e disappeared upstairs and soon returned with the pleasing information
that I was to be shown the whole house and garden. So I pardoned him the
myth about the missus, happening to know that at that particular moment
she was at Brighton, sixty miles away.

A goodly, comfortable house, four stories, well kept, and much fine old
carved oak in the dining-room and hallways; fantastic ancient balusters,
and a peculiar bay window in the second-story rear that looked out over
the little garden. Off to the north could be seen the green of Kensington
Gardens and wavy suggestions of Hyde Park. This was George Eliot's
workshop. There was a table in the center of the room and three low
bookcases with pretty ornaments above. In the bay window was the most
conspicuous object in the room--a fine marble bust of Goethe. This, I was
assured, had been the property of Mrs. Cross, as well as all the books
and furniture in the room. In one corner was a revolving case containing
a set of the "Century Dictionary" which Jeemes assured me had been
purchased by Mr. Cross as a present for his wife a short time before she
died. This caused my faith to waver a trifle and put to flight a fine bit
of literary frenzy that might have found form soon in a sonnet.

In the front parlor, I saw a portrait of the former occupant that showed
"the face that looked like a horse." But that is better than to have the
face of any other animal of which I know. Surely one would not want to
look like a dog! Shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty-eight times in
his plays in terms of respect and affection for a horse. Who would not
resent the imputation that one's face was like that of a sheep or a goat
or an ox, and much gore has been shed because men have referred to other
men as asses--but a horse! God bless you, yes!

No one has ever accused George Eliot of being handsome, but this portrait
tells of a woman of fifty: calm, gentle, and the strong features speak of
a soul in which to confide.

At Highgate, by the side of the grave of Lewes, rests the dust of this
great and loving woman. As the pilgrim enters that famous old cemetery,
the first imposing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, costly porphyry.
As you draw near, you read this inscription:

To the memory of
ANN JEWSON CRISP
Who departed this life
Deeply lamented, Jan. 20, 1889.
Also,
Her dog, Emperor.

Beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as
e