[Sidenote: Journal, Mch. 1855.]
_March 14._--Took lodgings at 1 Sydney Place, Dover.
_March 15._--A lovely day. As I walked up the Castle hill this
afternoon the town, with its background of softly rounded hills
shrouded in sleepy haze, its little lines of water looking golden in
the sun, made a charming picture. I have written the preface to the
Third Book of "Ethics," read Scherr, and Shakespeare's "Venus and
Adonis."
_March 16._--I read Shakespeare's "Passionate Pilgrim" at breakfast,
and found a sonnet in which he expresses admiration of Spenser (Sonnet
viii.):
"Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence."[49]
I must send word of this to G., who has written in his "Goethe" that
Shakespeare has left no line in praise of a contemporary. I could not
resist the temptation of walking out before I sat down to work. Came
in at half-past ten, and translated Spinoza till nearly one. Walked
out again till two. After dinner read "Two Gentlemen of Verona" and
some of the "Sonnets." That play disgusted me more than ever in the
final scene, where Valentine, on Proteus's mere begging pardon, when
he has no longer any hope of gaining his ends, says: "All that was
mine in Sylvia, I give thee!" Silvia standing by. Walked up the Castle
hill again, and came in at six. Read Scherr, and found an important
hint that I have made a mistake in a sentence of my article on
"Austria" about the death of Franz von Sickingen.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 16th Mch. 1855.]
I dare say you will be surprised to see that I write from Dover. We
left Berlin on the 11th. I have taken lodgings here for a little
while, until Mr. Lewes has concluded some arrangements in London; and,
with the aid of lovely weather, am even enjoying my solitude, though I
don't mind how soon it ends. News of you all at Rosehill--how health
and business and all other things are faring--would be very welcome to
me, if you can find time for a little note of homely details. I am
well and calmly happy--feeling much stronger and clearer in mind for
the last eight months of new experience. We were sorry to leave our
quiet rooms and agreeable friends in Berlin, though the place itself
is certainly ugly, and _am Ende_ must become terribly wearisome for
those who have not a vocation there. We went again and again to the
new museum to look at the casts of the Parthenon Sculptures, and
registered a vow that we would go to feast on the sight of the
originals the first day we could spare in London. I had never cast
more than a fleeting look on them before, but now I can in some degree
understand the effect they produced on their first discovery.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1855.]
_March 25._--A note from Mr. Chapman, in which he asks me to undertake
part of the Contemporary Literature for the _Westminster Review_.
_April 18._--Came to town, to lodgings in Bayswater.
_April 23._--Fixed on lodgings at East Sheen.
_April 25._--Went to the British Museum.
_April 28._--Finished article on "Weimar," for _Fraser_.
During this month George Eliot was finishing the translating
and revising of Spinoza's "Ethics," and was still reading
Scherr's book, Schrader's "German Mythology"--a poor
book--"The Tempest," "Macbeth," "Niebelungenlied," "Romeo and
Juliet," article on "Dryden" in the _Westminster_, "Reineke
Fuchs," "Genesis of Science," Gibbon, "Henry V.," "Henry
VIII.," first, second, and third parts of "Henry VI.,"
"Richard II."
_May 2._--Came to East Sheen, and settled in our lodgings.
_May 28._--Sent Belles-lettres section to _Westminster Review_. During
May several articles were written for the _Leader_.
_June 13._--Began Part IV. of Spinoza's "Ethics." Began also to read
Cumming, for article in the _Westminster_. We are reading in the
evenings now Sydney Smith's letters, Boswell, Whewell's "History of
Inductive Sciences," "The Odyssey," and occasionally Heine's
"Reisebilder." I began the second book of the "Iliad," in Greek, this
morning.
_June 21._--Finished article on Brougham's "Lives of Men of Letters."
_June 23._--Read "Lucrezia Floriani." We are reading White's "History
of Selborne" in the evening, with Boswell and the "Odyssey."
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 23d June, 1855.]
I have good hope that you will be deeply interested in the "Life of
Goethe." It is a book full of feeling, as well as of thought and
information, and I even think will make you love Goethe as well as
admire him. Eckermann's is a wonderful book, but only represents
Goethe at eighty. We were fortunate enough to be in time to see poor
Eckermann before his _total_ death. His mind was already half gone,
but the fine brow and eyes harmonized entirely with the interest we
had previously felt in him. We saw him in a small lodging, surrounded
by singing birds, and tended by his son--an intelligent youth of
sixteen, who showed some talent in drawing. I have written a
castigation of Brougham for the _Leader_, and shall be glad if your
sympathy goes along with it. Varnhagen has written "Denkwurdigkeiten,"
and all sorts of literature, and is, or, rather was, the husband of
_Rahel_, the greatest of German women.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 21st July, 1855.]
It was surely you who wrote the notice of the _Westminster_ in the
_Herald_ (Coventry) which we received this morning. I am very much
pleased with your appreciation of Mr. Lewes's article. You hardly do
justice to Froude's article on "Spinoza." I don't at all agree with
Froude's own views, but I think his account of Spinoza's doctrines
admirable. Mr. Lewes is still sadly ailing--tormented with tooth and
face ache. This is a terrible trial to us poor scribblers, to whom
health is money, as well as all other things worth having. I have just
been reading that Milton suffered from indigestion--quite an affecting
fact to me. I send you a letter which I have had from Barbara Smith. I
think you will like to see such a manifestation of her strong, noble
nature.
On 1st August, 1855, Mr. Lewes went down to Ramsgate for
change, taking his three boys with him for a week's holiday.
Meantime George Eliot was continuing her article-writing, and
in this week wrote an article for the _Leader_, having
written one for the same journal three weeks before. On 22d
August she wrote another article for the _Leader_, and on
the 24th she finished the one on Cumming for the
_Westminster_. Mr. C. Lewes tells me that he remembers it was
after reading this article that his father was prompted to
say to George Eliot, while walking one day with her in
Richmond Park, that it convinced him of the true genius in
her writing. Mr. Lewes was not only an accomplished and
practised literary critic, but he was also gifted with the
inborn insight accompanying a fine artistic temperament,
which gave unusual weight to his judgment. Up to this time he
had not been quite sure of anything beyond great talent in
her productions.
The first three weeks in September were again busily occupied
in article-writing. She contributed three papers to the
_Leader_, as well as the Belles-lettres section for the
October number of the _Westminster_. On the 19th September
they left East Sheen, and after spending a couple of weeks at
Worthing for a sea change, they took rooms at 8 Park Shot,
Richmond, which remained their home for more than three
years. Here some of George Eliot's most memorable literary
work was accomplished. Both she and Mr. Lewes were now
working very hard for what would bring immediate profit, as
they had to support not only themselves but his children and
their mother. They had only one sitting-room between them;
and I remember, in a walk on St. George's Hill, near
Weybridge, in 1871, she told me that the scratching of
another pen used to affect her nerves to such an extent that
it nearly drove her wild. On the 9th October she finished an
article on Margaret Fuller and Mary Wollstonecraft, and on
the 12th October one on Carlyle for the _Leader_, and began
an article on Heine for the January number of the
_Westminster_. In October there are the following letters to
the Brays:
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, Monday, Oct. (?) 1855.]
Since you have found out the "Cumming," I write by to-day's post just
to say that it _is_ mine, but also to beg that you will not mention it
as such to any one likely to transmit the information to London, as we
are keeping the authorship a secret. The article appears to have
produced a strong impression, and that impression would be a little
counteracted if the author were known to be a _woman_. I have had a
letter addressed "to the author of Article No. 4," begging me to print
it separately "for the good of mankind in general!" It is so kind of
you to rejoice in anything I do at all well. I am dreadfully busy
again, for I am going to write an article for the _Westminster Review_
again, besides my other work. We enjoy our new lodgings very
much--everything is the pink of order and cleanliness.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 16th Oct. 1855.]
Why you should object to Herbert Spencer speaking of Sir William
Hamilton's contributions to a theory of perception as "valuable" I am
unable to conceive. Sir William Hamilton has been of service to him as
well as to others; and instead of repressing acknowledgments of merit
in others, I should like them to be more freely given. I see no
dignity, or anything else that is good, in ignoring one's
fellow-beings. Herbert Spencer's views, like every other man's views,
could not have existed without the substratum laid by his
predecessors. But perhaps you mean something that I fail to perceive.
Your bit of theology is very fine. Here is a delicious Hibernicism in
return. In a treatise on consumption, sent yesterday, the writer says:
"There is now hardly any _difference_ on this subject--at least _I_
feel none." Our life has no incidents except such as take place in
our own brains, and the occasional arrival of a longer letter than
usual. Yours are always read aloud and enjoyed. Nevertheless our life
is intensely occupied, and the days are far too short. We are reading
Gall's "Anatomie et Physiologie du Cerveau," and Carpenter's
"Comparative Physiology," aloud in the evenings; and I am trying to
fix some knowledge about plexuses and ganglia in my soft brain, which
generally only serves me to remember that there is something I ought
to remember, and to regret that I did not put the something down in my
note-book. For "Live and learn," we should sometimes read "Live and
grow stupid."
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 21st Nov. 1855.]
You will receive by rail to-morrow a copy of the "Life and Works of
Goethe" (published on 1st November), which I hope you will accept as a
keepsake from me. I should have been glad to send it you earlier, but
as Mr. Lewes has sold the copyright of the first edition, he has only
a small number of copies at his disposal, and so I doubted whether I
ought to ask for one. I think you will find much to interest you in
the book. I can't tell you how I value it, as the best product of a
mind which I have every day more reason to admire and love. We have
had much gratification in the expression of individual opinion. The
press is very favorable, but the notices are for the most part too
idiotic to give us much pleasure, except in a pecuniary point of view.
I am going out to-day, for the first time for nearly a fortnight.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 29th Nov. 1855.]
I have just finished a long article on Heine for the _Westminster
Review_, which none of you will like. _En revanche_, Mr. Lewes has
written one on "Lions and Lion Hunters," which you will find amusing.
On the 12th December the Belles-lettres section for the
January number of the _Westminster Review_ was finished and
sent off, and the next entry in the Journal is dated:
[Sidenote: Journal, 1855.]
_Dec. 24, 1855._--For the last ten days I have done little, owing to
headache and other ailments. Began the "Antigone," read Von Bohlen on
"Genesis," and Swedenborg. Mr. Chapman wants me to write an article on
"Missions and Missionaries," for the April number of the
_Westminster_, but I think I shall not have it ready till the July
number. In the afternoon I set out on my journey to see my sister, and
arrived at her house about eight o'clock, finding her and her children
well.
_Dec. 29, 1855._--Returned to Richmond. G. away at Vernon Hill (Arthur
Helps's), having gone thither on Wednesday.
_Dec. 30, 1855._--Read the "Shaving of Shagpat" (George Meredith's).
_Dec. 31, 1855._--Wrote a review of "Shagpat."
[Sidenote: Journal, 1856.]
_Jan. 1, 1856._--Read Kingsley's "Greek Heroes," and began a review of
Von Bohlen.
_Jan. 5, 1856._--G. came home.
_Jan. 6, 1856._--Began to revise Book IV. of Spinoza's "Ethics," and
continued this work through the week, being able to work but slowly.
Finished Kahnis's "History of German Protestantism."
_Jan. 16, 1856._--Received a charming letter from Barbara Smith, with
a petition to Parliament that women may have a right to their
earnings.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 18th Jan. 1856.]
I believe there have been at least a thousand copies of the "Goethe"
sold, which is a wonderfully good sale in less than three months for a
thirty-shilling book. We have a charming collection of letters, both
from remarkable acquaintances and remarkable non-acquaintances,
expressing enthusiastic delight in the book--letters all the more
delightful because they are quite spontaneous, and spring from a
generous wish to let the author know how highly the writers value his
work. If you want some idle reading, get the "Shaving of Shagpat,"
which, I think, you will say deserves all the praise I gave it.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1856.]
_Feb. 19, 1856._--Since the 6th January I have been occupied with
Spinoza; and, except a review of Griswold's "American Poets," have
done nothing else but translate the Fifth Book of the "Ethics," and
revise the whole of my translation from the beginning. This evening I
have finished my revision.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 19th Feb. 1856.]
I was so glad to have a little news of you. I should like to hear much
oftener, but our days are so accurately parcelled out among regular
occupations that I rarely manage to do anything not included in the
programme; and, without reading Mrs. Barbauld on the "Inconsistency of
Human Expectations," I know that receiving letters is inconsistent
with not writing any. Have you seen any numbers of the _Saturday
Review_, a new journal, on which "all the talents" are engaged? It is
not properly a newspaper, but--what its title expresses--a political
and literary review. We are delighting ourselves with Ruskin's third
volume, which contains some of the finest writing I have read for a
long time (among recent books). I read it aloud for an hour or so
after dinner; then we jump to the old dramatists, when Mr. Lewes reads
to me as long as his voice will hold out, and after this we wind up
the evening with Rymer Jones's "Animal Kingdom," by which I get a
confused knowledge of branchiæ, and such things--perhaps, on the
whole, a little preferable to total ignorance. These are our
_noctes_--without _cenæ_ for the present--occasionally diversified by
very dramatic singing of Figaro, etc., which, I think, must alarm
"that good man, the clergyman," who sits below us. We have been half
laughing, half indignant, over Alison's new volume of his "History of
Europe," in which he undertakes to give an account of German
literature.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 25th Feb. 1856.]
What you tell me of Harriet Martineau interests me very much. I feel
for her terrible bodily suffering, and think of her with deep respect
and admiration. Whatever may have been her mistakes and weaknesses,
the great and good things she has done far outweigh them; and I should
be grieved if anything in her memoir should cast a momentary shadow
over the agreeable image of her that the world will ultimately keep in
its memory. I wish less of our piety were spent on imaginary perfect
goodness, and more given to real _im_perfect goodness.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, end of Feb. 1856.]
I am very happy for you to keep the sheets, and to get signatures (for
the Women's Petition that they should have legal right to their own
earnings). Miss Barbara Smith writes that she must have them returned
to her before the 1st of March. I am glad you have taken up the cause,
for I do think that, with proper provisos and safeguards, the proposed
law would help to raise the position and character of women. It is one
round of a long ladder stretching far beyond our lives.
During March, George Eliot wrote only the Belles-lettres
section for the April number of the _Westminster_, having
resigned the subject of "Missions" to Harriet Martineau. She
also wrote two articles for the _Saturday Review_, and two
for the _Leader_. And there are the following letters in
March to the Brays, in which allusion is made to their
leaving the old home at Rosehill, owing to the unsatisfactory
state of the Coventry business.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 26th Mch. 1856.]
We are flourishing in every way except in health. Mr. Lewes's head is
still infirm, but he manages, nevertheless, to do twice as much work
as other people. I am always a croaker, you know, but my ailments are
of a small kind, their chief symptoms being a muddled brain; and, as
my pen is not of the true literary order which will run along without
the help of brains, I don't get through so much work as I should like.
By the way, when the Spinoza comes out, be so good as not to mention
my name in connection with it. I particularly wish not to be known as
the translator of the "Ethics," for reasons which it would be "too
tedious to mention." You don't know what a severely practical person I
am become, and what a sharp eye I have to the main chance. I keep the
purse, and dole out sovereigns with all the pangs of a miser. In fact,
if you were to feel my bump of acquisitiveness, I dare say you would
find it in a state of inflammation, like the "veneration" of that
clergyman to whom Mr. Donovan said, "Sir, you have recently been
engaged in prayer." I hope you recognized your own wit about the
one-eyed dissenters, which was quoted in the _Leader_ some time ago.
You always said no one did so much justice to your jokes as I did.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 31st Mch. 1856.]
My mind is more rebellious than yours, and I can't help being saddened
by the idea of you and Cara being in any other home than the dear old
one. But I know that your cheerful courage is yet stronger in deed
than in word. Will not business or pleasure bring you to London soon,
and will you not come to see us? We can give you a bed--not a
sumptuous one, but one which you will perhaps not find intolerable for
a night. I know the trip up the Thames is charming, and we should
like to do it with you, but I don't think we can manage it this
summer. We are going to send or take the boys (Mr. Lewes's sons) to
school in Germany at midsummer, and are at present uncertain about our
arrangements. If we can _send_ them, we shall go to the coast as soon
as the warm weather comes, and remain there for three months. But our
plans are not yet crystallized.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 1st April, 1856.]
After I wrote you yesterday morning we had a letter from Germany which
has made Mr. Lewes incline to defer sending the boys thither till next
year. But he is anxious to remove them from their present school: and,
in the course of our consultations on the subject, we thought of Mr.
John Sibree as a person in whom we should feel confidence as to the
moral influence he would exercise as a tutor. The risk of placing
children with entire strangers is terrible. So I tease you with
another letter to ask you if Mr. J. Sibree continues in the same
position as formerly, and if he is still anxious to obtain pupils.
What a delicious day! We are going to have a holiday at the Zoological
Gardens.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 7th April, 1856.]
Thank you for taking the trouble to write me a full account of matters
so interesting to me. I hope you will be able thoroughly to enjoy this
last precious summer on the pretty lawn, where it is one of my
pleasures on sunshiny days to think of you all strolling about or
seated on the Bearskin. We are very thankful for the Hofwyl circular,
and have almost decided to send the two eldest boys there. But it is
necessary to weigh all things carefully before coming to a
determination; as, not being either swindlers or philanthropists, we
don't like to incur obligations which there is not a reasonable
certainty of our being able to meet. I am much obliged to Mr. Bray,
too, for sending Mr. John Sibree's letter. Mr. Lewes had already
received an answer from him declining his proposition, but we were
interested to read his very characteristic letter to his sister, which
proved to Mr. Lewes that I had given him a correct description of the
man.
The next few weeks are, perhaps, the most signally important
and interesting of all in George Eliot's development. There
are unmistakable signs of the rising of the sap of creative
production.
In the middle of April Mr. Herbert Spencer, who had been
abroad for some time, returned to England, and dined with
them at Park Shot on the 15th, and on the 18th they went with
him to Sydenham. On the 22d April George Eliot began her
article on Young; and on the 29th she began to read Riehl's
book,[50] on which she was to write another article for the
_Westminster_. On the 8th of May they set off for Ilfracombe,
and we have the following "recollections" of that place:
[Sidenote: Ilfracombe, Recollections, 1856.]
It was a cold, unfriendly day--the 8th of May--on which we set out for
Ilfracombe with our hamper of glass jars, which we meant for our
sea-side vivarium. We had to get down at Windsor, and were not sorry
that the interval was long enough to let us walk round the castle,
which I had never seen before except from a distance. The famous
"slopes," the avenues in the park, and the distant landscape, looked
very lovely in the fresh and delicate greens of spring; and the castle
is surely the most delightful royal residence in the world. We took
our places from Windsor all the way to Exeter; and at Bristol, where
we had to wait three hours, the misery of my terrible headache was
mitigated by the interest we felt in seeing the grand old Church of
St. Mary Redcliffe, forever associated with the memory of Chatterton.
"It stands, the maestrie of a human hand,
The pride of Bristowe and the western land."
It was cheering, the next morning after our arrival at Ilfracombe, to
get up with a head rather less aching, and to walk up and down the
little garden of Runnymede Villa in the bright sunshine. I had a great
deal of work before me--the writing of an article on Riehl's book,
which I had not half read, as well as the article on Belles-lettres;
but my head was still dizzy, and it seemed impossible to sit down to
writing at once in these new scenes, so we determined to spend the day
in explorations.
From our windows we had a view of the higher part of the town, and
generally it looked uninteresting enough; but what is it that light
cannot transfigure into beauty? One evening, after a shower, as the
sun was setting over the sea behind us, some peculiar arrangement of
clouds threw a delicious evening light on the irregular cluster of
houses, and merged the ugliness of their forms in an exquisite flood
of color--as a stupid person is made glorious by a noble deed. A
perfect rainbow arched over the picture. From one end of the Capstone
we have an admirable bit for a picture. In the background rises old
Helesborough, jutting out far into the sea--rugged and rocky as it
fronts the waves, green and accessible landward; in front of this
stands Lantern Hill, a picturesque mass of green and gray, surmounted
by an old bit of building that looks as if it were the habitation of
some mollusk that had secreted its shell from the material of the
rock; and quite in the foreground, contrasting finely in color with
the rest, are some lower perpendicular rocks of dark-brown tints,
patched here and there with vivid green. In hilly districts, where
houses and clusters of houses look so tiny against the huge limbs of
mother earth, one cannot help thinking of man as a parasitic
animal--an epizoan making his abode in the skin of the planetary
organism. In a flat country, a house or a town looks imposing; there
is nothing to rival it in height, and we may imagine the earth a mere
pedestal for us. But when one sees a house stuck on the side of a
great hill, and, still more, a number of houses, looking like a few
barnacles, clustered on the side of a great rock, we begin to think of
the strong family likeness between ourselves and all other building,
burrowing, house-appropriating, and shell-secreting animals. The
difference between a man with his house and a mollusk with its shell
lies in the number of steps or phenomena interposed between the fact
of individual existence and the completion of the building. Whatever
other advantages we may have over mollusks and insects in our
habitations, it is clear that their architecture has the advantage of
ours in beauty--at least, considered as the architecture of the
species. Look at man in the light of a shell-fish, and it must be
admitted that his shell is generally ugly; and it is only after a
great many more "steps or phenomena" that he secretes here and there a
wonderful shell in the shape of a temple or a palace.
On our first zoophyte hunt it was characteristic of the wide difference
there is between having eyes and _seeing_, that in this region of
sea-anemones, where the Mesembryanthemum especially is as plenty as
blackberries, we climbed about for two hours without seeing one
anemone, and went in again with scarcely anything but a few stones and
weeds to put into our jars. On our next hunt, however, after we had
been out some time, G. exclaimed, "I see an anemone!" and we were
immensely excited by the discovery of this little red Mesembryanthemum,
which we afterwards disdained to gather, as much as if it had been a
nettle. It was a _crescendo_ of delight when we found a "strawberry,"
and a _fortissimo_ when I, for the first time, saw the pale,
fawn-colored tentacles of an _Anthea cereus_ viciously waving like
little serpents in a low-tide pool. But not a polype for a long, long
while could even G. detect, after all his reading; so necessary is it
for the eye to be educated by objects as well as ideas. Every day I
gleaned some little bit of naturalistic experience, either through G.'s
calling on me to look through the microscope, or from hunting on the
rocks; and this in spite of my preoccupation with my article, which I
worked at considerably _à contre-coeur_, despairing of it ever being
worth anything. When at last, by the 17th of June, both my articles
were despatched, I felt delightfully at liberty, and determined to pay
some attention to seaweeds, which I had never seen in such beauty as at
Ilfracombe. For hitherto I had been chiefly on chalky and sandy shores,
where there were no rock-pools to show off the lovely colors and forms
of the algæ. There are tide-pools to be seen almost at every other step
on the shore at Ilfracombe; and I shall never forget their appearance
when we first arrived there. The _Corallina officinalis_ was then in
its greatest perfection, and with its purple-pink fronds threw into
relief the dark olive fronds of the Laminariæ on one side, and the
vivid green of the Ulva and Enteromorpha on the other. After we had
been there a few weeks the Corallina was faded; and I noticed the
_Mesagloia vermicularis_ and the _M. virescens_, which look very lovely
in the water, from the white cilia, which make the most delicate fringe
to their yellow-brown, whip-like fronds, and some of the common
Polysiphoniæ. These tide-pools made me quite in love with seaweeds, so
I took up Landsborough's book and tried to get a little more light on
their structure and history.
Our zoological expeditions alternated with delicious inland walks. I
think the country looked its best when we arrived. It was just that
moment in spring when the leaves are in full leaf, but still keep
their delicate varieties of coloring, and that _transparency_ which
belongs only to this season. And the furze was in all its golden
glory! It was almost like the fading away of the evening red, when the
furze blossoms died off from the hills, and the only contrast left was
that of the marly soil with the green crops and woods. The primroses
were the contemporaries of the furze, and sprinkled the sides of the
hills with their pale stars almost as plentifully as daisies or
buttercups elsewhere. But the great charm of all Devonshire lanes is
the springs that you detect gurgling in shady recesses, covered with
liverwort, with here and there waving tufts of fern and other
broad-leaved plants that love obscurity and moisture.
We seemed to make less of our evenings at Ilfracombe than we have ever
done elsewhere. We used often to be tired with our hunting or walking;
and we were reading books which did not make us take them up very
eagerly--Gosse's "Rambles on the Devonshire Coast," for example;
Trench's "Calderon," and other volumes, taken up in a desultory way.
One bit of reading we had there, however, which interested me deeply.
It was Masson's "Life of Chatterton," which happily linked itself with
the impressions I had received from the sight of the old church at
Bristol.
Mr. Tugwell's (the curate) acquaintance was a real acquisition to us,
not only because he was a companion and helper in zoological pursuits,
but because to know him was to know of another sweet nature in the
world. It is always good to know, if only in passing, a charming human
being; it refreshes one like flowers and woods and clear brooks. One
Sunday evening we walked up to his pretty house to carry back some
proofs of his, and he induced us to go in and have coffee with him. He
played on his harmonium, and we chatted pleasantly. The last evening
of our stay at Ilfracombe he came to see us in Mrs. Webster's
drawing-room, and we had music till nearly eleven o'clock--a pleasant
recollection!
We only twice took the walk beyond Watermouth towards Berrynarbor. The
road lies through what are called the "Meadows," which look like a
magnificent park. A stream, fringed with wild-flowers and willows,
runs along the valley, two or three yards from the side of the road.
This stream is clear as crystal, and about every twenty yards it falls
over a little artificial precipice of stones. The long grass was
waving in all the glory of June, before the mower has come to make it
suffer a "love change" from beauties into sweet odors; and the slopes
on each side of us were crowned or clothed with fine trees. The last
time we went through these meadows was on our last day at Ilfracombe.
Such sunlight and such deep peace on the hills and by the stream!
Coming back, we rested on a gate under the trees, and a blind man came
up to rest also. He told us, in his slow way, what a fine, "healthy
spot" this was--yes, a very healthy spot--a healthy spot. And then we
went on our way, and saw his face no more.
I have talked of the Ilfracombe lanes without describing them, for to
describe them one ought to know the names of all the lovely
wild-flowers that cluster on their banks. Almost every yard of these
banks is a "Hunt" picture--a delicious crowding of mosses and delicate
trefoil and wild strawberries and ferns great and small. But the
crowning beauty of the lanes is the springs that gush out in little
recesses by the side of the road--recesses glossy with liverwort and
feathery with fern. Sometimes you have the spring when it has grown
into a brook, either rushing down a miniature cataract by the
lane-side, or flowing gently as a "braided streamlet" across your
path. I never before longed so much to know the names of things as
during this visit to Ilfracombe. The desire is part of the tendency
that is now constantly growing in me to escape from all vagueness and
inaccuracy into the daylight of distinct, vivid ideas. The mere fact
of naming an object tends to give definiteness to our conception of
it. We have then a sign which at once calls up in our minds the
distinctive qualities which mark out for us that particular object
from all others.
We ascended the Tors only twice; for a tax of 3_d._ per head was
demanded on this luxury, and we could not afford a sixpenny walk very
frequently: yet the view is perhaps the very finest to be had at
Ilfracombe. Bay behind bay, fringed with foam, and promontory behind
promontory, each with its peculiar shades of purple light--the sweep
of the Welsh coast faintly visible in the distance, and the endless
expanse of sea, flecked with ships, stretching on our left.
[Sidenote: Ilfracombe, Recollections, June, 1856.]
One evening we went down to the shore through the "Tunnels" to see the
sunset. Standing in the "Ladies' Cove," we had before us the sharp
fragments of rock jutting out of the waves and standing black against
the orange and crimson sky. How lovely to look into that brilliant
distance and see the ship on the horizon seeming to sail away from the
cold and dim world behind it right into the golden glory! I have
always that sort of feeling when I look at sunset; it always seems to
me that there in the West lies a land of light and warmth and love.
On the 26th of June we said good-bye to Ilfracombe. The sight of the
cockle-women at Swansea, where we had to wait, would make a fine
subject for a painter. One of them was the grandest woman I ever
saw--six feet high, carrying herself like a Greek warrior, and
treading the earth with unconscious majesty. Her face was
weather-beaten and wizened, but her eyes were bright and piercing, and
the lines of her face, with its high cheek-bones, strong and
characteristic. The guard at the railway station told us that one of
the porters had been insolent the other day to a cockle-woman, and
that she immediately pitched him off the platform into the road below!
[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 6th June, 1856.]
When we arrived here I had not even read a great book on which I had
engaged to write a long article by the beginning of this month; so
that between work and zoology and bodily ailments my time has been
full to overflowing. We are enchanted with Ilfracombe. I really think
it is the loveliest sea-place I ever saw, from the combination of fine
rocky coast with exquisite inland scenery. But it would not do for any
one who can't climb rocks and mount perpetual hills; for the
peculiarity of this country is, that it is all hill and no valley.
You have no sooner got to the foot of one hill than you begin to mount
another. You would laugh to see our room decked with yellow
pie-dishes, a _foot-pan_, glass jars and phials, all full of
zoophytes, or mollusks, or anellides--and, still more, to see the
eager interest with which we rush to our "preserves" in the morning to
see if there has been any mortality among them in the night. We have
made the acquaintance of a charming little zoological curate here, who
is a delightful companion on expeditions, and is most good-natured in
lending and giving apparatus and "critturs" of all sorts. Mr.
Pigott[51] is coming here with his yacht at the end of June, and we
hope then to go to Clovelly--Kingsley's Clovelly--and perhaps other
places on the coast that we can't reach on foot. After this we mean to
migrate to Tenby, for the sake of making acquaintance with its
mollusks and medusæ.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Peter Taylor, 8th June, 1856.]
I received your kind letter only yesterday, but I write a few words in
answer at once, lest, as it so often happens, delay should beget
delay.
It is never too late to write generous words, and although
circumstances are not likely to allow of our acquiring a more intimate
knowledge of each other from personal intercourse, it will always be a
pleasant thought to me that you have remembered me kindly, and
interpreted me nobly. You are one of the minority who know how to "use
their imagination in the service of charity."
I have suffered so much from misunderstanding created by letters, even
to old friends, that I never write on private personal matters, unless
it be a rigorous duty or necessity to do so. Some little phrase or
allusion is misinterpreted, and on this false basis a great fabric of
misconception is reared, which even explanatory conversations will not
remove. Life is too precious to be spent in this weaving and unweaving
of false impressions, and it is better to live quietly on under some
degree of misrepresentation than to attempt to remove it by the
uncertain process of letter-writing.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 29th June, 1856.]
Yes, indeed, I do remember old Tenby days, and had set my heart on
being in the very same house again; but, alas! it had just been let.
It is immensely smartened up, like the place generally, since those
old times, and is proportionately less desirable for quiet people who
have no flounces and do not subscribe to new churches. Tenby looks
insignificant in picturesqueness after Ilfracombe; but the two objects
that drew us hither, zoology and health, will flourish none the worse
for the absence of tall precipices and many-tinted rocks. The air is
delicious--soft, but not sultry--and the sands and bathing such as are
to be found nowhere else. St. Catherine's Rock, with its caverns, is
our paradise. We go there with baskets, hammers and chisels, and jars
and phials, and come home laden with spoils. Altogether, we are
contented to have been driven away from Ilfracombe by the cold wind,
since a new place is new experience, and Mr. Lewes has never been here
before. To me there is the additional pleasure--half melancholy--of
recalling all the old impressions and comparing them with the new. I
understand your wish to have as much of Rosehill as possible this
year, and I am so glad that you will associate a visit from Herbert
Spencer with this last summer. I suppose he is with you now. If so,
give him my very evil regards, and tell him that because he has not
written to us we will diligently _not_ tell him a great many things
he would have liked to know. We have a project of going into St.
Catherine's caverns with lanterns, some night when the tide is low,
about eleven, for the sake of seeing the zoophytes preparing for their
midnight revels. The Actiniæ, like other belles, put on their best
faces on such occasions. Two things we have lost by leaving Ilfracombe
for which we have no compensation--the little zoological curate, Mr.
Tugwell, who is really one of the best specimens of the clergyman
species I have seen; and the pleasure of having Miss Barbara Smith
there for a week, sketching the rocks, and putting our love of them
into the tangible form of a picture. We are looking out now for Mr.
Pigott in his yacht; and his amiable face will make an agreeable
variety on the sands. I thought "Walden"[52] (you mean "Life in the
Woods," don't you?) a charming book, from its freshness and sincerity
as well as for its bits of description. It is pleasant to think that
Harriet Martineau can make so much of her last days. Her energy and
her habit of useful work are admirable.
During the stay at Ilfracombe and Tenby not much literary
work was done, except the articles on Young and on Riehl's
book. There was a notice of Masson's Essays and the
Belles-lettres section for the July number of the
_Westminster_, and a review for the _Leader_. There is
mention, too, of the reading of Beaumarchais' "Memoirs,"
Milne Edwards's "Zoology," Harvey's sea-side book, and
"Coriolanus," and then comes this significant sentence in her
Journal:
[Sidenote: Journal, 1856.]
_July 20, 1856._--The fortnight has slipped away without my being
able to show much result for it. I have written a review of the
"Lover's Seat," and jotted down some recollections of Ilfracombe;
besides these trifles, and the introduction to an article already
written, I have done no _visible_ work. But I have absorbed many ideas
and much bodily strength; indeed, I do not remember ever feeling so
strong in mind and body as I feel at this moment. On Saturday, the
12th, Barbara Smith arrived, and stayed here till Wednesday morning.
We enjoyed her society very much, but were deeply touched to see that
three years had made her so much older and sadder. Her activity for
great objects is admirable; and contact with her is a fresh
inspiration to work while it is day. We have now taken up Quatrefages
again. The "Memoirs" of Beaumarchais yielded me little fruit. Mr.
Chapman invites me to contribute to the _Westminster_ for this
quarter. I am anxious to begin my fiction-writing, and so am not
inclined to undertake an article that will give me much trouble, but,
at all events, I will finish my article on Young.
_July 21._--We had a delightful walk on the north sands, and hunted
with success. A sunny, happy day.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 29th July, 1856.]
Glad to hear at last some news of your Essay--hoping to hear more and
better by and by. I didn't like to think that your labor would be
thrown away, except so far as it must do good to yourself by clearing
up your ideas. Not that your ideas were muddy, but the last degree of
clearness can only come by writing. Mr. Pigott is with us just now,
and we are meditating a nocturnal visit to St. Catherine's caves with
him. Our visit to Tenby has been very useful zoologically, but we are
not otherwise greatly in love with the place. It seems tame and vulgar
after Ilfracombe.
[Sidenote: Letter to Charles Bray, 6th Aug. 1856.]
Thank you for your kind note,[53] so like yourself. Such things
encourage me, and help me to do better. I never think what I write is
good for anything till other people tell me so, and even then it
always seems to me as if I should never write anything _else_ worth
reading. Ah, how much good we may do each other by a few friendly
words, and the opportunities for them are so much more frequent than
for friendly deeds! We want people to feel with us more than to act
for us. Mr. Lewes sends his kind regards to you. He, too, was very
pleased with your letter, for he cares more about getting approbation
for me than for himself. _He_ can do very well without it.
On the 8th August they left Tenby, and on 9th arrived at
Richmond "with terrible headache, but enjoyed the sense of
being 'at home' again." On the 18th, "walked in Kew Park, and
talked with G. of my novel. Finished 'César Birotteau'
aloud." On the 25th August Mr. Lewes set off for Hofwyl, near
Berne, taking his two eldest boys, Charles and Thornton, to
place them at school there. He returned on 4th September, and
in his absence George Eliot had been busy with her article on
"Silly Novels by Lady Novelists." This was finished on the
12th September, and on the 19th she sent off the
Belles-lettres section for the October number of the
_Westminster_.
We have now arrived at the period of the new birth, and,
fortunately, in the following memorandum, we have George
Eliot's own words as to how it came about:
[Sidenote: How I came 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 towards 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, just
as I desponded about everything else in my future life. I always
thought I was deficient in dramatic power, both of construction and
dialogue, but I felt I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts
of a novel. My "introductory chapter" was pure description, though
there were good materials in it for dramatic presentation. It happened
to be among the papers I had with me in Germany, and one evening at
Berlin something led me to read it to George. He was struck with it as
a bit of concrete description, and it suggested to him the possibility
of my being able to write a novel, though he distrusted--indeed,
disbelieved in--my possession of any dramatic power. Still, he began
to think that I might as well try some time what I could do in
fiction, and by and by, when we came back to England, and I had
greater success than he ever expected in other kinds of writing, his
impression that it was worth while to see how far my mental power
would go towards the production of a novel, was strengthened. 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. 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."
We determined that if my story turned out good enough we would send it
to Blackwood; but G. thought the more probable result was that I
should have to lay it aside and try again.
But when we returned to Richmond I had to write my article on "Silly
Novels," and my review of Contemporary Literature for the
_Westminster_, so that I did not begin my story till September 22.
After I had begun it, as we were walking in the park, I mentioned to
G. that I had thought of the plan of writing a series of stories,
containing sketches drawn from my own observation of the clergy, and
calling them "Scenes from Clerical Life," opening with "Amos Barton."
He at once accepted the notion as a good one--fresh and striking; and
about a week afterwards, when I read him the first part of "Amos," he
had no longer any doubt about my ability to carry out the plan. The
scene at Cross Farm, he said, satisfied him that I had the very
element he had been doubtful about--it was clear I could write good
dialogue. There still remained the question whether I could command
any pathos; and that was to be decided by the mode in which I treated
Milly's death. 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 story of the "Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton" was begun on
22d September and finished on the 5th November, and I subjoin
the opening correspondence between Mr. Lewes and Mr. John
Blackwood, to exhibit the first effect it produced:
[Sidenote: Letter from G. H. Lewes, to John Blackwood, 6th Nov. 1856.]
"I trouble you with a MS. of 'Sketches of Clerical Life'
which was submitted to me by a friend who desired my good
offices with you. It goes by this post. I confess that before
reading the MS. I had considerable doubts of my friend's
powers as a writer of fiction; but, after reading it, these
doubts were changed into very high admiration. I don't know
what you will think of the story, but, according to my
judgment, such humor, pathos, vivid presentation, and nice
observation have not been exhibited (in this style) since the
'Vicar of Wakefield;' and, in consequence of that opinion, I
feel quite pleased in negotiating the matter with you.
"This is what I am commissioned to say to you about the
proposed series. It will consist of tales and sketches
illustrative of the actual life of our country clergy about a
quarter of a century ago--but solely in its _human_, and not
at all in its _theological_ aspects; the object being to do
what has never yet been done in our literature, for we have
had abundant religious stories, polemical and doctrinal, but
since the 'Vicar' and Miss Austen, no stories representing
the clergy like every other class, with the humors, sorrows,
and troubles of other men. He begged me particularly to add,
that--as the specimen sent will sufficiently prove--the tone
throughout will be sympathetic, and not at all antagonistic.
"Some of these, if not all, you may think suitable for
'Maga.' If any are sent of which you do not approve, or which
you do not think sufficiently interesting, these he will
reserve for the separate republication, and for this purpose
he wishes to retain the copyright. Should you only print one
or two, he will be well satisfied; and still better, if you
should think well enough of the series to undertake the
separate republication."
[Sidenote: Letter from John Blackwood, to G. H. Lewes, 12th Nov.
1856.]
"I am happy to say that I think your friend's reminiscences
of Clerical Life will do. If there is any more of the series
written I should like to see it, as, until I saw more, I
could not make any decided proposition for the publication of
the tales, in whole or in part, in the Magazine. This first
specimen, 'Amos Barton,' is unquestionably very pleasant
reading. Perhaps the author falls into the error of trying
too much to explain the characters of his actors by
description instead of allowing them to evolve in the action
of the story; but the descriptions are very humorous and
good. The death of Milly is powerfully done, and affected me
much. I am not sure whether he does not spoil it a little by
specifying so minutely the different children and their
names. The wind-up is perhaps the lamest part of the story;
and there, too, I think the defect is caused by the
specifications as to the fortunes of parties of whom the
reader has no previous knowledge, and cannot, consequently,
feel much interest. At first, I was afraid that in the
amusing reminiscences of childhood in church there was a want
of some softening touch, such as the remembrance of a father
or mother lends, in after-years, to what was at the time
considerable penance.
"I hate anything of a sneer at real religious feeling as
cordially as I despise anything like cant, and I should think
this author is of the same way of thinking, although his
clergymen, with one exception, are not very attractive
specimens of the body. The revulsion of feeling towards poor
Amos is capitally drawn, although the asinine stupidity of
his conduct about the countess had disposed one to kick him.
"I dare say I shall have a more decided opinion as to the
merits of the story when I have looked at it again and
thought over it; but in the meantime I am sure that there is
a happy turn of expression throughout, also much humor and
pathos. If the author is a new writer, I beg to congratulate
him on being worthy of the honors of print and pay. I shall
be very glad to hear from you or him soon."
[Sidenote: Letter from G. H. Lewes to John Blackwood, Saturday, Nov.
1856.]
"I have communicated your letter to my clerical friend, who,
though somewhat discouraged by it, has taken my advice, and
will submit the second story to you when it is written. At
present he has only written what he sent you. His avocations,
he informs me, will prevent his setting to work for the next
three weeks or so, but as soon as he is at liberty he will
begin.
"I rate the story much higher than you appear to do, from
certain expressions in your note, though you too appreciate
the humor and pathos and the happy turn of expression. It
struck me as being fresher than any story I have read for a
long while, and as exhibiting, in a high degree, that faculty
which I find to be the rarest of all--viz., the dramatic
ventriloquism.
"At the same time I told him that I thoroughly understood
your editorial caution in not accepting from an unknown hand
a series on the strength of one specimen."
[Sidenote: Letter from John Blackwood to G. H. Lewes, 18th Nov. 1856.]
"I was very far from intending that my letter should convey
anything like disappointment to your friend. On the contrary,
I thought the tale very good, and intended to convey as much.
But I dare say I expressed myself coolly enough. Criticism
would assume a much soberer tone were critics compelled
_seriously to act_ whenever they expressed an opinion.
Although not much given to hesitate about anything, I always
think twice before I put the decisive mark 'In type for the
Magazine' on any MS. from a stranger. Fancy the intense
annoyance (to say nothing of more serious considerations) of
publishing, month after month, a series about which the
conviction gradually forces itself on you that you have made
a total blunder.
"I am sorry that the author has no more written, but if he
cares much about a speedy appearance, I have so high an
opinion of this first tale that I will waive my objections,
and publish it without seeing more--not, of course,
committing myself to go on with the other tales of the series
unless I approved of them. I am very sanguine that I will
approve, as, in addition to the other merits of 'Amos,' I
agree with you that there is great freshness of style. If you
think also that it would stimulate the author to go on with
the other tales with more spirit, I will publish 'Amos' at
once. He could divide into two parts. I am blocked up for
December, but I could start him in January.
"I am glad to hear that your friend is, as I supposed, a
clergyman. Such a subject is best in clerical hands, and some
of the pleasantest and least-prejudiced correspondents I have
ever had are English clergymen.
"I have not read 'Amos Barton' a second time, but the
impression on my mind of the whole character, incidents, and
feeling of the story is very distinct, which is an excellent
sign."
[Sidenote: Letter from G. H. Lewes to John Blackwood, Saturday, Nov.
1856.]
"Your letter has greatly restored the shaken confidence of my
friend, who is unusually sensitive, and, unlike most writers,
is more anxious about _excellence_ than about appearing in
print--as his waiting so long before taking the venture
proves. He is consequently afraid of failure, though not
afraid of obscurity; and by failure he would understand that
which I suspect most writers would be apt to consider as
success--so high is his ambition.
"I tell you this that you may understand the sort of shy,
shrinking, ambitious nature you have to deal with. I tried
to persuade him that you really _did_ appreciate his story,
but were only hesitating about committing yourself to a
series; and your last letter has proved me to have been
right--although, as he never contemplated binding you to the
publication of any portion of the series to which you might
object, he could not at first see your position in its true
light.
"All is, however, clear now. He will be gratified if you
publish 'Amos Barton' in January, as it will give him ample
time to get the second story ready, so as to appear when
'Barton' is finished, should you wish it. He is anxious,
however, that you should publish the general title of 'Scenes
of Clerical Life;' and I think you may do this with perfect
safety, since it is quite clear that the writer of 'Amos
Barton' is capable of writing at least one more story
suitable to 'Maga;' and two would suffice to justify the
general title.
"Let me not forget to add that when I referred to 'my
clerical friend,' I meant to designate the writer of the
clerical stories--not that he was a clericus. I am not at
liberty to remove the veil of anonymity, even as regards
social position. Be pleased, therefore, to keep the whole
secret, and not even mention _my_ negotiation, or in any way
lead guessers (should any one trouble himself with such a
guess--_not_ very likely) to jump from me to my friend."
On Christmas Day, 1856, "Mr. Gilfil's Love-Story" was begun,
and during December and January the following are mentioned
among the books read: The "Ajax" of Sophocles, Miss
Martineau's "History of the Peace," Macaulay's "History"
finished, Carlyle's "French Revolution," Burke's "Reflections
on the French Revolution," and "Mansfield Park."
[Sidenote: Letter from John Blackwood, to the author of "Amos Barton,"
29th Dec. 1856.]
"Along with this I send a copy of the January number of the
Magazine, in which you will find the first part of 'Amos
Barton.' It gives me very great pleasure to begin the number
with 'Amos,' and I put him in that position because his
merits well entitle him to it, and also because it is a vital
point to attract public attention to the _first_ part of a
series, to which end being the first article of the first
number of the year may contribute.
"I have already expressed to our friend Mr. Lewes the very
high opinion I entertain of 'Amos,' and the expectations I
have formed of the series, should his successors prove equal
to him, which I fully anticipate.
"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 so few words.
"Those who have seen the tale here are chiefly members of my
own family, and they are all enthusiastic in praise.
"You may recollect that I expressed a fear that in the
affecting and highly wrought scene of poor Milly's death, the
attempt to individualize the children by reiterating their
names weakened the effect, as the reader had not been
prepared to care for them individually, but simply as a
group--the children of Milly and the sorrow-stricken curate.
My brother says, 'No. Do not advise the author to touch
anything so exquisite.' Of course you are the best judge.
"I now send proof of the conclusion of 'Amos,' in
acknowledgment of which, and of the first part, I have the
pleasure of enclosing a check for £52 10_s._--fifty guineas.
"If the series goes on as I anticipate, there is every
prospect that a republication as a separate book, at some
time or other, will be advisable. We would look upon such
republication as a joint property, and would either give you
a sum for your interest in it, or publish on the terms of one
half of the clear profits, to be divided between author and
publisher, as might be most agreeable to you.
"I shall be very glad to hear from you, either direct or
through Mr. Lewes; and any intelligence that the successors
of 'Amos' are taking form and substance will be very
acceptable.
"I shall let you know what the other contributors and the
public think of 'Amos' as far as I can gather a verdict, but
in the meantime I may congratulate you on having achieved a
preliminary success at all events."
[Sidenote: Letter from the author of "Amos Barton" to John Blackwood,
Jan. 1857.]
Your letter has proved to me that the generous editor and
publisher--generous both in word and in deed--who makes the author's
path smooth and easy, is something more than a pleasant tradition. I
am very sensitive to the merits of checks for fifty guineas, but I am
still more sensitive to that cordial appreciation which is a guarantee
to me that my work was worth doing for its own sake.
If the "Scenes of Clerical Life" should be republished, I have no
doubt we shall find it easy to arrange the terms. In the meantime, the
most pressing business is to make them worth republishing.
I think the particularization of the children in the deathbed scene
has an important effect on the imagination. But I have removed all
names from the "conclusion" except those of Patty and Dickey, in whom,
I hope, the reader has a personal interest.
I hope to send you the second story by the beginning of February. It
will lie, for the most part, among quite different scenes and persons
from the last--opening in Shepperton once more, but presently moving
away to a distant spot and new people, whom, I hope, you will not like
less than "Amos" and his friends. But if any one of the succeeding
stories should seem to you unsuitable to the pages of "Maga," it can
be reserved for publication in the future volume, without creating any
difficulty.
Thank you very warmly for the hearty acceptance you have given to my
first story.
[Sidenote: Journal, 1857.]
The first part of "Amos Barton" appeared in the January number of
_Blackwood_. Before the appearance of the Magazine, on sending me the
proof, Mr. John Blackwood already expressed himself with much greater
warmth of admiration; and when the first part had appeared he sent me
a charming letter, with a check for fifty guineas, and a proposal
about republication of the series. When the story was concluded he
wrote me word how Albert Smith had sent him a letter saying he had
never read anything that affected him more than Milly's death, and,
added Blackwood, "The men at the club seem to have mingled their tears
and their tumblers together. It will be curious if you should be a
member and be hearing your own praises." There was clearly no
suspicion that I was a woman. It is interesting, as an indication of
the value there is in such conjectural criticism generally, to
remember that when G. read the first part of "Amos" to a party at
Helps's, they were all sure I was a clergyman--a Cambridge man.
Blackwood seemed curious about the author, and, when I signed my
letter "George Eliot," hunted up some old letters from Eliot
Warburton's brother to compare the handwritings, though, he said,
"'Amos' seems to me not in the least like what that good artilleryman
would write."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 4th Feb. 1857.]
Thank you for fulfilling your promise to let me know something of the
criticisms passed on my story. I have a very moderate respect for
"opinions of the press," but the private opinions of intelligent
people may be valuable to me.
In reference to artistic presentation much adverse opinion will, of
course, arise from a dislike to the _order_ of art rather than from a
critical estimate of the execution. Any one who detests the Dutch
school in general will hardly appreciate fairly the merits of a
particular Dutch painting. And against this sort of condemnation one
must steel one's self as one best can. But objections which point out
to me any vice of manner, or any failure in producing an intended
effect, will be really profitable. For example, I suppose my
scientific illustrations must be at fault, since they seem to have
obtruded themselves disagreeably on one of my readers. But if it be a
sin to be at once a man of science and a writer of fiction, I can
declare my perfect innocence on that head, my scientific knowledge
being as superficial as that of the most "practised writers." I hope
to send you a second story in a few days, but I am rather behindhand
this time, having been prevented from setting to work for some weeks
by other business.
Whatever may be the success of my stories, I shall be resolute in
preserving my _incognito_, having observed that a _nom de plume_
secures all the advantages without the disagreeables of reputation.
Perhaps, therefore, it will be well to give you my prospective name,
as a tub to throw to the whale in case of curious inquiries; and
accordingly I subscribe myself, best and most sympathizing of editors,
yours very truly, GEORGE ELIOT.
I may mention here that my wife told me the reason she fixed
on this name was that George was Mr. Lewes's Christian name,
and Eliot was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 18th Feb. 1857.]
First let me thank you very heartily for your letter of the 10th.
Except your own very cordial appreciation, which is so much beyond a
mere official acceptance, that little fact about Albert Smith has
gratified me more than anything else in connection with the effect of
"Amos." If you should happen to hear an opinion from Thackeray, good
or bad, I should like to know it.
You will see that I have availed myself of your suggestions on points
of language. I quite recognize the justice of your criticisms on the
French phrases. They are not in keeping with my story.
But I am unable to alter anything in relation to the delineation or
development of character, as my stories always grow out of my
psychological conception of the _dramatis personæ_. For example, the
behavior of Caterina in the gallery is essential to my conception of
her nature, and to the development of that nature in the plot. My
artistic bent is directed not at all to the presentation of eminently
irreproachable characters, but to the presentation of mixed human
beings in such a way as to call forth tolerant judgment, pity, and
sympathy. And I cannot stir a step aside from what I _feel_ to be
_true_ in character. If anything strikes you as untrue to human nature
in my delineations, I shall be very glad if you will point it out to
me, that I may reconsider the matter. But, alas! inconsistencies and
weaknesses are not untrue. I hope that your doubts about the plot will
be removed by the further development of the story. Meanwhile, warmest
thanks for your encouraging letters.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 24th Feb. 1857.]
I am the more inclined to think that I shall admire your book because
you are suspected of having given undue preponderance to the Christian
argument: for I have a growing conviction that we may measure true
moral and intellectual culture by the comprehension and veneration
given to all forms of thought and feeling which have influenced large
masses of mankind--and of all intolerance the intolerance calling
itself philosophical is the most odious to me.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 1st Mch. 1857.]
Thank you for the copy of "Maga" and for the accompanying check. One
has not many correspondents whose handwriting has such agreeable
associations as yours.
I was particularly pleased with that extract you were so good as to
send me from Mr. Swayne's letter. Dear old "Goldie" is one of my
earliest and warmest admirations, and I don't desire a better fate
than to lie side by side with him in people's memories.
The Rev. Mr. Swayne had written to Blackwood saying that
"Amos," in its charming tendencies, reminded him of the
"Vicar of Wakefield." Blackwood had written, much delighted
with the two first parts of "Mr. Gilfil's Love-Story," which
were sent to him together.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 2d Mch. 1857.]
I began, oddly enough you will perhaps think, by reading through the
"Answers of Infidelity,"[54] those being the most interesting parts of
the book to me. Some of your own passages I think very admirable--some
of them made me cry, which is always a sign of the highest pleasure
writing can give me. But in many of the extracts, I think, Infidelity
cuts a very poor figure. Some are feeble, some _bad_, and terribly
discrepant in the tone of their thought and feeling from the passages
which come fresh from your own mind. The disadvantage arising from the
perpetual shifting of the point of view is a disadvantage, I suppose,
inseparable from the plan, which I cannot admire or feel to be
effective, though I can imagine it may be a serviceable form of
presentation to some inquirers. The _execution_ I do admire. I think it
shows very high and rare qualities of mind--a self-discipline and
largeness of thought which are the highest result of culture. The
"Objections of Christianity," which I have also read, are excellently
put, and have an immense advantage over the "Answers of Infidelity" in
their greater homogeneity. The first part I have only begun and glanced
through, and at present have no other observation to make than that I
think you might have brought a little more artillery to bear on
Christian morality. But nothing is easier than to find fault--nothing
so difficult as to _do_ some real work.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 5th Mch. 1857.]
I think I wrote very brusquely and disagreeably to you the other day,
but the impertinence was altogether in the form and not at all in
the feeling. I always have uncomfortable sensations after writing
objections and criticisms when they relate to things I substantially
admire. It is inflicting a hurt on my own veneration.
I showed the passage on the eye, p. 157, to Herbert Spencer, and he
agrees with us that you have not stated your idea so as to render it a
logical argument against design. You appear to imply that development
and gradation in organs and functions are opposed to that conception,
which they are not. I suppose you are aware that we all three hold the
conception of creative design to be untenable. We only think you have
not made out a good case against it.
Thank you for sending me some news of Harriet Martineau. I have often
said lately, "I wonder how she is."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 14th Mch. 1857.]
I am glad you retain a doubt in favor of the _dagger_, and wish I
could convert you to entire approval, for I am much more satisfied
when your feeling is thoroughly with me. But it would be the death of
my story to substitute a dream for the real scene. Dreams usually play
an important part in fiction, but rarely, I think, in actual life.
So many of us have reason to know that criminal impulses may be felt
by a nature which is nevertheless guarded by its entire constitution
from the commission of crime, that I can't help hoping that my
Caterina will not forfeit the sympathy of all my readers.
The answer you propose to give to curious inquirers is the best
possible. For several reasons I am very anxious to retain my
_incognito_ for some time to come, and, to an author not already
famous, anonymity is the highest _prestige_. Besides, if George Eliot
turns out a dull dog and an ineffective writer--a mere flash in the
pan--I, for one, am determined to cut him on the first intimation of
that disagreeable fact.
The fates have willed that this shall be a very melancholy story, and
I am longing to be a little merrier again.
On the 16th March Mr. Lewes and George Eliot started for
Plymouth, Penzance, and the Scilly Isles, and we have the
following recollections of their stay there:
[Sidenote: Recollections, Scilly Isles, March-May, 1857.]
I had never before seen a granite coast, and on the southern side of
the island of St. Mary's one sees such a coast in its most striking
and characteristic forms. Rectangular crevices, the edges of which
have been rounded by weather, give many of the granite masses a
resemblance to bales of wool or cotton heaped on each other; another
characteristic form is the mushroom-shaped mass, often lying poised on
the summits of more cubical bowlders or fragments; another is the
immense flat platform stretching out like a pier into the sea; another
the oval basins formed by the action of the rain-water on the summits
of the rocks and bowlders. The coloring of the rocks was very various
and beautiful; sometimes a delicate grayish-green, from the shaggy
byssus which clothes it, chiefly high up from the water; then a light,
warm brown; then black; occasionally of a rich yellow; and here and
there purplish. Below the rocks, on the coast, are almost everywhere
heaps of white bowlders, sometimes remarkably perfect ovals, and
looking like huge eggs of some monstrous bird. Hardly any weed was to
be seen on the granite, except here and there in a rock-pool, green
with young ulva; and no barnacles incrust the rock, no black mussels,
scarcely any limpets. The waves that beat on this coast are clear as
crystal, and we used to delight in watching them rear themselves like
the horses of a mighty sea-god as they approached the rocks on which
they were broken into eddies of milky foam. Along a great part of this
southern coast there stretch heathy or furzy downs, over which I used
to enjoy rambling immensely; there is a sense of freedom in those
unenclosed grounds that one never has in a railed park, however
extensive. Then, on the north side of the island, above Sandy Bar,
what a view we used to get of the opposite islands and reefs, with
their delicious violet and yellow tints--the tall ship or two anchored
in the Sound, changing their aspect like living things, and when the
wind was at all high the white foam prancing round the reefs and
rising in fountain-like curves above the screen of rocks!
Many a wet and dirty walk we had along the lanes, for the weather was
often wet and almost always blustering. Now and then, however, we had
a clear sky and a calm sea, and on such days it was delicious to look
up after the larks that were soaring above us, or to look out on the
island and reef studded sea. I never enjoyed the lark before as I
enjoyed it at Scilly--never felt the full beauty of Shelley's poem on
it before. A spot we became very fond of towards the close of our stay
was Carne Lea, where, between two fine, jutting piles of granite,
there was a soft down, gay with the pretty pink flowers of the thrift,
which, in this island, carpets the ground like greensward. Here we
used to sit and lie in the bright afternoons, watching the silver
sunlight on the waves--bright silver, not golden--it is the morning
and evening sunlight that is golden. A week or two after our arrival
we made the acquaintance of Mr. Moyle, the surgeon, who became a
delightful friend to us, always ready to help with the contents of his
surgery or anything else at his command. We liked to have him come and
smoke a cigar in the evening, and look in now and then for a little
lesson in microscopy. The little indications of the social life at
Scilly that we were able to pick up were very amusing. I was
repeatedly told, in order to make me aware who Mr. Hall was, that he
married a Miss Lemon. The people at St. Mary's imagine that the
lawyers and doctors at Penzance are a sort of European characters that
every one knows. We heard a great deal about Mr. Quill, an Irishman,
the Controller of the Customs; and one day, when we were making a call
on one of the residents, our host said two or three times, at
intervals, "I wish you knew Quill!" At last, on our farewell call, we
saw the distinguished Quill, with his hair plastered down, his
charming smile, and his trousers with a broad stripe down each leg.
Our host amused us by his contempt for curs: "Oh, I wouldn't have a
cur--there's nothing to look at in a cur!"[55]
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 5th April, 1857.]
The smallest details, written in the hastiest way, that will enable me
to imagine you as you are, are just what I want; indeed, all I care
about in correspondence. We are more and more in love with these
little islands. There is not a tree to be seen, but there are grand
granite hills on the coast, such as I never saw before, and
furze-covered hills with larks soaring and singing above them, and
zoological wonders on the shore to fill our bottles and our souls at
once. For some time I have been unusually weak and knock-up-able. Our
landlady is an excellent woman, but, like almost all peculiarly
domestic women, has not more than rudimentary ideas of cooking; and in
an island where you can get nothing but beef, except by sending to
Penzance, that supreme science has its maximum value. She seems to
think eating a purely arbitrary procedure--an abnormal function of mad
people who come to Scilly; and if we ask her what the people live on
here, is quite at a loss to tell us, apparently thinking the question
relates to the abstruser portion of natural history. But I insist,
and give her a culinary lecture every morning, and we do, in the end,
get fed. Altogether our life here is so far better than the golden age
that we work as well as play. That is the happy side of things. But
there is a very sad one to me which I shall not dwell upon--only tell
you of. More than a week ago I received the news that poor Chrissey
had lost one of her pretty little girls of fever; that the other
little one--they were the only two she had at home with her--was also
dangerously ill, and Chrissey herself and her servant apparently
attacked by typhus too. The thought of her in this state is a
perpetual shadow to me in the sunshine.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 16th April, 1857.]
I shudder at entering on such great subjects (as "Design") in letters;
my idle brain wants lashing to work, like a negro, and will do nothing
under a slighter stimulus. We are enjoying a retrogression to
old-fashioned reading. I rush on the slightest pretext to Sophocles,
and am as excited about blind old Oedipus as any young lady can be
about the latest hero with magnificent eyes. But there is _one_ new
book we have been enjoying, and so, I hope, have you--the "Life of
Charlotte Brontë." Deeply affecting throughout; in the early part
romantic, poetic, as one of her own novels; in the later years tragic,
especially to those who know what sickness is. Mrs. Gaskell has done
her work admirably, both in the industry and care with which she has
gathered and selected her material, and in the feeling with which she
has presented it. There is one exception, however, which I regret very
much. She sets down Branwell's conduct entirely to remorse. Remorse
may make sad work with a man, but it will not make such a life as
Branwell's was in the last three or four years, unless the germs of
vice had sprouted and shot up long before, as it seems clear they had
in him. What a tragedy!--that picture of the old father and the three
sisters trembling, day and night, in terror at the possible deeds of
their drunken, brutal son and brother! That is the part of the life
which affects me most.
[Sidenote: Letter to Isaac P. Evans, 16th April, 1857.]
I have been looking anxiously for some further tidings of Chrissey
since your last letter, which told me that she and Kate were better,
though not out of danger. I try to hope that no news is good news; but
if you do not think it troublesome to write, I shall be thankful to
have that hope changed into certainty.
Meanwhile, to save multiplying letters--which I know you are not fond
of--I mention now what will take no harm from being mentioned rather
prematurely. I should like Chrissey to have £15 of my next half-year's
income, due at the beginning of June, to spend in taking a change of
air as soon as she is able to do so; and perhaps, if it were desirable
for her to leave before the money has been paid in, you would be so
kind as to advance it for a few weeks. I am writing, of course, in
ignorance of her actual state; but I should think it must be good for
her, as soon as she is able to move, to leave that fever-infected
place for a time, and I know the money must have gone very fast in
recent expenses. I only suggest the change of air as the thing that I
should think best for Chrissey; but, in any case, I should like her to
have the money, to do what she pleases with it. If she is well enough
please to give her the enclosed note, in which I have suggested to her
what I have just written to you.
I am much obliged to you for your last letter, and shall be still more
so if you will write me word of Chrissey's present condition.
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 1st May, 1857.]
Thank you for the pleasant notes of impressions concerning my story,
sent to me through Lewes.
I will pay attention to your caution about the danger of huddling up
my stories. Conclusions are the weak point of most authors, but some
of the fault lies in the very nature of a conclusion, which is at best
a negation.
There must be something wrong in the winding-up of "Amos," for I have
heard of two persons who are disappointed with the conclusion. But the
story never presented itself to me as possible to be protracted after
Milly's death. The drama ends there.
I am thinking of writing a short epilogue to "Mr. Gilfil's
Love-Story," and I will send it you with the proof from Jersey, where,
on a strict promise that I am not to be dissected, I shall shortly
join our friend Lewes.
The third story will be very different from either of the preceding,
which will perhaps be an advantage, as poor Tina's sad tale was
necessarily rather monotonous in its effects.
The epilogue to "Mr. Gilfil" was written sitting on the
Fortification Hill, Scilly Isles, one sunshiny morning.
[Sidenote: Jersey, Recollections, 1857.]
It was a beautiful moment (12th May) when we came to our lodgings at
Gorey. The orchards were all in blossom--and this is an island of
orchards. They cover the slopes; they stretch before you in shady,
grassy, indefinite extent through every other gateway by the roadside;
they flourish in some spots almost close to the sea. What a contrast
to the Scilly Isles! There you stand on the hills like a sparrow on
the housetop; here you are like the same sparrow when he is hopping
about on the branches with green above him, green below, and green
all round. Gorey stands in Granville Bay, where the grand old castle
of Mont Orgueil stands and keeps guard on a fine rocky promontory
overlooking the little harbor dotted with fishing craft. There is a
charming piece of common, or down, where you can have the quietest,
easiest walking, with a carpet of minute wild-flowers that are not
hindered from flourishing by the sandy rain of the coast. I delighted
extremely in the brownish-green softness of this undulating common,
here and there varied with a patch of bright green fern--all the
prettier for two little homesteads set down upon it, with their
garden-fence and sheltering trees. It was pretty in all lights, but
especially the evening light, to look round at the castle and harbor,
the village and the scattered dwellings peeping out from among trees
on the hill. The castle is built of stone which has a beautiful
pinkish-gray tint, and the bright green ivy hangs oblique curtains on
its turreted walls, making it look like a natural continuation or
outgrowth of the rocky and grassy height on which it stands. Then the
eye wanders on to the right and takes in the church standing half-way
down the hill, which is clothed with a plantation, and shelters the
little village, with its cloud of blue smoke; still to the right, and
the village breaks off, leaving nothing but meadows in front of the
slope that shuts out the setting sun, and only lets you see a hint of
the golden glory that is reflected in the pink, eastern clouds.
The first lovely walk we found inland was the Queen's Fern Valley,
where a broad strip of meadow and pasture lies between two high slopes
covered with woods and ferny wilderness. When we first saw this valley
it was in the loveliest spring-time; the woods were a delicious
mixture of red and tender green and purple. We have watched it losing
that spring beauty and passing into the green and flowery luxuriance
of June, and now into the more monotonous summer tint of July.
When the blossoms fell away from the orchards my next delight was to
look at the grasses mingled with the red sorrel; then came the white
umbelliferous plants, making a border or inner frame for them along
the hedgerows and streams. Another pretty thing here is the luxuriance
of the yellow iris, that covers large pieces of moist ground with its
broad blades. Everywhere there are tethered cows, looking at you with
meek faces--mild-eyed, sleek, fawn-colored creatures, with delicate,
downy udders.
Another favorite walk of ours was round by Mont Orgueil, along the
coast. Here we had the green or rocky slope on one side of us, and on
the other the calm sea stretching to the coast of France, visible on
all but the murkiest days. But the murky days were not many during our
stay, and our evening walks round the coast usually showed us a
peaceful, scarcely rippled sea, plashing gently on the purple pebbles
of the little scalloped bays. There were two such bays within the
boundary of our sea-side walk in that direction, and one of them was a
perpetual wonder to us, in the luxuriant verdure of meadows and
orchards and forest-trees that sloped down to the very shore. No
distressed look about the trees as if they were ever driven harshly
back by the winter winds--it was like an inland slope suddenly carried
to the coast.
As for the inland walks, they are inexhaustible. The island is one
labyrinth of delicious roads and lanes, leading you by the most
charming nooks of houses with shady grounds and shrubberies,
delightful farm homesteads, and trim villas.
It was a sweet, peaceful life we led here. Good creatures, the Amys,
our host and hostess, with their nice boy and girl, and the little
white kid--the family pet. No disagreeable sounds to be heard in the
house, no unpleasant qualities to hinder one from feeling perfect love
to these simple people. We have had long rambles and long readings.
But our choice of literature has been rather circumscribed in this
out-of-the-way place. The "Life of George Stephenson" has been a real
profit and pleasure. I have read Draper's "Physiology" aloud for grave
evening hours, and such books as Currer Bell's "Professor," Mlle.
d'Auny's "Mariage en Province," and Miss Ferrier's "Marriage," for
lighter food. The last, however, we found ourselves unable to finish,
notwithstanding Miss Ferrier's high reputation. I have been getting a
smattering of botany from Miss Catlow and from Dr. Thomson's little
book on wild-flowers, which have created at least a longing for
something more complete on the subject.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 22d May, 1857.]
Such hedgerows in this island! Such orchards, white against the green
slopes, and shady walks by the woodside, with distracting
wild-flowers. We enjoy the greenery and variety of this bushy island
all the better for our stay on bare Scilly, which we had gone to and
fro upon till we knew it by heart. Our little lodgings are very
snug--only 13_s._ a week--a nice little sitting-room, with a workroom
adjoining for Mr. Lewes, who is at this moment in all the bliss of
having discovered a parasitic worm in a cuttlefish. We dine at five,
and our afternoons are almost exhausted in rambling. I hope to get up
my strength in this delicious quiet, and have fewer interruptions to
work from headache than I have been having since Christmas. I wonder
if I should have had the happiness of seeing Cara if I had been at
Richmond now. I would rather see her than any one else in the
world--except poor Chrissey. Tell me when you have read the life of
Currer Bell. Some people think its revelations in bad taste--making
money out of the dead, wounding the feelings of the living, etc. What
book is there that some people or other will not find abominable? We
thought it admirable, cried over it, and felt the better for it. We
read Cromwell's letters again at Scilly with great delight.
In May Mr. Lewes writes to Mr. John Blackwood: "We were both
amused with the divination of the Manx seer and his friend
Liggers." This is the first mention of the individual, whose
real name was Liggins of Nuneaton, who afterwards became
notorious for laying claim to the authorship of the "Scenes
of Clerical Life" and "Adam Bede."
"Janet's Repentance" had been begun on the 18th April, and
the first three parts were finished in Jersey. In reference
to the "Scenes of Clerical Life" there are the following
entries in the Journal:
[Sidenote: Journal, 1857.]
_May 2._--Received letter from Blackwood expressing his approbation of