of human nature. She describes those obscure moraltendencies, nascent forces, and undertones of feeling and thought, whichenter so much into life. She lays much stress on the subconscious mentallife, the domain of vague emotion and rapidly fugitive thought. 

The aim of the psychologic method is to interpret man from within, in hismotives and impulses. It endeavors to show why he acts, and it unfolds thesubtler elements of his character. This method George Eliot uses inconnection with her evolutionary philosophy, and uses it for the purpose ofshowing that man is a product of hereditary conditions, that he has beenshaped into his life of the emotions and sentiments by the influence oftradition. The psychologic method may be applied, however, withoutconnection with the positive or evolutionary philosophy. The mind may beregarded as a distinct force and power, exercised within social andmaterial limits, and capable of being studied in all its inner motives andimpulses. Yet in her mental inquiries George Eliot did not regard man as aneternal soul in the process of development by divine methods, but as theinheritor of the past, moulded by every surrounding circumstance, and asthe creature of the present. Instead of regarding man as _sub specieeternitatis_, she regarded him as an animal who has through feeling andsocial development come to know that he cannot exist beyond the present. This limitation of his nature affected her work throughout. 

The psychologic method in literature has also been that of Robert Browning, and he has been as faithful to it as any other. He, too, analyzes hischaracters, penetrates all the hidden causes of motive and deed, lays barethe soul. No other poet has surpassed him in power to unveil the innerworkings of the mind, to discover all the influences affecting it or inrevealing how motives are created and how motives lead up to deeds. In twoimportant particulars Robert Browning differs from George Eliot. Hischaracters speak for themselves, reveal the secrets of their own minds. Hedoes not talk about them, does not criticise their words and conduct, doesnot stand off from them as a spectator. He differs from her also in hisconception of man as a being who is here developing an eternal existenceunder the laws of an Infinite Spirit. He, too, believes in the natural, andbelieves that the highest law of the soul is, to be true to every pureimpulse arising within us. To calculate, to philosophize, he holds to bealways to man's injury, that nature when perfectly obeyed is the onlyguide. He studies man as affected by all the circumstances of hisexistence, and as wrought upon by the great social forces which have madehim what he is. His analysis is as keen as George Eliot's; he makes thesoul appear before us in all its reality. His is a more creative, a moredramatic method than hers; yet he is fully as subjective, as much aninterpreter of the soul. Neither is content to record the deeds of men;both wish to know why men act. 

Browning has fittingly been called the poet of psychology. He is adissecter, a prober, an analyzer in the full spirit of scientific research. He spares no pains to get at and to completely unfold the truth about man'snature, to show all the hidden causes of his action, all the secret motivesof his life, using this method as thoroughly as George Eliot. It isinteresting to note his attitude towards the great religious problems. Hisfaith in God is intensely passionate and sublime in its conception. Inwords the most expressive in their meaning, and indicating a conviction thedeepest, he reveals his faith. 

 "He glows above With scarce an intervention, presses close And palpitatingly, His soul o'er ours. "

The lifting and inspiring power of faith in an Infinite Being he has sungwith a poet's purity of vision. Along with this faith goes his belief thatman is being glowly perfected for a higher and nobler existence. 

 "To whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name? Builder and maker, Thou, of houses not made with hands! What, have fear of change from Thee, who art ever the same? Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven the perfect round. 

 "All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist; Not its likeness, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but, each survives for the melodist When eternity confirms the conceptions of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. "

He teaches that progress is the true mark and aim of man's being, aprogress sure and glorious. 

 "Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's and not the beast's; God is, they are, Man partly is, and wholly hopes to be. "

Man yearns after more than he can gain here; that yearning is the mark ofhis higher nature and the means of progress. If he follows the betterimpulses of his nature, all experience will help to unfold his soul intohigher attainments, and impulse will at last become, in clearer moments, revelation. 

 "Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! But not quite so much that moments, Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, When the spirit's true endowments Stand out plainly from its false ones, And appraise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong way To its triumph or undoing. There are flashes struck from midnights, There are fireflames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honors perish. Whereby swol'n ambitions dwindle, While just this or that poor impulse Which for once had play unstifled Seems the sole work of a lifetime, That away the rest have trifled. "

More impersonal and dramatic than George Eliot, Browning introduces hisdoctrines less often. It is not easy to discover what are his theories asdistinguished from those of his characters, for he makes no comments, andis faithful in developing the unity and integrity of his _dramatispersonae_, whether in his monologues or dramas. Great as his other faultsmaybe, he surpasses George Eliot in his power to reveal character, but notin his power to make his characters stand out distinctly and unprejudicedfrom his own mind. His obscurity of expression and his involved style areserious defects in much of his work; and to most readers his thoroughlydramatic manner is puzzling. He gives but faint clue to the situation inhis monologues, little explanation of the person, time or place. All is tobe discovered from the obscurest allusions and hints. Defective as thismethod is in Browning's treatment, it is the true psychologic method, wherein motive and character are developed dramatically and without laboreddiscussion. It is a more vital and constructive process than that followedby George Eliot, because nothing of the meaning and fulness of life is lostin the process of analysis. That Browning can never be read by more than afew, indicates how great are his faults; but in lyric passion, dramaticpower and psychologic analysis he is one of the greatest poets of thecentury. The value and range of the new method are well illustrated in itsuse by two such thinkers and poets. 

The analytic method as applied by George Eliot regards man as a socialbeing, studies him as a member of society. All that he is, and allthe influences working upon him, are understood only as affected byhis connection with the life of the race. This fact gives the mostdistinguishing characteristic to her literary methods. Her imitators maynot, and nearly all of them do not, follow her into positivism; but theyall study man as a social being. They deal with him as affected byheredity, education, and social characteristics. Even here it is not hertheories, but her artistic methods, which are imitated. The novel is nolonger regarded as a story to be told dramatically and with moving effect, but as a study of character, as an analysis of situations and motives. Theadvocates of the new method say that "in one manner or another the storieswere all told long ago; and now we want merely to know what the novelistthinks about persons and situations. " [Footnote: W. D. Howells in theCentury for November, 1882. ] This interpretation of the mission of thenovelist well describes George Eliot's work, for she never hesitated totell her reader what she thought about the situations and the persons ofwhom she wrote. 

The new method, as developed in sympathy with agnosticism, fails inliterature just as science fails to be a complete interpretation of theuniverse. The process which answers in the material world does not answerin the spiritual. The instruments which tell the secrets of matter, closethe avenues to the revelations of mind. The methods of experiment anddemonstration which have brought the universe to man's knowledge, have notbeen sufficient to make the soul known to itself. Any literary methodsimitating physical science must share in its limitations without its powerover the materials with which it has to deal. Literature has hitherto beenmade helpful and delightful and acceptable because of its ideal elements. Belief in a spiritual world, belief in the imperative law of righteousnessas a divine command, runs through all effective literature. Howeverrealistic the poets have been when they have reached their highest andbest, they have believed that the soul, and what belongs to it, is the only_reality_. Divorced of this Element, literature is at once lowered in tone, a dry-rot seizes upon it and eats away its finest portions. If Goethe andShakspere are realists in literary method, as some of their interpreterswould claim, yet to them the spiritual is supreme, the soul is monarch. So it is with Homer, with Dante, with Scott, with Cervantes, with VictorHugo, with every supremely artistic and creative mind. Great mindsinstinctively believe in the creative power of the mind, in its capacityfor self-direction. An unbiassed mind gifted with genius sees overand through all obstacles, leaps to magnificent results, will not berestrained by the momentary conditions of the present. Education or socialenvironment, however adverse, will not long hinder the poet from his work. He writes for the future, if the present will not accept him, confidentthat what his soul has to utter can be truly uttered only as his ownindividuality impels, and that if he is faithful to his genius the worldwill listen in due time. This power of personality lies at the basis of allgenuine literature, teaching faith in the soul, faith in a providentialordering of the world, and overturning all agnostic theories about realismand environment. 

This instinctive faith in mind is the basis of all genuine idealism. Theidealist is not the creator of an imaginary world, peopling it with shapesthat never existed; but he is one who believes in ideas, and in mind astheir creator and the vehicle of their expression. Contemporary with GeorgeEliot was a group of men who believed in the mind as something other thanthe temporary product of an evolutionary process. With them she may becontrasted, her work may be measured by theirs. Carlyle, Tennyson, Browningand Buskin shared with her the radical ideas of the time. Not one of themhas been fettered by narrow theories or cramped by old social doctrines. The broad, inquiring, scientific spirit of the time has been shared by themall. Buskin is a realist, Carlyle believed in the enduring realm of facts, and they have all accepted the spirit of naturalism which has ruled thecentury. The scientific, philosophic and social theories of the time havebeen their inspiration. Certain ideas about law, progress and socialregeneration have affected them through and through. Yet as regards the onegreat characteristic of idealism, all have widely departed from GeorgeEliot, for all regard mind as supreme, all believe in a spiritual realmenvironing man. This fact appears throughout their work. To them thespiritual is objective; they are the true realists. To George Eliot thespiritual is subjective, the result of our own feelings, to which it islimited. When the feelings are gone, all is gone. In the pages of these menthere is consequently to be found a power and an inspiration not to befound in hers. Wonderful as is her skill as an artist, and in the analysisof character, yet we feel that we are walking over mocking graves wheneverwe reach her spiritual conception of the world. She deceives us with ashadow, offers us a name in place of what we crave for with every noblerinstinct of the soul. Our own feelings are given us, mirrored in thefeelings of others, in place of the reality we desire to possess. 

These men have linked their work with those spiritual convictions whichhave been the moral sustenance of the ages. They have gained in strengthand effectiveness thereby. Tennyson has his many doubts, his teachings havebeen questioned; and yet he sings, --

 "That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and passing all The skirts of self again, should fall, Remerging in the general soul, --

 "Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; And I shall know him when we meet. "

His flight of song is more sustained for this faith. He is a truer poet, ofstronger wing and loftier flight, because life has for him an infinitemeaning, because he opens his mind to the impressions which come of man'sspiritual existence. In the same way, Carlyle has a grander meaning runningthrough his books, more of sublimity, a finer eloquence, because thespiritual is to him real. Doubter and scorner as he was, he could not butsee that man's being reaches beyond the material world and interprets somehigher realm. Vague as that faith was with him, it was a source of the mosteffective literary power and stimulus. He bursts forth, under its impulse, into impassioned passages of the noblest poetic beauty. 

"Perhaps my father, all that essentially was my father, is even now nearme, with me. Both he and I are with God. Perhaps, if it so please God, weshall in some higher state of being meet one another, recognize oneanother. As it is written, we shall be forever with God. The possibility, nay (in some way) the certainty, of perennial existence daily grows plainerto me. "

Ruskin has made it plain how necessary is that tone of mind which isreligious to the best work in art. His own faith has been earnest andstrong in the reality of the spiritual. Realist as he is in art, hebelieves in the original and creative power of the mind, and his work hasall taken on a higher spirit and a finer expression because of hisreligious convictions. Writing in _Modern Painters_ of man as made in theimage of God, he answers the objection which is raised to the idea that allthe revelation man has is contained in a being so imperfect. 

"No other book, nor fragment of book, than that, will you everfind, --nothing in the clouds above, nor in the earth beneath. Theflesh-bound volume is the only revelation that is, that was, or that canbe. In that is the image of God painted; in that is the law of God written;in that is the promise of God revealed. Know thyself; for through thyselfonly thou canst know God. Through the glass, darkly; but except through theglass, in no wise. A tremulous crystal, waved as water, poured out upon theground;--you may defile it, despise it, pollute it at your pleasure and atyour peril; for on the peace of those weak waves must all the heaven youshall ever gain be first seen; and through such purity as you can win forthose dark waves must all the light of the risen Sun of Righteousness bebent down by faint refraction. Cleanse them, and calm them, as you loveyour life. Therefore it is that all the power of nature depends onsubjection to the human soul. Man is the Sun of the world; more than thereal sun. The fire of his wonderful heart is the only light and heat worthgauge or measure. Where he is, are the tropics; where he is not, theice-world. "

Such words may not be scientific, but they convey real meaning. Theirassertion that the world is to be tested and understood by man, not man bythe world, is one worthy of attention. The conviction of this truth has aliterary power and incentive not to be found in "the scientific method" orany of its corollaries. 

To this group of writers may be added Mrs. Browning, who, as a poet, didgreat and lasting work. Its value, in large measure, rests on its depth ofspiritual conviction, and on its idealism in purpose and spirit. Herconception of love is finer and truer than George Eliot's, because she gaveit an ideal as well as an altruistic meaning; because she thought it has aneternal as well as a social significance. As a poet she lost nothing ofcharm or of power or of inspiration because she could herself believe, withsimple trust, what she has embodied in "A Child's Thought of God. "

 "God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across his face-- Like secrets kept, for love, untold. But still I feel that his embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place. "

That art is to be nothing more than a copying and interpretation of natureMrs. Browning did not believe. In _Aurora Leigh_ she says, --

 "Art's the witness of what is Beyond this show. If this world's show were all, Mere imitation would be all in art. "

The glow of genius burns up out of all her pages, and there is an aroma anda subtle power in them which comes alone of this conception of art. Shecould not rest content with the little round of man's experience, but foundthat all the universe is bound together and all its parts filled with aGod-spirit. 

 "No lily-muffled hum of a summer bee But finds some coupling with, the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot but proves a sphere; No chaffinch but implies the cherubim: ... Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God. "

That is a larger faith and a truer faith than appears anywhere in the pagesof George Eliot, and it is one which impregnates most of the bestliterature the world posseses with light and life. It is a faith whichgives hope and impulse where the other saddens and unnerves. 

There is wanting in George Eliot's books that freshness of spirit, thatfaith in the future, and that peaceful poise of soul which is to be foundin the writings of Tennyson, Ruskin and Mrs. Browning. Even with all hisconstitutional cynicism and despair, the teachings of Carlyle are much morehopeful than hers. An air of fatigue and world-weariness is about all herwork, even when it is most stimulating with its altruism. Though in theorynot a pessimist, yet a sense of pain and sorrow grows out of the touch ofeach of her books. In this she missed one of the highest uses ofliterature, to quicken new hopes and to awaken nobler purposes. There is atone of joy and exultation in the power life confers, an instinctive senseof might to conquer the world, in the best writing. To make men think, tomove men to action, to confer finer feelings and motives, is the power ofthe true poet. When he does not accomplish this he has written to a lesserpurpose. Literature aims either to please or to quicken the mind. It cannotplease when it leaves the heart depressed and burdened with the failuresand sadness of the world. If it is to please, it must make use of thatgoodness and joy which are in excess of evil and misery. It cannot quickenwhen it unnerves the mind and brings despair of moral purpose. If it is toinspire it must show that something great is to be done, and awaken thecourage to do it. 

That life has its sad and painful elements is a terrible fact, and thenovelist who would paint life as it is must recognize them. It is quite astrue that the good and the hopeful are more than the sad and painful, thatright is more powerful in human life than wrong. The novelist who wouldpaint life with an exact and even-handed justice, must not make all hisendings sorrowful, for very many in real life are not so. _The Mill on theFloss_ would have been a more powerful and effective book could Maggie havebeen made to conquer. It would have been quite as true to nature to haverepresented her as overcoming her defects, and as being purified throughsuffering. Is all suffering to conquer us, instead of our being able toconquer it, and gaining a more peaceful and a purer life through its aid?If Maggie is George Eliot in her youthful experiences, then the novel isuntrue to fact in that Marian Evans conquered and Maggie failed. The samefault is to be found in _Middlemarch_, that Dorothea, great as she is, deserved a much better fate than that accorded to her. The elements ofwomanly greatness were in her character, and with all the barriers createdby society she would have done better things had her creator been true toher capacities in unfolding her life-history. The effect of both thesegreat novels is one of depression and disappointment. The reader alwaysexpects more as he goes on his way through these scenes, depicted with suchgenius, than is realized at the end. Disappointment is almost inevitable, for the promise is greater than the fulfilment. The like result is producedby those books which have the brightest closing scenes, as in _Adam Bede_and _Daniel Deronda_, where the author's aim was evidently hopeful andconstructive. _Silas Marner_ and _Felix Holt_ are the only exceptions tothis pessimistic tone, and in which justice is done to the better side oflife. In all her later books the ending is painful. In _The Mill on theFloss_, Maggie and Tom are drowned after Maggie had been led to a mostbitter end of her love-affairs. In _Romola_ the heroine is left a widow, after her husband's treachery had brought him to a terrible death, andafter Savonarola had suffered martyrdom. Dorothea marries into a life ofordinary drudgery, and Lydgate fails. Daniel Deronda and Gwendolen areseparated from each other, and Deronda goes to the east in furtherance of awild scheme of Jewish colonization. Fedalma loses her father by thetreachery of her lover, and without hope conducts her tribe to Africa. Jubal dies dishonored, and Armgart loses her voice. Yet it is not merelythat the conclusion does not lead to the expected result, but throughoutthere is a tone of doubt and failure. That George Eliot purposed to givelife this tinge of sadness is not to be accepted as the true explanation ofit. It is known that she did not have such a purpose, that she wassurprised and disappointed that her books should produce such a result onher readers. The explanation is to be found in another direction. 

She was an agnostic; life had no wide horizon for her. The light of agenuinely ideal and spiritual conception of life was not hers. The worldwas bounded to her vision, rounded into the little capacity possessed byman. Where others would have cast a glow of hope and sunset brilliance, promise of a brighter day yet to dawn over the closing scenes of hernovels, she could see nothing beyond but the feeble effect of an earthlytransmitted good. In this regard her books afford a most interestingcontrast to those of the two other great women who have adorned Englishliterature with their genius. The lot of Mrs. Browning and Charlotte Brontëwas much sadder and more depressing than that of George Eliot; more ofdarkness and pain affected their lives. A subtle tone of sadness runsthrough their books, but it is not burdensome and depressing as is the caseof George Eliot. There is hope with it, and a buoyant faith in the good, which lies above and beyond all pain and sorrow. With neither of them wasthis faith conventional, a mere reflection of the religion taught them inchildhood. It was a thoughtful result of a large experience, and of hardcontact with many of the severest facts of human experience. That widehorizon of spiritual reality which shone for them on every hand, lights alltheir work with a brilliance which almost puts out of sight the pain andsorrow of the world. The reader of their books is made to believe that lifeis an endless good; he is cheered and made stronger for what life offershim. 

Agnosticism may have its great and heroic incentives, it may impel men to anobler activity, but its literary effect, as a motive towards a moreinspiring life, has not been satisfactory in the hands of George Eliot. Shakspere is not a teacher of philosophy or ethics, he has no doctrines topreach, no theories to advocate. What he believed, it would be difficult toascertain from his writings; yet he is an effective teacher of morals, hestimulates into activity all that is best in man, life widens and deepensunder the touch of his genius. So is it with Milton, Schiller, Moliere, Calderon, Montaigne and Wordsworth. So is it with George Eliot in all thatconcerns our duties, and even with our human sympathies. In the onedirection of trust she is wanting, and her books are devoid of it. Shakspere makes us realize that God rules over the world; George Eliotleaves us with the feeling that we know nothing, and can hope for butlittle. That her theories really cast a shadow over the world, may be seenin all her dealings with love. Love is with her a human passion, deep, pure, blessed. It crowns some of her characters with joy and peace andstrength; it is never impure and base in her pages. Yet it is human, it isa social force, it is to be made altruistic. It never gains that highpoetic influence and charm which glorifies it in the writings of Mrs. Browning, Browning and Tennyson. Browning conceives of it as an eternalpassion, as one with all that is divinest in man, as a medium of hisspiritual development. In his pages it glows with moral promise, itinspires and regenerates. The poet should deal with love, not as a thingbase and susceptible of abuse, but as an influence capable of the mostbeneficent results in the uplifting of man's nature. If it degrades, italso sweetens; and only that is love which makes life richer and moreworthy. The true artist can afford to deal with that which pleases, notwith that which saddens and disgusts. The real love is the pure love, notthe depraved. The natural is the noble, not the debased life. 

George Eliot's originality of method has given rise to a new school infiction. Her imitators, even when at their best, are not her equals, andthey have degraded her methods oftentimes to paltry uses. They have triedto take photographs of life, supposing that art has for its aim to copynature. They have failed to see, what she did see, though not so clearly ascould have been desired, that art must do much more than imitate some sceneor fact out of nature. It must give beauty, meaning and expression to whatit copies. And it must do more than imitate: it must go beyond meredescription, and introduce unity, purpose and thought into its work. Trueart has a soul as well as a body, says something to the mind as well as tothe eye, appeals to the soul as well as to sense. Had George Eliot donenothing more than to describe common English life there would have beensmall excuse for her work. She did more, touched that life with genius, made it blossom into beauty, and gave to it deep moral meanings. Thedefects of her method are to be seen in the fact that her imitators cannotget above life's surface, and deal mainly with shallow or degraded natures. Her methods do not inspire great work, while her own genius redeemed thefalse ways into which she was led by her philosophic theories. 

Science can dissect the human body, but it can do little towards anexplanation of the subtler meanings of life and mind. Its methods areanalytical; it has reached no truly synthetic results in the regions whereknowledge is most to be desired. Its effects on literature are destructive. Science destroys poetry, dries up the poetic sense, closes the doors ofimagination. The attempt to make science co-operate with poetry is initself the promise of failure. The limitations of George Eliot's work arethe limitations of poetry subdued by science. Could she have rid herself ofthat burden, been impelled by a faith and an ideal purpose commensuratewith her genius, the result would have been much greater. This limitationsuggests the fact that literature is synthetic and constructive in itspurpose and spirit. It is this fact which has made the classic literaturesso powerful in their effect on modern Europe. They have given unity, spiritual purpose and ideal aims to the whole modern world. The freshnessas of an eternal spring was in the literature of Greece, the naturalness ofa healthy manhood. That literature is organic, it is one with life, it isrefreshing as nature itself. That literature lives and flames with powerbecause it is synthetic, buoyant, touched with an eternal spiritual beauty, great with promise of a growing earth. Its poets do not dissect, but build;they do not analyze, but create. And this is the literary need of thepresent time. There is need of more poetry, a more poetic interpretation oflife, a richer imagination and a finer sense of beauty. The common iseverywhere, but it is not necessarily great or beautiful or noble. It mayhave its elements of pathos and tragedy, its touches of beauty and itsmotives of heroism. It has in it also the promise of better things to be. That is the true poetry, the true fiction, which brings out this promise sothat we know it, so that it moves us to better deeds and enchants us withmusic of purer living. The world is bad enough without dragging to thelight all its evils and discords; let us rather know what promise itcontains of the better. In one word, the real oppresses and enthralls; theideal liberates, and brings us to ourselves. 

Genius redeems every fault. It must be taken for what it is, must not becriticised, is to be used to the highest ends. Only when genius unitesitself to false methods and checks itself by false theories, has the critica right to complain. Genius, obedient to its own laws, accepts every factlife presents, and lifts each one to be an instrument for the enlargementof man's life. When it deliberately strikes out all that is not human, however, from man's experience, denies the realty of that impression andthat conviction which comes from other than material sources, it cripplesand denies itself. 

XX. 

THE LIMITATIONS OF HER THOUGHT. 

It must be remembered that George Eliot does not use the novel merely forthe purpose of inculcating certain doctrines, and that her genius forartistic creation is of a very high order. In dealing with her as a thinkerand as a moral and religious teacher, she is to be regarded, first of all, as a poet and an artist. Her ethics are subordinate to her art; herreligion is subsidiary to her genius. That she always deliberately setabout the task of introducing her positivism into the substance of hernovels is not to be supposed. This would be to imply a forgetfulness on herpart of her own methods, and a prostration of art to purposes she wouldhave scorned to adopt. This is evidently true, however, that certainfeatures of the positive and the evolution philosophy had so thoroughlyapproved themselves to her mind as to cause them to be accepted as acompletely satisfactory explanation of the world, so far as any explanationis possible. So heartily were they received, so fully did they becomeincorporated with the substance of her thinking, that she viewed all humanexperiences in their light. They had ceased to be theory and speculationwith her. When she thought about the world, when she observed the acts ofmen, the positivist explanation was at once applied, and instinctively. 

That she did teach positivism is unfortunately true, so far as her literarytouch and expression is concerned. That philosophy affects all her bookswith its subtly insinuating flavor, and it gives meaning and bias to mostof them. They thus gain in definiteness of purpose, in moral vigor, inminutely faithful study of some phases of human experience, and in amassive impression of thoughtfulness which her work creates. At the sametime, they undoubtedly lose in value as studies of life; in free range ofexpression for her genius, her poetry and her art; and in that spiritualvision which looks forward with keen gazing eyes of hope and confidentinquiry. 

Her teaching, like most teaching, is a mingled good and evil. In more thanone direction her ethical and religious influence was most wholesome andeffective. She brought into clear light a few great facts, and made themthe more conspicuous by the strong emphasis she gave them. This is, in themain, the method of all teaching and of all progress. Development seldomproceeds in a direct line, but rather, so far as man is concerned, byforcible emphasis laid on some great fact which has been previouslyneglected. The idealism of a previous age had shown the value of certainfacts and tendencies in human nature, but it had exaggerated some facultiesand capacities of man, as well as neglected others. In consequence, our owntime swings to the other extreme, and cannot have too much of evolution andpositivism. 

Idealism is in human nature, and will give itself expression. Positivism isalso a result of our experience and of our study of the universe, bothmaterial and mental; it is a result of the desire for definite knowledge. As a re-action against the excesses of idealism it is a powerful leaven, and it brings into necessary prominence those facts which are neglected bythe opposite philosophy. It takes account of facts, and scorns mysticism;and it thus appeals to a deep-seated bias of the time. 

George Eliot's books have an interest as an attempt at an interpretationof life from its more practical and realistic side, and not less as are-action against the influences of very nearly all the great literaryminds of the earlier half of the century in England. Under the lead ofColeridge and Wordsworth, and influenced by German thought and literature, a remarkable movement was then developed in English literature. The outcomeof that movement has been surpassed only by that of the age of Shakspere. Freshness of thought, love of nature, profound humanitarian convictions, and spontaneity wedded to great largeness of ideas, characterize thisperiod and its noble work. Such an age is almost invariably followed by anage of re-action, criticism, realism and analysis. An instinctive demandfor a portrayal of the more positive side of life, and the influence ofscience, have developed a new literary school. For doctrine it teachesagnosticism, and in method it cares mainly for art and beauty of form. Towards the development of the new school George Eliot has been a leadinginfluence, though her sympathies have not gone with all its tendencies andresults. 

If Wordsworth exaggerated the importance of the intuitive and personal, George Eliot equally exaggerated the value of the historic and hereditary. It was desirable, however, that the relations of life to the past should bebrought out more distinctly by a literary development of their relations tothe present, and that the influence of social heredity should be seen asaffecting life on all sides. Tradition is a large and persistent element inthe better life of the race, while the past certainly has a powerfulinfluence over the present. This fact was neglected by Wordsworth, andespecially is it neglected by the intuitive philosophies. They ignore thelessons of the past, and assume that a new and perfect world is to beevolved from the depths of consciousness. That to think a better world isto create a better world, they seem to take for granted, while the fact isthat the truer life is the result of a painful and long-continued struggleagainst adverse conditions. What has been, persists in remaining, and thepast, with all its narrowness and prejudices, continues to influence menmore powerfully than does clear thought or regard for the truth. Emotionand sentiment cling about what has become sacred with age. Channels forthought and activity having once been made, it is very difficult to abandonthem for untried paths approved even by reason. 

The historic view is one of much importance, and is likely to be overlookedby the poets and novelists. It is also ignored by the radicals in moralsand religion. Much which George Eliot says on this subject is of greatvalue, and may be heeded with the utmost profit. Her words of wisdom, however, lose much of their value because they utterly ignore thosespontaneous and supernatural elements of man's higher life which lift itquite out of the region of dependence on history. 

There is something to be said in behalf of George Eliot's attitude towardsreligion, which caused her to hold it in reverence, even when rejecting theobjective validity of its dogmas. Yet much more is to be said for thatother attitude, which is faithful to the law of reason, and believes thatreason is competent to say some truer and larger word on a subject of suchvital importance and such constant interest to man. That both reason andtradition are to be listened to reverently is true, but George Eliot sozealously espoused the cause of tradition as to give it an undueprominence. Her lesson was needed, however, and we may be all the betterable to profit by it because she was so much an enthusiast in proclaimingits value. The even poise of perfect truth is no more to be had from herpages than from those of others. 

The emphasis she laid on feeling and sentiment was a needed one, as acounterpoise to the exaggerations of rationalism. Man does live in hisfeelings more than in his reason. He is a being of sentiment, a creature ofimpulse, his social life is one of the affections. In all the ranges of hismoral, religious and social life he is guided mainly by his emotions andsentiments. It cannot be said, however, as George Eliot would have us say, that these are human born and have no higher meaning. They are theoutgrowth of spiritual reality, as well as of human experience; they repeatthe foregleams and foresights of a

 "far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. "

Life is enriched and flooded with light by the emotions, and feeling, trueand tender and pure, is as much the symbol of humanity as reason itself. Itwas therefore well that some one should attempt to justify the emotionallife against the aspersions of those who have done it grave injustice. Itis true that man is not a being who wholly arrives at his method of lifethrough reason, but feeling lends quite as important aid. He does not onlythink, but he has emotions as well; he not only weighs evidence, but heacts by impulse. He is continually led by the emotions, sentiments andimpulses created for him by the life of ages past. Without emotion therecould be no art, no poetry and no music. Without emotion there would be noreligion and no spiritual life. Sentiment sweetens, beautifies and endearsall that is human and natural. 

Emotion and the affections, however, seem to be shorn of their highestbeauty and glory when they are restricted to a merely earthly origin andcompass of power. It is altogether impossible to believe that their ownimpulse to look beyond the human is a delusion, and that they really havenothing to report that is valid from beyond the little round which mantreads. To believe in the human beauty and glory of the feelings, and torejoice in their power to unite us to our kind, need imply no forgetfulnessof their demand for a wider expression and a higher communion. 

Her theory of the origin of feeling is not to be accepted. It meanssomething more than an inheritance of ancestral experience. It is theresult rather than the cause of reason, for reason has an influence she didnot acknowledge, and an original capacity which she never saw. Her view offeeling was mainly theoretical, for she was led in her attitude towards thefacts of life, not by sentiment, but by reason. Hers was a thoughtfulrather than an impulsive mind, and given to logic more than to emotion. 

Her enthusiasm for altruism, her zeal for humanity, lends a delightfulfeature to her books. It gives a glow and a consecration to her work, andmakes her as great a prophet as positivism is capable of creating. And itis no idle power she awakens in her positivist faith in man. She shamesthose who claim a broader and better faith. Zeal for man is no mean gospel, as she gives life and meaning to it in her books. To live for others, toomany are not likely to do. She made altruism beautiful, she made it aconsecration and a religion. Those who cannot accept her agnosticism andher positivism may learn much from her faith in man and from her enthusiasmfor humanity. No faith is worth much which does not lead to a truer and amore helpful love of man. Any faith is good in so far as it makes us morehumane and sympathetic. In this regard, the radicalism of George Eliot wasa great advance on much of the free-thinking of our century. She desired tobuild, not to destroy. She was no iconoclast, no hater of what other menlove and venerate. Her tendencies were all on the side of progress, goodorder and social growth. 

Her conception of the organic social life of the race is one of greatvalue. It led her to believe in the possibility of a social organization inthe future based on science, and better capable of meeting all the wants ofmankind than the more personal and competitive methods have done. Thisbelief in the organic unity of the race is not necessarily positivist inits character, for Hegel entertained it as fully as does Herbert Spencer. The larger social life will come, however, as individuals are moved to leadthe way, and not alone as the result of a general evolutionary process. Onits mental side, her social theory is to be regarded with grave suspicions, for it brings all minds to the same level. No mind of commanding influenceis to be found in her books. No powerful intellect gives greatness to anyof her plots. Her Felix Holt is not a man of original and positive thought. We accept, but do not enthusiastically admire him. Deronda is a noblecharacter, but he in no sense represents the largest things of which asocial leader is capable. He disappoints and is weak, and he has no powerto create the highest kind of leadership. In other words, he is not a greatman. The world's reformers have been of another temper and mettle. He is noMazzini, no Luther. George Eliot's social theories loft no room for suchmen. They were superfluous in her social system. The man not to beexplained by heredity and tradition had no place in her books; and nogenius, no great man, can ever be explained by heredity and traditionalone. 

George Eliot evidently desired to destroy individualism as a social force. The individual, according to her teaching, is to renounce himself for thesake of the race. He is to live, not as a personal being, but as a memberof the social organization; to develop his altruistic nature, not toperfect his personal character. The finer flavor of personality is brushedmercilessly away by this method. 

Reason needs to be justified in opposition to her excessive praise offeeling. Meanwhile, the capacity of man to live a life higher than that ofhis social state is to be asserted. He is indeed a member of humanity, buthumanity does not absorb him to the cost of his personality. Life is strongin those ages in which the individual is able to assert his ownpersonality, in opposition to what is imperfect and untrue in the life ofhis time. This failure to recognize the worth and capacity of theindividual is a most serious defect in George Eliot's work, and mars it inmany directions. A very competent critic has shown how serious is thelimitation arising in this manner, and permeating her books with a falseconception of life. 

"So far as George Eliot's life is concerned, " says Mr. Stopford Brooke, "she was eager in her self-development, and as eager in her sympathies. But it was a different matter in the main drift of her work. She loweredthe power of individualism. Nay, she did not believe in its having anyself-caused or God-caused existence. Few have individualized theircharacters more than she did, and of these characters we have many distincttypes. But she individualized them with, I may say, almost the set purposeof showing that their individualism was to be sacrificed to the generalwelfare of the race. The more her characters cling to their individualitythe more they fail in reaching happiness or peace. If they are noblecharacters, they are finally obliged, through their very nobility, tosurrender all their ideals, all their personal hopes, all the individualends they hoped to develop; and they reach peace finally only through uttersurrender of personality in humanity. The characters in her books who donot do this, who cling to their individuality and maintain it, succeed inlife, for the most part, if they are strong; are broken to pieces if theyare weak; but in all cases, save one, are not the noble but the ignoblecharacters. The whole of her books is a suppressed attack on individualism, and an exaltation of self-renunciation as the only force of progress, asthe only ground of morality. I leave aside here, as apart from the moralside of the subject, the view that individual power or weakness of any kindis the consequence of the past, of race, of physical causes. What a man isfound to do is not affected by that, in her view.... No one can deny thatthe morality is a lofty one, and, as far as it asserts self-renunciation, entirely useful; we have with all our hearts to thank George Eliot for thatpart of her work. But when sacrifice of self is made, in its last effort, equivalent to the sacrifice of individuality, the doctrine ofself-renunciation is driven to a vicious extreme. It is not self-sacrificewhich is then demanded, it is suicide ... Fully accepted, it would reducethe whole of the human race to hopelessness. That, indeed, is the lastresult. A sad and fatal hopelessness of life broods over all the noblercharacters. All their early ideals are sacrificed, all their early joysdepart, all the pictures they formed are blotted out. They gain peacethrough renunciation, after long failure; some happiness in yielding to theinevitable, and harmonizing life with it; and some blessedness in doing allthey can for the progress of those who follow them, for the good of thosethat are with them. Their self is conquered, not through ennoblement ofpersonality, but through annihilation of personality. And havingsurrendered their separate personality, they then attain the fitting end, silence forevermore. It is no wonder that no characters are so sad, thatnone steep the reader in such hopelessness of joy, as the noble charactersof the later works of George Eliot. They want the mighty power, theenkindling hopes, the resurrection of life, the joy and rapture whichdeepens towards death and enables man to take up the ideals of youthagain. "

If too severe in some directions, this criticism is substantially sound. Itdoes not matter what theory of personality we adopt, in a philosophicalsense, if that theory upholds personal confidence and force of will. If itdoes not do this, the whole result is evil. This lack of faith inpersonality saddened all the work done by George Eliot. In theory abeliever in an ever-brightening future, and no pessimist, yet the outcomeof her work is dark with despondency and grief. 

Life is sad, hard and ascetic in her treatment of it. An ascetic tone runsthrough all her work, the result of her theories of renunciation. The samesternness and cheerlessness is to be seen in the poetry and painting of thepre-Raphaelites. The joy, freshness and sunniness of Raphael is not to befound in their work. Life is painful, puritanic and depressing to them. Oldage seems to be upon them, or the decadence of a people that has once beengreat. Human nature does not need that this strain be put upon it. Life isstronger when more assertive of itself. It has a right to assert itself indefiance of mere rules, and only when it does so is it true and great. Theascetic tone is one of the worst results of a scientific view of the worldas applied to literature; for it is thoroughly false both in fact and insentiment. The strong, hopeful, youthful look at life is the one whichliterature demands, and because it is the nearest the heart and spirit oflife itself. The dead nation produces a dead literature. The age madedoubtful by an excess of science produces a literature burdened withsadness and pain. Great and truthful as it may be, it lacks in power toconquer the world. It shows, not the power of Homer, but the power ofLucretius. 

Her altruism has its side of truth, but not all of the truth is in it. Anysystem of thought which sees nothing beyond man is not likely to find thatwhich is most characteristic in man himself. He is to be fathomed, iffathomed at all, by some other line than that of his own experience. If heexplains the universe, the universe is also necessary to explain him. Manapart from the supersensuous is as little to be understood as man apartfrom humanity. He belongs to a Universal Order quite as much as he belongsto the human order. Man may be explained by evolution, but evolution is notto be explained by anything in the nature of man. It requires some largerfield of vision to take note of that elemental law. Not less true is itthat mind does not come obediently under this method of explanation, thatit demands account of how matter is transformed into thought. The law ofthought needs to be solved after mind is evolved. 

There is occasion for surprise that a mind so acute and logical as GeorgeEliot's did not perceive that the evolution philosophy has failed to settleany of the greater problems suggested by Kant. The studies of Darwin andSpencer have certainly made it impossible longer to accept Locke's theoryof the origin of all knowledge in individual experience, but they have notin any degree explained the process of thought or the origin of ideas. Thegulf between the physiological processes in the brain and thought has notbeen bridged even by a rope walk. The total disparity of mind and matterresists all efforts to reduce them to one. The utmost which the evolutionphilosophy has so far done, is to attempt to prove that mind is a functionof matter or of the physiological process. This conclusion is as far aspossible from being that of the unity of mind and matter. 

That man is very ignorant, and that this world ought to demand the greatershare of his attention and energies, are propositions every reasonableperson is ready to accept. Granted their truth, all that is necessarilytrue in agnosticism has been arrived at. It is a persistent refusal to seewhat lies behind outward facts which gives agnosticism all its practicaljustification. Art itself is a sufficient refutation of the assertion thatwe know nothing of what lies behind the apparent. That we know something ofcauses, every person who uses his own mind may be aware. At the same time, the rejection of the doctrine of rights argues obedience to a theory, rather than humble acceptance of the facts of history. That doctrine ofrights, so scorned by George Eliot, has wrought most of the great andwholesome social changes of modern times. Her theory of duties can show nohistoric results whatever. 

To separate George Eliot's theories from her genius it seems impossibleto do, but this it is necessary to do in order to give both their properplace. All praise, her work demands on its side where genius is active. It is as a thinker, as a theorizer, she is to be criticised and to bedeclared wanting. Her work was crippled by her philosophy, or if notcrippled, then it was made less strong of limb and vigorous of body by thatsame philosophy. It is true of her as of Wordsworth, that she grew prosybecause she tried to be philosophical. It is true of her as it is not trueof him, that her work lacks in the breadth which a large view of the worldgives. His was no provincial conception of nature or of man. Hers was so ina most emphatic sense. The philosophy she adopted is not and cannot becomethe philosophy of more than a small number of persons. In the nature of thecase it is doomed to be the faith of a few students and cultured people. It can stir no common life, develop no historic movements, inaugurate noreforms, nor give to life a diviner meaning. Whether it be true ornot, --and this need not here be asked, --this social and moral limitation ofits power is enough to condemn it for the purposes of literature. In so faras George Eliot's work is artistic, poetic, moral and human, it is verygreat, and no word too strong can be said in its praise. It is not tooexcessive enthusiasm to call her, on the whole, the equal of any novelist. Her genius is commanding and elemental. She has originality, strength ofpurpose, and a profound insight into character. Yet her work is weakened byits attachment to a narrow theory of life. Her philosophy is transitory inits nature. It cannot hold its own, as developed by her, for any greatlength of time. It has the elements of its own destruction in itself. Thecurious may read her for her speculations; the many will read her for herrealism, her humanity and her genius. In truth, then, it would have beenbetter if her work had been inspired by great spiritual aims andconvictions. 

XXI. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

As an aid to those who may wish to carry further the preceding study ofGeorge Eliot, the following bibliography and lists of references have beencompiled. In their preparation constant use has been made of _Poole's Indexof Periodical Literature_, the bibliography contained in _The ManchesterLiterary Club Papers_ for 1881, and a list of references published in_The Literary World_ (Boston) for February 24, 1883. Numerous additionshave been made to these bibliographies, while the references have beenverified as far as possible. An occasional reference given in these listshas not been discoverable, as that of the Manchester Club to the _LondonQuarterly Review_ for January, 1874, for an article on "George Eliot andComtism, " and Poole's reference to the same article in the _LondonQuarterly_, 47:446. This will be found in the number for January 1877, volume ninety-four. 

1. WRITINGS. 

1846. _The Life of Jesus_, by Strauss. Translated from the fourth German edition, 3 vols. Chapman Brothers, London. 

1852-3. Assistant editor of the Westminster Review. 

1852. The Westminster Review for January contained her notice of Carlyle's Life of John Sterling. 

 In the July number appeared her article on _The Lady Novelists_. 

1854. _The Essence of Christianity_, by Feuerbach. Translated from the second German edition. John Chapman, London. 

 The Westminster Review for October published her _Woman in France: Madame de Sablé_. 

 She wrote, it is supposed, occasionally for The Leader newspaper, of which journal Lewes was the literary editor. None of her contributions have been identified. [Footnote: There is a nearly complete set of The Leader in the Boston Athenaeum Library. ]

1855. Westminster Review, October, _Evangelical Teaching: Dr. Cumming_. 

1856. Westminster Review, January, _German Wit: Heinrich Heine_. July, _The Natural History of German Life_. October, _Silly Novels by Lady Novelists_. 

1857. Westminster Review, January, _Worldliness and other-Worldliness: the Poet Young_. 

 In Blackwood's Magazine for January and February appeared _The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton_; in March, April, May and June, _Mr. Gilfil's Love Story_; from July to December, _Janet's Repentance_. In December these stories were published in two volumes under the title of _Scenes of Clerical Life_, by George Eliot. Edinburgh, Blackwood & Sons. Reprinted in Living Age from April to December, 1857. 

1859. In February, _Adam Bede_ appeared in three volumes, Blackwoods. 

 Blackwood's Magazine for July contained _The Lifted Veil_. 

1860. In April, _The Mill on the Floss_ was published in three volumes, Blackwoods. 

1861. _Silas Marner_ in March, one volume, Blackwoods. 

1863. _Romola_ appeared in the Cornhill Magazine from July, 1862, to July, 1863, and was illustrated. It was published in three volumes in July; Smith, Elder & Co. , London. 

1864. The Cornhill Magazine for July contained _Brother Jacob_, with illustrations. 

1865. The Fortnightly Review for May 15 contained _The Influence of Rationalism_, and a review of Owen Jones's Grammar of Ornament. 

1866. In June, _Felix Holt_ was issued in three volumes, Blackwoods. 

1868. Blackwood's Magazine, January, contained an _Address to Workingmen, by Felix Holt_. 

 In June, _The Spanish Gypsy_ was published by Blackwoods. 

1869. Blackwood's Magazine for May printed _How Lisa Loved the King_. 

 The Atlantic Monthly for August contained _Agatha_. 

1870. In Macmillan's Magazine for May, _The Legend of Jubal_. 

1871. Macmillan's Magazine for July, _Armgart_. 

 Middlemarch was issued in twelve monthly numbers, beginning with December, by Blackwoods. 

1874. _The Legend of Jubal and other Poems_ was published by Blackwoods. It contained: _The Legend of Jubal_, _Agatha_, _Armgart_, _How Lisa Loved the King_, _A Minor Prophet_, _Brother and Sister_, _Stradivarius_, _Two Lovers_, _Arion_, _O May I Join the Choir Invisible_. 

1876. _Daniel Deronda_ was issued in eight monthly parts, beginning in February, by Blackwoods. 

1878. Macmillan's Magazine for July, _A College Breakfast Party_. 

1879. _The Impressions of Theophrastus Such_ was published in June by Blackwoods. 

 _The Legend of Jubal and Other Poems, Old and New_, was issued by Blackwoods, containing, in addition to those in the first edition, _A College Breakfast Party_, _Self and Life_, _Sweet Evenings Come and Go_, _Love_, _The Death of Moses_. 

 In Blackwood's cabinet edition of George Eliot's complete works, _The Lifted Veil_ and _Brother Jacob_ are reprinted with _Silas Marner_. 

 After the death of Lewes she edited his _Study of Psychology_ and his _Mind as a Function of the Organism_. 

1881. The Pall Mall Gazette of January 6 contained her letter to Sara Hennell concerning the origin of _Adam Bede_. 

 Three letters to Professor David Kaufmann appeared in the Athenaeum of November 26, 1881. 

 The following articles also contain sayings of George Eliot's, or extracts from her letters: In the Contemporary Review, by "One who knew her, " on the Moral Influence of George Eliot; C. Kegan Paul in Harper's Magazine; F. W. H. Myers in The Century; W. M. W. Call in the Westminster Review, and a nephew of William Blackwood in Blackwood's Magazine. 

1882. In Harper's Magazine for March, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps published numerous extracts from George Eliot's letters under the title of _Last Words from George Eliot_. 

1883. George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind, --London, W. H. Allen, and Boston, Roberts Brothers, --contains extracts from several letters. 

 The Essays of George Eliot, collected by Nathan Sheppard, --New York, Funk & Wagnalls, --contains _Carlyle's Life of Sterling_, _Woman in France_, _Evangelical Teaching_, _German Wit_, _Natural History of German Life_, _Silly Novels by Lady Novelists_, _Worldliness and other-Worldliness_, _The Influence of Rationalism_, _The Grammar of Ornament_, _Felix Holt's Address to Workingmen_. 

 The Complete Essays of George Eliot, Boston, Estes & Lauriat, 1883, in addition to the above, contains _The Lady Novelists, George Foster, the German Naturalist, Weimar and its Celebrities_. 

2. SELECTIONS, TRANSLATIONS AND PORTRAITS. 

Wise, Witty and Tender Sayings in Prose and Verse, Selected by AlexanderMain. Blackwoods, 1872. 

Wit and Wisdom of George Eliot. Boston, Roberts Brothers, 1878; enlargedand with a biographical memoir prefixed, 1881. 

George Eliot Birthday Book. Blackwoods, 1878. 

George Eliot: Fragments et Pensées, extraits et traduits des ses Oeuvres, par Ch. Ritter. Genève, Georges, 1879. 

Character Readings from George Eliot, selected and arranged by NathanSheppard. New York, Harpers, 1882. 

The following translations have been published:--

_French_. --Adam Bede, by A. Durade; Mill on the Floss, by A. Durade;Silas Marner, by Durade; Romola, by Durade; Mr. Gilfil's Love Story, by E. Pasquet; Dorlcote Mill, by E. D. Forques in Revue des Deux Mondes, June 15, 1860; The Lifted Veil, in Revue des Deux Mondes, September, 1880. 

_Dutch_. --Felix Holt, by Merv. Van Westrheeve, 1867, and by P. Bruyn, 1873; Middlemarch, by Merv. Van Westrheeve, 1873; Adam Bede, by P. Bruyn, 1870; Mill on the Floss, by P. Bruyn, 1870; Romola, by P. Bruyn, 1870, and by J. C. Van Deventer, 1864; Novelettes, by P. Bruyn, 1870. 

_German_. --Adam Bede, by J. Frese; Silas Marner, by J. Frese, 1861;Mill on the Floss, by J. Frese, 1861; Romola, by A. V. Metzsch, 1864;Middlemarch, by E. Lehmann, 1872-3; Daniel Deronda, by Strodtmann, 1876;Felix Holt (no translator's name given), 1867. Der Gelüftche Schleier, Bruder Jakob, by Lehmann. 

The portrait of George Eliot appearing as the frontispiece to thisvolume is from that published in The Century for November, 1881. Accompanying it was the following account of it and of otherportraits:--

"We have the pleasure of presenting to our readers an authentic portrait ofGeorge Eliot, the only one by which it is likely that she will be known toposterity. We are indebted for this privilege, as we shall presentlyexplain, to the kindness and courtesy of her husband, Mr. J. W. Cross, whohas allowed us to be the first to usher this beautiful work of art to theworld. In doing so, we believe it will interest readers of The CenturyMagazine to learn, for the first time, the exact truth regarding theportraits of George Eliot, and we have therefore obtained from the threeartists to whom, at different times in her life, she sat, some particularsof those occasions. 

"Miss Evans passed the winter of 1849-50 at Geneva, in the house of M. F. D'Albert Durade, the well-known Swiss water-color painter, who is also thetranslator of the authorized French version of her works. At that time shehad, however, written nothing original, and had attracted no generalinterest. While she stayed with M. Durade and his wife, the Swiss painteramused himself by making a small portrait of her in oils--a head andshoulders. This painting remains in the possession of M. Durade, who hasnot merely refused to sell it, but will not allow it to be photographed orreproduced in any form. He has, however, we understand, consented to make areplica of it for Mr. Cross. We have not seen this interesting work, but wehear that it is considered, by those who still remember the great writer asshe looked in her thirtieth year, to be remarkably faithful. M. Duraderecently exhibited this little picture for a few days at the Athénée inGeneva, but has refused to allow it to be brought to London. 

"Ten years after this, in 1859, as the distinguished portrait-painter, Mr. Samuel Laurence, was returning from America, he happened to meet with 'AdamBede, ' then just published. He was so delighted with the book that he wasdetermined to know the author, and it was revealed to him that to do so hehad but to renew his old acquaintance with Mr. George Henry Lewes, whom hehad met years before at Leigh Hunt's. He made George Eliot's acquaintance, and was charmed with her, and before long he asked leave to make a study ofher head. She assented without any affectation, and, in the early months of1861, Mr. Lewes commissioned the painter to make a drawing of her. She gavehim repeated sittings in his studio at 6 Wells Street, London, and Mr. Laurence looks back with great pleasure on the long conversations thatthose occasions gave him with his vivacious sitter. The drawing was takenfront face, with the hair uncovered, worn in the fashion then prevalent, and it was made in chalks. While it was proceeding, Mr. Laurence asked herif he might exhibit it, when finished, at the Royal Academy, and she atonce consented. But when the time for sending in drew near, the artistreceived a letter from Mr. Lewes absolutely withholding this consent, and acertain strain, of which this was the first symptom, began to embarrass therelations of the two gentlemen, until Mr. Lewes finally refused to take thedrawing at all. But before the summer was out, Mr. Langford, the reader ofMessrs. Blackwood of Edinburgh, who published George Eliot's works, calledon Mr. Laurence, and asked if he would consent to make a copy of thedrawing for the firm. The artist replied that he should be happy to sellthem the original, and accordingly it passed from his studio, in June, 1861, into the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood's shop, where it now hangs. Like that of M. Durade, Mr. Laurence's portrait of George Eliot is not tobe in any way reproduced. 

"The remaining portrait is that which we reproduce with this number. It isan elaborate chalk drawing, in black and white, with a slight touch ofcolor in the eyes, and was executed in the latter part of 1868 and theearly part of 1867, by Mr. Frederick W. Burton, at that time member of theSociety of Painters in Watercolors, and now director of the NationalGallery in London. George Eliot gave Mr. Burton many sittings in his studioat Kensington, and the picture was eventually exhibited in the RoyalAcademy, in 1867, as No. 735, 'The Author of "Adam Bede. "' It passed intoMr. Lewes's possession, was retained at his death by George Eliot, and isnow the property of Mr. J. W. Cross. In the spring of this year, Mr. Crosscame to the conclusion that--as the shop windows were likely to becomefilled with spurious and hideous 'portraits' of George Eliot--it wasnecessary to overcome the dislike felt by the family of the great novelistto any publication of her features, to which in life she had been averse, and he thereupon determined to record in a monumental way what he felt tobe the best existing likeness. Mr. Cross took the drawing over to M. PaulRajon, who is acknowledged to be the prince of modern etchers, and inhis retirement at Auvers-sur-Oise, the great French artist has producedthe beautiful etching which we have been permitted to reproduce inengraving. For this permission, and for great courtesy and kindness undercircumstances the peculiar nature of which it is not necessary here tospecify, we have to tender our most sincere thanks to Mr. J. W. Cross and toMr. Burton. 

"These are regarded by her friends to be the only important portraits ofGeorge Eliot which exist, but Mr. Cross possesses a very interesting blacksilhouette, cut with scissors, when she was sixteen. In this profile, thecharacteristics of the mature face are seen in the course of development. There is also a photograph, the only one ever taken, dating from about1850, the eyes of which are said to be exceedingly fine. As an impressionof later life, there should be mentioned a profile drawn in pencil by Mrs. Alma Tadema, in March, 1877. Of all the portraits here alluded to, the onewe engrave is the only one at present destined for publication. It may beadded that there exist one or two other profile sketches, which, however, are not approved by the friends of George Eliot. "

3. BIOGRAPHICAL. 

Atlantic Monthly, 14:66, December, 1864, Kate Field on "English Authors inFlorence. " Louise M. Alcott in the Independent for Nov. 1, 1866. The Galaxy, 7:801, June, 1869, Justin McCarthy on "George Eliot and George Lewes;"reprinted in "Modern Leaders, " 1872 "Home Sketches in France and otherPapers, " by the late Mrs. Henry M. Field, G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1875, p. 208, "The Author of Adam Bede in Her own Home. " International Review, 10:447, 497, May and June, 1881, W. Fraser Rae. The Century. 23:55, with portrait, F. W. H. Myers, reprinted in Essays: Modern, London, 1883; 23:47, "ThePortrait of George Eliot. " The Nineteenth Century, 9:778, Edith Simcox. Blackwood's Magazine February, 1881. Harper's Magazine, May, 1881, C. KeganPaul; reprinted in Biographical Sketches, London, 1883; March, 1882, E. S. Phelps. Westminster Review, 116:154, July, 1881, W. M. W. Call, "GeorgeEliot: her Life and Writings. " Le Livre, April 10, 1881, "Life in Geneva. "London Daily Graphic, 23:27, January 8, 1851, "Reminiscences of GeorgeEliot. " Lippincott's Magazine, 31:510, May, 1883, J. A. Dickson, "AnAfternoon at Ashbourne. " Inquirer, January, 1881, Dr. Sadler's address. Pall Mall Gazette, December 30, 1880, "Early Life. " London Daily News, December, 30, 1880, account of her funeral. Eclectic Magazine, March, 1881, account of her early life and of her funeral; April, A personal sketch. "George Eliot, " Mathilde Blind, 1883, W. H. Allen, London. "Pen pictures ofModern Authors, " Wm. Sheppard, 1882, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. TheCongregationalist, May 28, 1879, Mrs. Annie Downs, "A Visit to GeorgeEliot. " The Christian Leader, October 27, 1881, Mrs. M. E. Bruce. 

4. GENERAL CRITICISMS. 

Quarterly Review, 108:469. Macmillan's Magazine, 14:272, J. Morley; same, Eclectic Magazine, 67:488; reprinted in "Critical Miscellanies, " firstseries. Atlantic Monthly, 18:479, H. James. Christian Examiner, 70:227, I. M. Luyster. North British Review, 45:141, 197. H. H. Lancaster; reprintedin "Essays and Reviews, " Edinburgh, 1876. National Review, 11:191. Home andForeign Review, 3:522, Richard Simpson. Fraser's Magazine, 103:263, February, 1881, T. E. Kebbel, "Village Life according to George Eliot;"same, Living Age, 148:608. National Quarterly, 1:455, E. L. Wentworth. Potter's American Monthly, 9:260, 334. British Quarterly Review, 45:141. Catholic World, 17:775, J. McCarthy, "Comparison between George Eliot andFleurange. " Canadian Monthly, 11:261, "Later Manner of George Eliot. "Dublin Review, 88:371. Southern Review (new style), 13:205, Mrs. S. B. Herrick. R. H. Hutton, "Essays, Theological and Literary, " 2d vol. 1871. Contemporary Review, 20:403; same, Living Age, 115:109, Eclectic Magazine, 79:562, Professor E. Dowden; reprinted in "Studies of Literature. " AtlanticMonthly, 33:681, June, 1874, George P. Lathrop, "The Growth of the Novel. "A. C. Swinburne, "A Note on Charlotte Brontë, " 1877. International Review, 7:17, July, 1879, Francis Maguire, Jr. Cornhill Magazine, 43:152, LeslieStephen, "Critical Study of George Eliot;" same, Living Age, 148:731, Eclectic Magazine, 96:443. Month, 42:272. Every Saturday, 10:186. NorthBritish Review, 33:165, "George Eliot and Hawthorne. " Eclectic Magazine, 88:111, "George Eliot and George Sand. " The Nation, 32:201, J. Bryce, "George Eliot and Carlyle;" 31:456, W. C. Brownell. London Quarterly, 57:154. Blackwood's Magazine, 129:255; same, Living Age, 148:664; EclecticMagazine, 96:433. St. Paul's, 12:592, G. B. Smith. Living Age, 58:274;148:318. Eclectic Magazine, 96:353. Southern Monthly, 14:65. Tinsley'sMonthly, 3:565. Victoria, 31:56. The Century, 23:619, February, 1882, "George Eliot and Emerson. " Library Magazine, 7:84, Nathan Sheppard, "George Eliot's Analysis of Motives;" reprinted as an introduction toGeorge Eliot's Essays, Funk & Wagnalls, 1883. Macmillan's Magazine, 46:488, October, 1882, Annie Matheson, "George Eliot's Children;" same, Living Age, 155:211. The Critic, January, 1881, Edward Eggleston; reprinted in Essaysfrom the Critic, 1881. Christian Union, February, 1881, Noah Porter. TheIndependent, February 17, 1881, Mrs. Lippincott, "Three Great Women. " AHistory of English Prose Fiction from Sir Thomas Malory to George Eliot, Bayard Tuckerman, New York, 1882. The English Novel and the Principle ofits Development, Sidney Lanier, New York, 1883. Modern Review, 2:399, April, 1881, George Sarson, "George Eliot and Thomas Carlyle. " LiteraryWorld (London), January, 1881, Peter Bayne Athenaeum, January 1, 1881:20. The Academy, 19:27, January 8, 1881. Temps, December 26, 1880, EdmondScherer. Le Roman Naturaliste, Ferdinand Brunetère, 1883, has a chapter on"English Naturalism: a Study of George Eliot. " Études sur la LittératureContemporaine, E. Scherer, Paris, 1878. The Pen, 1880, Robert E. Francillon. East and West: 1:203, June, 1881. Papers of the ManchesterLiterary Club, 1881; Bibliography, Charles W. Sutton; "George Eliot as aPoet, " George Milner; "George Eliot as a Novelist, " John Mortimer; "GeorgeEliot's Use of Dialect, " William E. A. Axon. National Review, April, 1883, "New School of Fiction. " Merry England, May, 1883, C. Kegan Paul, "TheRustic of George Eliot and Thomas Hardy. " Blackwood's Magazine, April, 1883. Nineteenth Century, October, 1881, John Buskin on "Fiction: Fair andFoul. "

5. DISCUSSIONS OF HER TEACHINGS. 

Penn Monthly, 10:579, "The Art of George Eliot. " Dublin Review, 89:433, "Religion of George Eliot. " Unitarian Review, 3:357, J. E. Carpenter, "Religious Influence of George Eliot. " "The Ethics of George Eliot'sWorks, " J. C. Brown, Wm. Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh, 1879. Mind, 6:378, July. 1881, "George Eliot's Art, " James Sully. The Spectator, 52:751, "George Eliot's Ideal Ethics;" same, Littell's Living Age, 142:123, July12, 1879. Scribner's Magazine. 8:685, Wm. C. Wilkinson; reprinted in"A Free Lance in the Field of Life and Letters, " 1874. Westminster Review, 117:65, January, 1882, "George Eliot as a Moral Teacher. " ContemporaryReview, 39:173, February, 1881, "Moral Influence of George Eliot;" same, Living Age, 148:501. Unitarian Review, 16:125, 216, August and September, 1881, John A. Bellows, "Religious Tendency of George Eliot's Writings. "Atlantic Monthly, 51:243, February, 1883, M. L. Henry, "The Morality ofThackeray and George Eliot. " The Independent, March 24, 1883, Stopford A. Brooke, "George Eliot and Thomas Carlyle. " "The Religion of OurLiterature, " George MacCrie, London, 1875. "George Eliot and Judaism, "David Kaufmann, Blackwoods, 1878. 

6. SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 

Atlantic Monthly, 1:890. 

7. ADAM BEDE. 

Blackwood's Magazine, 85:490, April, 1859. Dublin Review, 47:33, November, 1859. Edinburgh Review, 110:223, July, 1859. Westminster Review, 71:486, April, 1859. Athenaeum, February 26, 1859. Saturday Review, February 26, 1859:191 Atlantic Monthly, 4:521. Christian Examiner, 70:227, I. M. Luyster. "Seth Bede, the Methody: his Life and Labors, " chiefly by Himself. London:Tallant & Co. , 1859. "George Eliot in Derbyshire, " London Society, 27:311, 439; 28:20, by Guy Roslyn (Joshua Hatton); reprinted in book form, London, 1876. 

8. THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

Blackwood's Magazine, 87:611, May, 1860. Dublin University Review, 57:192. Macmillan's Magazine, 3:441. Westminster Review, 74:24, July, 1860. Christian Examiner, 69:145, L. G. Ware. 

9. SILAS MARNER. 

Christian Examiner, 70:227, I. M. Luyster. Macmillan's Magazine, 4:305. Revue des Deux Mondes, September, 1861, C. Clarigny. 

10. ROMOLA. 

Blackwood's Magazine, 116:72. Land We Love, 1:134. Westminster Review, 80:344, October, 1863. Christian Remembrancer, 52:445. Revue des DeuxMondes, December, 1863, E. D. Forques. 

11. FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. 

Blackwood's Magazine, 100:94, July, 1866. Edinburgh Review, 124:435, October, 1866; same, Living Age, 91:432. North American Review, 103:557, July, 1866, A. G. Sedgwick. The Nation, 3:127, Henry James. ContemporaryReview, 3:51. Eclectic Review, 124:34. Chambers's Journal, 43:508. Westminster Review, 86:200, July, 1866. 

12. THE SPANISH GYPSY. 

Atlantic Monthly, 22:380, W. D. Howells. North American Review, 107:620, October, 1868, Henry James. The Nation, 7:13, July 2, 1868, Henry James. Edinburgh Review, 128:525. Westminster Review, 90:183, Macmillan'sMagazine, 18:281, J. Morley; same, Eclectic Magazine, 71:1276. Blackwood'sMagazine, 103:760. British Quarterly Review, 48:503, Fraser's Magazine, 78:468, J. Skelton. St. James's, 22:478. St. Paul's, 2:583. LondonQuarterly, 31:160. Southern Review (new Style), 4:383, W. H. Browne. EverySaturday, 6:1. 

13. POEMS. 

Contemporary Review, 8:387, July 1868, Matthew Browne (W. B. Rands); same, Every Saturday, 6:79. Every Saturday, 16:667, G. A. Simcox. The Argosy, 2:437, November, 1866, Matthew Browne. Saturday Review, 37:75. Macmillan'sMagazine, 22:1. North American Review, 119:484, Heary James. AtlanticMonthly, 34:102, July, 1874, W. D. Howells. Harper's Magazine, 49:887. Academy, 5:33, May 10, 1874, G. A. Simcox. Edinburgh Review, 128:523, October, 1868. Papers of the Manchester Literary Club, 1881, p. 108, GeorgeMilner. The Nation, 19:124. "Our Living Poets: an Essay in Criticism, "H. Buxton Forman, London, 1871. 

14. MIDDLEMARCH. 

Quarterly Review, 134:336, April, 1873. Edinburgh Review, 137:246, January, 1873. Fortnightly Review, 19:142, Sidney Colvin. Blackwood's Magazine, 112:727; same, Living Age, 116:131; Eclectic Magazine, 80:215. The Nation, 16:60, 76, January, 1873, A. V. Dicey. North American Review, 116:432, April, 1873, T. S. Perry. British Quarterly Review, 57:407, April, 1883. London Quarterly Review, 40:99, April, 1873. Canadian Monthly, 3:549. Oldand New, 7:352, H. G. Spaulding. Southern Monthly, 12:373, W. H. Browne. Atlantic Monthly, 31:490, A. G. Sedgwick. Catholic World, 17:775, September, 1873. Die Gegen-wart, 1874, Freidrich Speilhagen. 

15. DANIEL DERONDA. 

Atlantic Monthly, 38:084, Henry James, December, 1876. North AmericanReview, 124:31, E. P. Whippie, January, 1877. Edinburgh Review, 144:442, October, 1876. Fortnightly Review, 26:601, November, 1876, Sidney Colvin. The Nation, 23:230, 245, October 12, 19, 1876, A. V. Dicey. BritishQuarterly Review, 64:472. Eclectic Magazine, 87:657. International Review, 4:68, R. R. Bowker. The Western, 3:603, O. G. Garrison. Potter's AmericanMonthly, 8:75. Gentleman's Magazine (new style), 17:593, November, 1876, J. Picciotto; 17:411, R. E. Francillon. Canadian Monthly, 9:250, 343;10:362. Victoria, 28:227, A. S. Richardson. Temple Bar, 49:542, "Deronda'sMother;" same, Living Age, 133:248; same, Eclectic Magazine, 88:751. Macmillan's Magazine, 36:101, J. Jacobs, "Mordecai: a Protest against theCritics, by a Jew;" same, Living Age, 134:112. Athenacum, 1876:160, 327, 461, 593, 762. Westminster Review, 106:280, 574. Appleton's Journal (newstyle), 3:274, September, 1877, Wirt Sikes. Deutsche Rundachau, February 7, 1877. Contemporary Review, 29:348, February, 1877, Edward Dowden, reprintedin "Studies of Literature. "

16. IMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRASTUS SUCH. 

Edinburgh Review, 150:557. Fortnightly Review, 32:144, G. Allen. Westminster Review, 112:185, July, 1879. The Nation, 28:422, June 19, 1879, G. E. Woodberry. Fraser's Magazine, 100:103. Canadian Monthly, 16. 333. Unitarian Review, 12:292, R. W. Boodle. 

INDEX

A. 

Actions, _Actors and Acting__Adam Bede__Adam Bede_, quoted"Address to Workingmen, " quotedAgnosticismAltruismAnalytic Method_Animal Life, Studies in_"Amos Barton, " quoted_Aristotle_"Armgart, " quotedArtArt, love ofAsceticismAusten, Jane

B. 

Blackwood, William_Blackwood's Magazine_Blind, Mathilde quotedBrabant Dr. Bray CharlesBrontë CharlotteBrookbank"Brother and Sister""Brother Jacob"Browning, RobertBrowning, Mrs. 

C. 

Call, W. M. W. , quotedCarlyleCauses"Choir Invisible"Chapman, JohnCharacteristics, personalChildhood, influences surroundingChild LifeChristianity"College Breakfast Party"Colvin, SidneyCombe, GeorgeComteConscienceConversation_Cornhill Magazine_CosmopolitanismCowperCriticismCultureCumming, Dr. 

D. 

_Daniel Deronda__Daniel Deronda_ quotedDarwinDeathDeedsDialectDickens, CharlesDowden, Prof. , quotedDowns, Annie, quotedDramatic powerDuty

E. 

EmersonEnvironmentEssays"Evangelical Teaching"Evans, ChristianaEvans, Mrs. ElizabethEvans, IsaacEvans, RobertEvans, Mrs. RobertEvilEvolution PhilosophyExperience

F. 

Familiar, influence of theFeelingFeeling for others_Felix Holt__Felix Holt_, quotedFeuerbachFichteField, Kate, quotedFielding, HenryFields, Mrs. , quotedFoleshill_Fortnightly Review_

G. 

Garth, Caleb"German life, natural history of"GodGoethe_Goethe, Life of_Griff House

H. 

Harrison, FredericHeineHennell, CharlesHennell, SaraHeredityHouseHowells, W. D. HugeHumorHutton, R. H. , quoted

I. 

IdealismImaginationImmortalityImmortality, subjectiveIndividuality"Influence of Rationalism"InspirationIntuition

J. 

James, HenryJones, Owen"Janet's Repentance, " quoted

K. 

KantKaufmann, Prof. 

L. 

"Lady Novelists"Law_Leader_ newspaper_Legend of Jubal_Letters, extracts fromLewes, George Henry born school days early studies in Germany _History of Philosophy_ _Spanish Drama_ _Ranthorpe_ writes for Reviews _Leader_ _Philosophy of the Sciences_ _Life of Goethe_, physiological studies _Fortnightly Review_ _Problems of Life and Mind_ characteristics deathLewes, influence on George EliotLewes, Marian Evans born parents early reading school in Nuneaton school In Coventry studying at home moves to Foleshill studies continued early religious views early scepticism troubles with her family finds friends the Brays the Hennells drawn towards positivism father dies goes to continent translates Strauss Feuerbach assistant editor of _Westminster Review_ _Review_ contributor marriage studies in Germany writes _Clerical Scenes_ adopts name of "George Eliot" again visits Germany _Adam Bede_ controversy about _Adam Bede_ novel-writing poems written house habits of study description of person receptions summers in country death of Lewes marriage to John Walter Cross death literary traits"Lifted Veil"Liggins, JosephLippincott, Mrs. , quotedLiterary MethodsLiterature definedLockeLoveLucretius

M. 

MarriageMartineau, HarrietMatterMeliorism_Middlemarch__Middlemarch_, quotedMidland EnglandMill, J. S. _Mill on the Floss_, _Mill on the Floss_, quoted"Minor Prophet"MoralityMordecaiMorley, John"Mr. Gilfil's Love Story"Music, Love ofMyers, F. W. H. , quotedMysticism

N. 

Nemesis, Newdigate, Sir RogerNovel-writing

P. 

Past, thePaul, Kegan, quotedPessimismPhilosophy, George Eliot'sPhilosophy, Lewes's _History of__Philosophy of the Sciences__Physiology of Common Life_PlotsPoetryPositivismPrayerPriory, The_Problems of Life and Mind_Psychology

R. 

_Ranthorpe_RealismReasonReceptionsRelativity, MoralReligion"Religion of Humanity"RenaissanceRenunciationResignationRetributionRomanticism_Romola__Romola_, quoted_Rose, Blanche and Violet_Ruskin

S. 

Sadler, Dr. , quotedSand, GeorgeSatireSavonarola_Scenes of Clerical Life_SchellingScientific illustrationScott_Seaside Studies_"Self and Life"Sex in literatureShakspereShelley_Silas Marner_"Silly Novels"Simcox, Edith, quotedSocietySocial OrganismSorrow_Spanish Drama__Spanish Gypsy_Speculation, Love of_Spectator_Spencer, HerbertSpinozaSpiritual, the"Stradivarius"StraussSterling, JohnSympathySully, James, quotedSupernaturalSwinburne, quoted

T. 

TennysonThackeray_Theophrastus Such__Theophrastus Such_, quotedTimesTradition

W. 

_Waverley Novel__Westminster Review_"Weimar and its Celebrities"Whipple, E. P. , quotedWieland"Woman in France"Woman, LiteraryWordsworth

Y. 

Young, Edward