more than she read. The classics, French, German, and Italian literature,
she laid them all under contribution. She had besides the art of
fortunate friendship: her mind naturally chose out the greater
intelligences among those she encountered; it was through a warm and
enduring friendship with Herbert Spencer that she met at last with George
Henry Lewes whose wife she became.

In this way she served no trifling apprenticeship. Natural genius,
experience of life, culture, and great companionship had joined to make
her what she was, a philosopher both natural and developed; and, what is
more rare, a philosopher with a sense of humour and a perception of the
dramatic. Thus when her chance came she was fully equipped to meet it.

It came when, at the age of thirty-six she began to write 'Amos Barton,'
her first attempt at fiction, and one that fixed her career. The story
appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and was followed by 'Mr. Gilfil's
Love Story' and 'Janet's Repentance.' Of the three, 'Mr. Gilfil's Love
Story' is perhaps the most finished and artistic; while 'Amos Barton' has
qualities of humour and tenderness that have not often been equalled.
'Janet's Repentance,' strong though it is, and containing the remarkable
sketch of Mr. Tryan, is perhaps less surely attractive.

The stories, all three of them, have a particular value as records of an
English country life that is rapidly passing away. Moreover, it is
country life seen through the medium of a powerful and right-judging
personality. It is her intimate and thorough knowledge of big things and
small, of literature and damson cheese, enabling her and us to see all
round her characters, that provides these characters with their ample
background of light and shade.

It is well to realise that since George Eliot's day the fashion of
writing, the temper of the modern mind, are quite changed; it is a
curious fact that the more sophisticated we become the simpler grows our
speech. Nowadays we talk as nearly as we may in words of one syllable.
Our style is stripped more and more of its Latinity. Our writers are more
and more in love with French methods--with the delicate clearness of
short phrases in which every word tells; with the rejection of all
intellectual ambulations round about a subject. To the fanatics of this
modern method the style of George Eliot appears strange, impossible. It
does not occur to them that her method has virtues which lack to theirs.
Th