F. Watts, is too gloomy; that made by Whistler is a striking work, but makes the author, as he sits in a rude chair, hat in hand, too much like a beggar at a church door. Woolner's bust is power ful, but the better part of Carlyle can not be suggested in marble; granite would be a better medium. Generally photographers have done him more justice than the painters. sired to support it—but it was expressed the artist's work, and expressed a childwith the finest taste and feeling. This Or- like surprise and pleasure at seeing his der was fixed on because it had been kept face emerge from the chaos of pigments. more pure than others; and "since you, Perhaps the best picture of him as a young like myself, are childless," wrote the Pre-man was that taken almost surreptitiousmier, the common baronetcy seemed less ly by Count d'Orsay, soon after the pubappropriate. Carlyle wrote an equally lication of Sartor Resartus. The only courteous and noble reply in declining- satisfactory picture I have ever seen of whose sentences I will not venture to re-him is that by Tait, owned by Lady Ashcord from memory, as no doubt the world burton. "An Interior at Chelsea," by G. will soon be enabled to read the correspondence-but with a fine delicacy withheld it until his friend Tennyson should have responded to a similar offer. One honor Carlyle did value-the naming of a green space in Chelsea "Carlyle Square." | Carlyle never thoroughly enjoyed art. Had that side of him not been repressed in early life, his last years had been happier. He had, indeed, on his walls some beautiful pictures, but they were portraits, or pictures which had got there for some other reason than that they were works of art. When he first came to London he had a prejudice even against portraits. Count d'Orsay was only able to make his clever sketch half surreptitiously. I myself remember the difficulty which artists had in persuading him to sit for a picture. The first to coax him in that direction was Madox Brown. This excellent artist designed a picture of "Work," in which he desired to introduce the Rev. Frederic D. Maurice as a working-man's friend, and Carlyle as the Prophet of Work. He had no difficulty with Maurice, but Carlyle refused to sit, and could barely be persuaded to accompany the artist to South Kensington, and stand against a rail while a photographer took the fulllength which Madox Brown needed. Carlyle made a slight grimace, however, and said, "Can I go now?" The completed picture represented builders busy on the street; some fashionably dressed ladies are picking their way past the bricks and mortar; Maurice looks on meditatively, and with some sadness in his face, at this continuance of the curse, "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat thy bread"; while Carlyle rejoices in it, and while leaning on his cane laughs heartily-this laugh being the outcome of the grimace which he left on the photograph. Few of his portraits are good, partly, no doubt, because of the somewhat miserable look which spread over his face whenever he was induced to sit for his portrait. However, he gradually gained a respect for What vague notions Carlyle had of art, even so late as 1850, may be gathered from a little note he wrote that year to Leigh Hunt, from which its possessor permits me to take a sentence: "One of my people to-night, an accomplished American, has begged a card of introduction to you. He is a son of a certain noted Judge Story; is himself, I believe, a kind of sculptor and artist, as well as a lawyer. Pray receive him if he call. You will find him a friendly and entertainable and entertaining man." He had much admiration for his neighbor John Leech, and thoroughly enjoyed his cartoons in Punch. When that great master of caricature died prematurely of a nervous disorder, from which it was thought he might have recovered but for the organ-grinders, Carlyle, who suffered from the same fraternity, mingled with his sorrow for Leech some severe sermons against that kind of liberty which "permitted Italian foreigners to invade London, and kill John Leech, and no doubt hundreds of other nervous people, who die and make no sign." John Leech was doing his work thoroughly well, and that is the only liberty worth anything. Carlyle did not attend the theatre. I have sometimes suspected that there was in him a survival of the religious horror of theatres which prevailed at Annandale. He went to hear Charles Dickens read his works, and enjoyed that extremely. "I had no conception, before hearing Dickens read, of what capacities lie in the human face and voice. No theatre stage could have had more players than seemed to flit about his face, and all tones were present. There was no need | position, by those among whom they live. of any orchestra." He also liked to go The sure verdict of the years can alone deand hear Mr. Ralston, the charming and cide whether she whom we mourn was as scholarly story-teller, recite and interpret great as we deem her. Great she surely his fairy lore. These enjoyments were was, with no ordinary greatness, who has very rare, however, as, indeed, they were so swayed the thoughts and moved the poor beside the scenery of history, the he- heart of her own generation. roic figures of great men, and the world drama, on which the eye of Carlyle never closed. The dramatic and other arts came within his reach too late in life. He had passed the age when he could enjoy them for beauty or turn them to use; and when the farther age came, and the feebleness which the arts might have beguiled, he had no pleasure in them. Carlyle's was not only an essentially religious mind, but even passionately so. His profound reverence, his ever-burning flame of devout thought, made him impatient of all such substitutes for these as dogmas and ceremonies-the lamps gone out long ago. There was a sort of divine anger that filled him whenever forced to contemplate selfishness and egotism in the guise of humility and faith. W GEORGE ELIOT. THENEVER the life of George Eliot is written, it is plain that the interest will be found to lie chiefly in the records of her mind, as shown by what of her conversation can be preserved and by her correspondence. For of outward events her life had few. She shunned rather than courted publicity, and there will be nothing to satisfy any of those who look for exciting narratives in biography. The time, however, is not come for such a record. Her loss is obviously too recent to her own family and friends to enable them to sift and winnow with impartiality what may be at their disposal. We must be content to wait, and in the mean time merely gather up whatever may be known of one who has long been so much to so many on both sides of the Atlantic. Few of the notices which have yet appeared have been complete, and some have been incorrect. We will here attempt to relate, as far as may be, what there is to tell of her life, and try to give those who had not the great honor of her personal acquaintance some portrait of what she was. No doubt it is difficult to judge those who live in our own immediate time. The greatest are sometimes hardly appreciated, the insignificant are given too high a Mary Ann Evans-not Marian, though this name was afterward given her by the affection of friends, and was that by which she frequently signed herself-Mary Ann Evans was born at Griff House, near Nuneaton, on the 22d November, 1820. Her father, Mr. Robert Evans, who had begun life as a master-carpenter, came from Derbyshire, and had become land agent to several important properties in that rich Warwickshire district. The sketches of Mr. Burge in Adam Bede and of Caleb Garth in Middlemarch would give a fair idea of her father's life in these two positions, although it must not be for a moment supposed that either of them was intended as a definite portrait. Her mother died when she was fifteen, and her father afterward removed to Foleshill, near Coventry, with which removal her childish life closed. It is not unlikely that the time will come when, with one or other of her books in their hand, people will wander among the scenes of George Eliot's early youth, and trace each allusion, as they are wont to do at Abbotsford or Newstead, and they will recognize the photographic minuteness and accuracy with which these scenes, so long unvisited, had stamped themselves on the mind of the observant girl. Maggie Tulliver's Childhood is clearly full of the most accurate personal recollections, not, indeed, of scenery, for St. Oggs is the town of Gainsborough, in Lincolnshire, from which the physical features of the tale were taken. But her inner life as a child is described in it and in the autobiographical sonnets called "Brother and Sister." The "Red Deeps," however, the scene of Maggie's spiritual awakening, were near her own home, and had evidently been a favorite haunt of the real Maggie in childhood. So, too, the churches and villages, and the town described in the Scenes of Clerical Life, are all drawn from her own intimate experiences. "Cheveril Manor" is Arbury Hall, the seat of the Newdegates, Mr. Robert Evans's early patrons; Knebley, described in Mr. Gilfil's Love Story, is Astley Church, hard by; Shepperton, in Amos Barton, is Chilvers Coton; Nun- | characters, far too complimentary to otheaton is Milby; and, indeed, it seems pret-ers, to believe that they were actual. In ty certain, as first pointed out by a writer the few instances in which identification in the Graphic, that many of the inci- is possible, the unlikenesses to that which dents, as well as the scenery, of George served as the hint are greater than the Eliot's early stories were hung on facts likenesses. well known in that Warwickshire neighborhood. At the same time it was but little that she took from outside. The merest hint or sketch of one whom she had seen was worked up, by a creative genius scarcely matched since Shakspeare, into a picture which lives, a true memorial. It would be unfair to some of her VOL. LXII.-No. 372.-58 Among the most interesting facts of Mary Ann Evans's early life is the deep love she clearly bore her mother. When she speaks of her in the autobiographical sonnets, however slightly, it is with the tenderest touch; and we can not but feel sure that the beautiful maternity of Mrs. Moss, the upright rectitude of Mrs. Garth, the tender spots in the heart of Mrs. Poyser, the mature beauty of Milly Barton, are all recollections of the mother she loved and lost. We do not at all know what was Mrs. Evans's age at her death, but we feel intimately persuaded that she was about thirty-five, the age at which Milly Barton died, and at which the still more beautiful and stately Janet repented, and became a noble woman. Mr. Robert Evans was able to give his daughter an exceptionally good education. There were and are so many bad schools for girls that it was a piece of singular good fortune that Mrs. Wallington, at Nuneaton, and afterward Miss Franklin, at Coventry, undertook her education. To Mrs. Wallington the writer in the Graphic thinks that George Eliot owed some of the beauty of her intonation in reading English poetry. Besides the studies at school, she was fortunate in finding a willing instructor in the then head-master of Coventry Grammar School, Mr. Sheepshanks; and motherless as she was, she possibly studied more deeply than a mother's care for a delicate daughter's health would have permitted. However this may be, the years that she spent near Coventry, on her father's removal to Foleshill, till his death in 1849, were years of excessive work, issuing in a riper culture than that attained by any other prominent Englishwoman of our age, and only approached by that of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. No one can read George Eliot's books without realizing the fact that she had gone through deep religious troubles. Some changes in her faith are recorded in the letter to Miss Hennell. We can not but regret the publication of that letter as it stood, because it is quite clear that words addressed to her friend, and never intended for publication, needed some qualification; but, on the whole, they of course represent the facts. From one belief she passed through doubt to another, though very different, phase of belief, and while she was in this transition stage grave misunderstandings occurred with her own family. The friends who then stood by her and smoothed over the family difficulties, Mr. and Mrs. Bray, of Coventry, brought about incidentally her first introduction to serious literary work. Mrs. Bray's brother, Mr. Charles Hennell, was interested in a translation of Strauss's Leben Jesu, which had been intrusted to the lady he was about to marry, and who had before her marriage accomplished about one-fourth of the entire work. During a visit to Tenby with the Brays, Miss Evans became acquainted with this lady, and, on her relinquishment of the task in consequence of her marriage, took it up and completed it. This kind of literary work was then, as unfortunately now, sadly underpaid. Twenty pounds was the entire sum received for this, one of the best translations known to us. On Mr. Evans's death, in 1849, his daugh ter went abroad with the Brays, and staid Miss Evans's literary work in London behind them at Geneva for purposes of brought about an acquaintance and a study. Some time after her return to warm friendship with some of the more England, she became a boarder in the remarkable literary men of that time. house of Mr.-now Dr.-Chapman, who Among others may be mentioned Mr. Herwith his wife was in the habit of receiv-bert Spencer, her close friend for so many ing ladies into their family. She assisted | years; Mr. Pigott, then editor of the LeadMr. Chapman in the editorship of the Westminster Review, and her literary career in London was fairly begun. Her work on the Westminster Review was chiefly editorial. During the years in which she was connected with it she wrote far fewer articles than might have been supposed. The most important of them were the following, written between 1852 and 1859, inclusive: "Woman in FranceMadame De Sable;" "Evangelical Teaching" (on Dr. Cumming); "The Natural History of German Life;" "German Wit" (on Heine); "Worldliness and Otherworldliness" (on Young and Cowper). Two or three others have been attributed to her, but their authorship is not quite certain, and they are not, at any rate, works by which she would probably desire to be known, or which immediately and clearly prove themselves to be hers by internal evidence. er newspaper, to the pages of which she occasionally contributed; and George Henry Lewes, whose name will always be indissolubly associated with her own, and which she bore for nearly the whole remainder of her life. The question has naturally some interest how far two persons of such remarkable intellectual individuality affected each other's work during the many years of their joint lives. Those who have read George Eliot's novels but superficially, and who have been acquainted with the fact that Mr. Lewes's studies lay very greatly in the direction of physiology, have thought that they discovered his influence in the many scientific similes and allusions which abound in her works; but they are wholly mistaken. In the very earliest writings, as well as in the latest, are passages of this character; and it was only because people noticed them more, as the circumstances of |