ued so to the
end.

Their life together seemed to be one of unbroken love and confidence,
their delight in each other increasing, if possible, with time. The
letters and journals of George Eliot are full of expressions of this
love and trust, and give us very pleasing pictures of the character and
life of Mr. Lewes. He seems to have been an eminently genial, kind,
loving, and appreciative man; a man, too, of fascinating manners and
wonderfully keen intellect, though totally lacking in any such genius as
that which has made George Eliot immortal. Charming glimpses of their
home life occur on every page,--a home life that was sweet and well
ordered, pervaded by such a spirit of love and devotion as would
sanctify any home. George Eliot was the most womanly of women, despite
what is often called her masculine intellect; and she made a genuine
home, after the true and womanly fashion, delighting in good order and
neatness and such attention to details as is an absolute necessity in
the formation of a happy home. She never allowed her literary work to
prevent her from overseeing that home, and in her younger days seems to
have had a real taste for executing these housekeeping details herself.
There was no remote hint of Mrs. Jellyby in her, but strong, practical
common-sense in all the management of her family affairs, and a real
delight in having all things well ordered and agreeable in her home.
This is one of the most pleasing of the many revelations of this book.
We love to know that she was a true woman, and no intellectual
monstrosity. The glimpses that are given of her nursing her father
through his long last sickness are very sweet and touching, and
everything connected with her devotion to Mr. Lewes's children, down to
poor Thornie's death, makes us love her more and more. Indeed, it is a
strong, pure, loving, and noble woman that is brought out on every page
of this Life. But a very sad and deep-thoughted woman, too; one to whom
pity goes out as naturally as love. She was afflicted with ill health
all her life, and the record of all this suffering is at times
oppressive. One cannot help wishing that we might have had the same
woman strong and well, and wondering what sort of books would have been
the result. Far pleasanter and more cheering, no doubt, for some of them
are heart-breakingly sad as it is, but perhaps no deeper or truer. Then,
too, she suffered keenly through her sympathies, feeling for all loss
and w