table
in judging them. "Until we know what this combination has been, or will
be, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about" the character
that results. "There is a terrible coercion in our deeds which may first
turn the honest man into a deceiver, and then reconcile him to the
change. And for this reason the second wrong presents itself to him in
the guise of the only practicable right." There is nothing of the spirit
of "served him right," or "just what she deserved," or "they ought to
have known better," in George Eliot. That is not in her line. The
opposite of that is exactly in her line. This is characteristic of her:
"In this world there are so many of these common, coarse people, who have
no picturesque or sentimental wretchedness! And it is so needful we
should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite
out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only
fit a world of extremes." She does not leave them out. Her books are
full of them, and of a Christly charity and plea for them. Who can ever
forget little Tiny, "hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in
the breast of the bird that has fluttered down to its nest with the
long-sought food, and has found the nest torn and empty?" There is
nothing in fiction to surpass in pathos the picture of the death of Mrs.
Amos Barton. George Eliot's fellow-feeling comes of the habit she
ascribes to Daniel Deronda, "the habit of thinking herself imaginatively
into the experience of others." That is the reason why her novels come
home so pitilessly to those who have had a deep experience of human life.
These are the men and women whom she fascinates and alienates. I know
strong men and brave women who are afraid of her books, and say so. It
is because of her realness, her unrelenting fidelity to human nature and
human life. It is because the analysis is so delicate, subtle, and
far-in. Hence the atmosphere of sadness that pervades her pages. It was
unavoidable. To see only the behavior, as Dickens did, amuses us; to
study only the motive at the root of the behavior, as George Eliot does,
saddens us. The humor of Mrs. Poyser and the wit of Mrs. Transome only
deepen the pathos by relieving it. There is hardly a sarcasm in these
books but has its pensive undertone.

It is all in the key of "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," and that
would be an appropriate key for a requiem over the grave of George