always concur in his opinions, nor quite fall in with his
hero-worship; but there is a manly love of truth, an honest
recognition and fearless vindication of intrinsic greatness, of
intellectual and moral worth considered apart from birth, rank, or
wealth, which commands my sincere admiration. Carlyle would never do
for a contributor to the _Quarterly_. I have not read his _French
Revolution_. Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would write
plain English. Emerson's _Essays_ I read with much interest and often
with admiration, but they are of mixed gold and clay,--deep,
invigorating truth, dreary and depressing fallacy, seem to me combined
therein.
Scott's _Suggestions on Female Education_ I read with unalloyed
pleasure; it is justly, clearly, and felicitously expressed. The girls
of this generation have great advantages--it seems to me that they
receive much encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge and the
cultivation of their minds. In these days women may be thoughtful and
well read, without being stigmatized as "blues" or pedants.
I have lately been reading _Modern Painters_, and have derived from
the work much genuine pleasure, and I hope, some edification; at any
rate it has made me feel how ignorant I had previously been on the
subjects which it treats. Hitherto I have only had instinct to guide
me in judging of art; I feel now as if I had been walking
blindfold--this book seems to give me eyes. I _do_ wish I had pictures
within reach by which to test the new sense. Who can read these
glowing descriptions of Turner's works without longing to see them!
However eloquent and convincing the language in which another's
opinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for yourself. I
like this author's style much; there is both energy and beauty in it.
I like himself too, because he is such a hearty admirer. He does not
give half measure of praise or veneration. He eulogizes, he reverences
with his whole soul. One can sympathize with that sort of devout,
serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist), one can respect it. Yet,
possibly, many people would laugh at it. I am truly obliged to Mr.
Smith for giving me this book, not often having met with one that has
pleased me more.
I congratulate you on the approaching publication of Mr. Ruskin's new
work. If the _Seven Lamps of Architecture_ resemble their predecessor,
_Modern Painters_, they will be no lamps at all, but a new
constellation--seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading world
ought to be anxiously agaze.
I am beginning to read Eckermann's _Goethe_--it promised to be a most
interesting work. Honest, simple, single-minded Eckermann! Great,
powerful, giant-souled, but also profoundly egotistical old Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe! He _was_ a mighty egotist. He thought no more of
swallowing up poor Eckermann's existence in his own, than the whale
thought of swallowing Jonah.
The worst of reading graphic accounts of such men, of seeing graphic
pictures of the scenes, the society in which they moved, is that it
excites a too tormenting longing to look on the reality; but does such
reality now exist? Amidst all the troubled waters of European society,
does such a vast, strong, selfish old leviathan now roll ponderous? I
suppose not.
* * * * *
I often wish to say something on the "condition-of-women" question,
but it is one on which so much cant has been talked, that one feels a
sort of reluctance to approach it. I have always been accustomed to
think that the necessity of earning one's living is not, in itself, an
evil; though I feel it may become a heavy evil if health fails, if
employment lacks, if the demand upon our efforts, made by the weakness
of others dependent upon us becomes greater than our strength. Both
sons and daughters should early be inured to habits of independence
and industry.
A governess' lot is frequently, indeed, bitter, but its results are
precious. The mind, feelings, and temper are subjected to a discipline
equally painful and priceless. I have known many who were unhappy as
governesses, but scarcely one who, having undergone the ordeal, was
not ultimately strengthened and improved--made more enduring for her
own afflictions, more considerate for the afflictions of others. The
great curse of a single female life is its dependency; daughters, as
well as sons, should aim at making their way through life. Teachers
may be hard-worked, ill-paid, and despised; but the girl who stays at
home _doing nothing_ is worse off than the worse-paid drudge of a
school; the listlessness of idleness will infallibly degrade her
nature.
Lonely as I am, how should I be if Providence had never given me
courage to adopt a career, perseverance to plead through two long
weary years with publishers till they admitted me? How should I be,
with youth passed, sisters lost, a resident in a moorland parish where
there is not a single resident family? In that case I should have no
world at all. The raven weary of surveying the deluge, and with no ark
to return to, would be my type.
As it is, something like a hope and motive sustain me still. I wish
every woman in England had also a hope and a motive. Alas! I fear
there are many old maids who have neither.
--Adapted from _Littell's Living Age_.
XXXIX
THACKERAY IN AMERICA
Thackeray, like many other Englishmen of note, came to America to
lecture in order to make money. He had delivered lectures in London
and in other towns in England on the _English Humorists_. Why not use
his popularity in America as a means of acquiring a little fortune for
the sake of his wife and two girls. "I must and will go," he wrote to
his eldest daughter, "not because I like it, but because it is right I
should secure some money against my death for your mother and you two
girls. And I think, if I have luck, I may secure nearly a third of the
sum that I think I ought to leave behind me by a six months' tour in
the States."
Let us, in order to get a first-hand impression, read from letters
that he wrote from America:
"The passage is nothing, now it is over; I am rather ashamed of gloom
and disquietude about such a trifling journey. I have made scores of
new acquaintances and lighted on my feet as usual. I didn't expect to
like people as I do, but am agreeably disappointed and find many most
pleasant companions, natural and good; natural and well read and well
bred too, and I suppose am none the worse pleased because everybody
has read all my books and praises my lectures (I preach in a
Unitarian Church, and the parson comes to hear me. His name is Mr.
Bellows, it isn't a pretty name), and there are 2,000 people nearly
who come, and the lectures are so well liked that it is probable I
shall do them over again. So really there is a chance of making a
pretty little sum of money for old age, imbecility, and those young
ladies afterwards.... Broadway is miles upon miles long, a rush of
life such as I have never seen; not so full as the Strand, but so
rapid. The houses are always being torn down and built up again, the
railroad cars drive slap into the midst of the city. There are
barricades and scaffoldings banging everywhere. I have not been into a
house, except the fat country one, but something new is being done to
it, and the hammerings are clattering in the passage, or a wall or
steps are down, or the family is going to move. Nobody is quiet here,
nor am I. The rush and restlessness please me, and I like, for a
little, the dash of the stream. I am not received as a god, which I
like too. There is one paper which goes on every morning saying I am a
snob, and I don't say no. Six people were reading it at breakfast this
morning, and the man opposite me this morning popped it under the
table-cloth. But the other papers roar with approbation."
In this letter, of which we have read a fragment, Mr. Thackeray
inclosed a clipping from the New York _Evening Post_. This is what the
newspaper had to say: "The building was crowded.... Every one who saw
Mr. Thackeray last evening for the first time seemed to have had
their impressions of his appearance and manner of speech corrected.
Few expected to see so large a man; he is gigantic; six feet four at
least; few expected to see so old a person; his hair appears to have
kept silvery record over fifty years; and then there was a notion in
the minds of many that there must be something dashing and 'fast' in
his appearance, whereas his costume was perfectly plain; the
expression of his face grave and earnest; his address perfectly
unaffected, and such as we might expect to meet with, in a well-bred
man somewhat advanced in years. His elocution also surprised those who
had derived their impressions from the English journals. His voice is
a superb tenor, and possesses that pathetic tremble which is so
effective in what is called emotive eloquence, while his delivery was
as well suited to the communication he had to make as could well have
been imagined.
"His enunciation is perfect. Every word he uttered might have been
heard in the remotest quarters of the room, yet he scarcely lifted his
voice above a colloquial tone. The most striking feature in his whole
manner was the utter absence of affectation of any kind. He did not
permit himself to appear conscious that he was an object of peculiar
interest in the audience, neither was he guilty of the greater error
of not appearing to care whether they were interested in him or not.
In other words, he inspired his audience with a respect for him, as a
man proportioned to the admiration, which his books have inspired for
him as an author."
From Philadelphia Thackeray writes: "Oh, I am tired of shaking hands
with people, and acting the lion business night after night.
Everybody is introduced and shakes hands. I know thousands of
colonels, professors, editors, and what not, and walk the streets
guiltily, knowing that I don't know 'em, and trembling lest the man
opposite to me is one of my friends of the day before. I believe I am
popular, except at Boston among the newspaper men who fired into me,
but a great favorite with the _monde_ there and elsewhere. Here in
Philadelphia it is all praise and kindness. Do you know there are
500,000 people in Philadelphia? I daresay you had no idea thereof, and
smile at the idea of there being a _monde_ here and at Boston and New
York.... I am writing this with a new gold pen, in such a fine gold
case. An old gentleman gave it to me yesterday, a white-headed old
philosopher and political economist, there's something simple in the
way these kind folks regard a man; they read our books as if we were
Fielding, and so forth. The other night men were talking of Dickens
and Bulwer as if they were equal to Shakespeare, and I was pleased to
find myself pleased at hearing them praised. The prettiest girl in
Philadelphia, poor soul, has read _Vanity Fair_ twelve times. I paid
her a great big compliment yesterday, about her good looks of course,
and she turned round delighted to her friend and said, '_Ai most
tallut_,' that is something like the pronunciation."
In another letter: "Now I have seen three great cities, Boston, New
York, Philadelphia, I think I like them all mighty well. They seem to
me not so civilized as our London, but more so than Manchester and
Liverpool. At Boston is very good literate company indeed; it is like
Edinburgh for that,--a vast amount of toryism and donnishness
everywhere. That of New York the simplest and least pretentious; it
suffices that a man should keep fine house, give parties, and have a
daughter, to get all the world to him."
XL
GEORGE ELIOT BECOMES A WRITER OF FICTION
As one is ready to call Elizabeth Barrett the greatest poetess of the
nineteenth century, so there is little hesitation in pronouncing
George Eliot the foremost of the many women who have written fiction.
The literary critics sometimes dispute her supremacy by urging the
claims of Jane Austen, who is said to have Shaksperean power in the
delineation of character. But the name of Jane Austen is unknown to
the general public. For every reader of _Pride and Prejudice_ there
are a score of readers of _Adam Bede_.
George Eliot is the pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans. She took the name of
_George_ because it was the first name of Mr. Lewes, and Eliot "was a
good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word."
George Eliot was almost thirty-seven years old before she began to
write fiction; in this respect reminding us of Scott, who had first
achieved fame as a poet before he began in his maturity to write
fiction. We are happy in having from the pen of George Eliot herself
the account of how she began to write fiction:
"September, 1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I began
to write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that some
time or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of what
the novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to
another. But I never went further toward the actual writing of the
novel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire village
and the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed
on I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel."
Mr. Lewes encouraged George Eliot by admiring her introductory
chapter. He first read it when they were together in Germany. When
they had returned to England and she was more successful in her essay
writing than he had expected, he continued to urge her to try to write
a story. "He began to say very positively, 'You must try and write a
story,' and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin at once. I
deferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that does not
present itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was thinking
what should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts merged
themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a story,
of which the title was _The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton_.
I was soon wide awake again and told G. (Mr. Lewes). He said 'Oh, what
a capital title!' and from that time I had settled in my mind that
this should be my first story. George used to say, 'It may be a
failure--it may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps,
it may be just good enough to warrant your trying again.' Again, 'You
may write a _chef-d'oeuvre_ at once--there's no telling.' But his
prevalent impression was, that though I could hardly write a _poor_
novel, my effort would want the highest quality of fiction--dramatic
presentation. He used to say, 'You have wit, description, and
philosophy--those go a good way towards the production of a novel. It
is worth while for you to try the experiment.'"
When she had finished the first part of _Amos Barton_, Mr. Lewes was
no longer skeptical about her ability to write dialogue. The next
question was whether she had the power of pathos. This was to be
determined by the way in which the death of Milly was to be treated.
"One night G. went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening for
writing it. I wrote the chapter from the news brought by the shepherd
to Mrs. Hackit, to the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside,
and I read it to G. when he came home. We both cried over it, and then
he came up to me and kissed me, saying, 'I think your pathos is better
than your fun.'"
The first part of _Amos Barton_ appeared in the January number of
_Blackwood_. The publisher paid the author fifty guineas. Afterwards,
when the series of stories dealing with clerical life was published in
book form, she was paid L120; later, when the publishing firm decided
to issue a thousand copies instead of seven hundred and fifty, L60 was
added to the original sum. George Eliot expressed herself as sensitive
to the merits of checks for fifty guineas, but the success of her
later writings was so pronounced that a check for fifty guineas would
have made little impression, except a feeling of disdain.
_Amos Barton_ was followed by _Mr. Gilfil's Love Story_, and _Janet's
Repentance_. The three comprise _Scenes from Clerical Life_. The
stories are based upon events which happened in the early life of the
writer when she lived in Warwickshire. The village of Milby is really
Nuneaton. When the villagers and country people read the _Scenes from
Clerical Life_ there was great excitement. Who could this _George
Eliot_ be? Some one who had lived among them and heard all the gossip
of the neighborhood. But they could not recall any man with enough
literary ability to do what had been done. Finally they did remember
that a man, Liggins by name, had written poetry. The poetry was rather
weak stuff, but perhaps his strength lay in fiction. Liggins was
flattered by the suspicions of his neighbors. His own doubt was
gradually changed to belief. Yes, he was the author of this new
fiction, because every one said he was. The voice of the people is the
voice of God. He was invited to write for a theological magazine.
Finally George Eliot was obliged to reveal her identity when the
public was about to subscribe a sum of money for the pseudo-literary
Liggins who was so fastidious as to refuse money for the product of
his genius. Here ends the career of Liggins, the liar.
One reason the villagers had for believing one of their own number was
the author was based on the conversations in the _Scenes from Clerical
Life_. Not only were they true to life, but they were conversations
that had actually taken place. How did George Eliot hear them? Had she
loitered in the public room of the village tavern? Mr. C.S. Olcott
writes in the _Outlook_,--"The real conversations which were so
cleverly reported were actually heard by Robert Evans, the father of
George Eliot, who doubtless often visited the Bull in company with his
neighbors. He repeated them to his wife, not realizing that the little
daughter who listened so attentively was gifted with a marvelous
memory, or that she possessed a genius that could transform a simple
tale into a novel of dramatic power. Mary Ann Evans had moved to
Coventry sixteen years before, and was therefore scarcely known in
Nuneaton at the time the stories appeared. She then had no literary
fame, and was no more likely to be thought of in this connection than
any one of a hundred other school-girls."
In her journal she records on October 22, 1857,--"Began my new novel,
_Adam Bede_." For it her publishers offered her L800 for the copyright
for four years; later they added L400, and still later Blackwoods,
finding a ready sale for their numerous editions, proposed to pay L800
above the original price. And for the appearance of _Romola_ in the
_Cornhill Magazine_, Mr. George Smith offered L10,000, but L7000 was
accepted. For _Middlemarch_, which appeared in separate publication,
that is, independent of a magazine, she received a still larger
amount. Middlemarch is considered by many critics her best work. It
was very popular from the first. In a letter to John Blackwood,
November, 1873, George Eliot writes,--"I had a letter from Mr.
Bancroft (the American ambassador at Berlin) the other day, in which
he says that everybody in Berlin reads _Middlemarch_. He had to buy
two copies for his house, and he found the rector of the university, a
stupendous mathematician, occupied with it in the solid part of the
day."
The public may prefer _Adam Bede_ or _Middlemarch_ but it is reported
that George Eliot herself preferred _Silas Marner_. This is the report
of Justin McCarthy, who was a frequent visitor on Sunday afternoons at
the Priory, the home of George Eliot, where many distinguished
visitors, such as Herbert Spencer, Tyndall, and Huxley, loved to
gather. "There is a legend," writes Mr. McCarthy, "that George Eliot
never liked to talk about her novels. I can only say that she started
the subject with me one day. It was, to be sure, about a picture some
painter had sent her, representing a scene in _Silas Marner_, and she
called my attention to it, and said that of all her novels _Silas
Marner_ was her favorite. I ventured to disagree with her, and to say
that the _Mill on the Floss_ was my favorite. She entered into the
discussion quite genially, just as if she were talking of the works of
some stranger, which I think is the very perfection of the manner
authors ought to adopt in talking about their books."
XLI
THE AUTHOR OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND"
It is said that when Victoria, late queen of England, had read _Alice
in Wonderland_ she was so pleased that she asked for more of the
author's books. They brought her a treatise on logarithms by the Rev.
C.L. Dodgson. Lewis Carroll and the Rev. C.L. Dodgson were one and the
same person, although they were two dissimilar characters. The one was
a popular author of nonsense that delighted children by the hundreds
of thousands and the other was a scholarly mathematician.
C.L. Dodgson came of good Northern-England stock. His father,
grandfather, and great-grandfather were clergymen--a contradiction,
says his biographer, Mr. Collingwood, of the scandalous theory that
three generations of parsons end in a fool. As a boy he kept all sorts
of odd and unlikely pets. From Rugby he entered Oxford. In 1856 he was
made college lecturer in mathematics, a position which he filled for a
quarter of a century. That he had thoughts of lighter material than
mathematics is evidenced by a short poem that appeared about this time
in a college paper called _College Rhymes_. Two of the stanzas run
like this:
She has the bear's ethereal grace
The bland hyena's laugh,
The footsteps of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides,
She is all my fancy painted her,
But oh! how much besides.
The year 1862 saw the beginning of the world-famous _Alice_. He told
the story to Dean Liddell's three daughters. "Alice," the second of
the three (now Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves) thus tells the story:
"I believe the beginning of _Alice_ was told one summer afternoon when
the sun was so burning that we had landed in the meadows down the
river, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade to
be found, and which was under a new-made hay-rick. Here from all three
came the old petition of 'Tell us a story,' and so began the ever
delightful tale. Sometimes to tease us--and perhaps being really
tired--Mr. Dodgson would stop suddenly and say, 'And that's all till
next time.' 'Oh! but it is next time,' would be the exclamation from
all three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh.
Another day perhaps the story would begin in the boat, and Mr.
Dodgson, in the midst of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretend
to fall fast asleep, to our great dismay." ...
"Many of Lewis Carroll's friendships with children began in a railway
carriage. Once when he was traveling, a lady, whose little daughter
had been reading _Alice_, startled him by exclaiming: 'Isn't it sad
about poor Mr. Lewis Carroll? He's gone mad, you know.... I have it
on the best authority.'"
Lewis Carroll, or rather Mr. Dodgson, did not wish his acquaintances
to speak of him as the author of _Alice_. In his every-day work he
wanted to be known as the serious mathematician. He was conservative
in his ideas and did not look with favor upon the movement to
overthrow Euclid. In 1870 he published a book entitled _Euclid and his
Modern Rivals_. The London _Spectator_ speaks of this as probably the
most humorous contribution ever devoted to the subject of mathematics.
In an academical discussion held at Oxford he once published three
rules to be followed in debate. This is one of the three: "Let it be
granted that any one may speak at any length on a subject at any
distance from that subject."
XLII
ABOUT DARWIN
When a prominent literary journal at the close of the last century
asked a number of distinguished Americans and Englishmen to name the
ten most influential books of the century, it was interesting to note
that Darwin's _Origin of Species_ received more frequent mention than
any other book. Five years after Charles Darwin had been buried (he
was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey in 1882), his son published the
_Life and Letters of Darwin_, which included an autobiographical
chapter. From this work we can gather enough to show some aspects of
this remarkable man.