The Indianapolis sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis, Ind.) 1880-1904, 1885-02-08

with mingled feelings of dread and hope II
regarded rs o Hovel-dresd of dire catss-
tIophe and hope that ii would be free from
1t and full of sunshine.
Read as an essay the story could not be
followed. The mind would be on the stretch
to follow the characters, while being con-
stantly drawn aside to consider the philoso.
ply. At no time could it be free from de-
sire to consider and argue the multiplicity
OF serious questions presented-to follow out
the new channels OF thought constantly
opening on this hand or that. A vulgar com.
palison made the reading like dressing for a
bail, then oscillating between the dancing in
the ballroom and the study of abstruse mathe-
mstical problems in the dressing room, with
an occasional interruption to witness some
painful or wonderful scene. / am totally
unable to find clear comparison. was
disposed to think they were failures as nov
els-failures IS essays-while the matter in
them, separated and put in different shape,
would make both of the very highest order
They seemed like an effort to blend philoso.
ply and romance and spelling both. Had
they done any good? Had they done any
harm? Confound them | wish l had
never read them, was the feeling
sometimes had. Yet, on an attempt
at analysis, / asked myself all sorts of
questions. Had she not accomplished
IN perfection what no other writer had been
able TO co? Had she not pictured life as it
ls IN reality and leftnothing to imagin alton?
Had she not analysed character as no one
before her had ever succeeded In doing?
He'd she net condensed more social science
INTO less space than ever had been attem pied
by the most astute professors, and then
with unparalleled ingenuity-put it in such
shape that IL would be read by millions, in
stead OF reaching only the scholars and rust
ing on the shelves of classic libraries. l could
not decide. The impressions of pain and
suffering and wretchedness had confr )nted
me a. every step as | moved along with her
characters. The meanness, the bitterness.
viciousness of humanity. often blessed with
the best that Life can give OF material sur
rouDdiDgs, side by SIDE with the goodness.
the sense of right and Justice, the nobiest
sacrifices, the most eupobling thoughts and
acts rewarded by trouble, misfortune decep-
ton aud injustice at every turn. Ignorance
and weakness supremacy happy. knowledge
and strength supremacy miserable.
Here and there little reward for Dinah
Morris or an Adam Bede-but what an ocean
OF wretchedness and sorrow are crossed to
reach 1t? Here and there a sort of happiness
like Mrs Cassaubon after years of mistakes
and inconsistencies. Here and there q semi
pleasant life likesMr. Irwines, but what per-
sonal sacrifice, and floods of sorrow from
time to time, leave bitter memories? What
deyilish fatality is 1t that puts such patiencs
Moss; such goodness and misery as centers
IN Philip Wakem; such sturdy sense OF jus
tice and dire misfortune as .all to the lot of
MIR. Tulliver; such internal spite as vents its
malice on Maggie Tulliver and sends the
manly Tom to the bottom of the river; while
"A vagabond like Bob Jakin-with only lit
tie gratitude and generosity in him to offset
q world of kpavery-and an educated william
ike stephen Guest, get through life swim
miDgly and enjoy about all there is in it?
Why does she bring such people before us
mixed up with the analysis of human char.
scter under all phases and circumstances,
with history, philosophy. science, theology,
SO put together that only pain
we lay down one of her books,
and then call it q novel? Why is it that
some poor girl is betrayed and her life
crushed out, in nearly every one OF her
works? Why is some noble character re-
warded only after suffering the grsvest
Injustice and when but a marrow
or she goes down under the vilest injustice?
Is 1t because she brings before us that which
is about us on all sides, but which we only
PARTLY see? Does she mingle with the pain
we feel when following her something,
that makes us judge more correctly, look at
life more nationally, weigh human motives
more impartially and enables US to deal
more with facts and less with romance,
sdspt Ourselves to our surroundings az they
are and strive less to act as il they
were our fsncies would have
them? How could al Atheist or Fatal.
ist write such things as she has written, or
laint such scenes in words as she Las pre-
sented TO US? Has she left US sceptics-in
doubt-when We lay down her books? Am
1 sorry have read her writings? Has she
not sbown US vice and what led to it-began
with its incubation and followed its growth;
and all along shown how it could have been
avoided? Has she not shown rs virtue and
what reward it has-if any? Has she
not shown Us the weakness and the
strength OF human nature and the
springs that underlie its thoughts and acts,
as no other novelist has ever been able to do
and IN way that prevents comparison with
any other writer2 Has she not done what
the pulpit and the stage have failed to do
shown rs human life as il Is, without one
particle OF romantic colorlng. and yet, with
all the real romance it ever feels or knows
save in imagination Has she not shown
Us the best there is in womanhoOd, and also
the meanest al d lowest 1t is capable of, and
every grade between the two, and in every
relation?
Has she not shown Us the perfection OF
life that was lived with belief in God and a
hereafter; in His special guidance and I'M
failing justice while she shows no other lie
so perfect? Has she not given us the sub.
Unity of eloquence, pathos and love in the
sermons and prayers of Dinah Morris? What
preacher or writer ever left more holy in
huence on their hearers or readers than she
has left in her writings about this heroic
character; even mingled as it is with scenes
so full of pain and sadness? What
writer ever started two such streams
as she did in Daniel Deronda2 Flowing
side by side, full of rushing currents and
deep waters, utterly unlike, always in view,
always separate, one rising and falling in
the effort TO mingle with the other, yet each
flowing in its own channel to the last; the
one steady, strong, unvarying, the other
turbulent or quiet, furious or shallow, clear
or turbid alternately, bearing along on them
the wisdom and folly the virtues and vices,
the hopes and despairs, the blisses and
miseries, the beneficences and crimes
OF life in contrasts we can not lose
sight of and that leave their
Impressions for lifetime? And so on CUES.
tons come to me, and do not know what
think of George Eliot's novels. She seems
to have lived in world OF thought that was
peculiarly her own. Her writings stand by
themselves apart from those of all others,
having nothing in common. In the years
to come she will be better understood than
she is now, and she may take her place with
the exceptional children of genius, like
Shakespeare, among the most profound OBJ
servers of human character.
Two Beauties In Washington.
ALBANY Journal