It is now too late to claim credit for having discovered the female authorship before this disclosure of the fact.  But it seems to us impossible, when once the idea has been suggested, to read through these books without finding confirmation of it in almost every page.  There is, indeed, power such as is rarely given to woman (or to man either); there are traces of knowledge which is not usual among women (although some of the classical quotations might at least have been more correctly printed); there is a good deal of coarseness, which it is unpleasant to think of as the work of a woman; and, as we shall have occasion to observe more fully hereafter, the influence which these novels are likely to exercise over the public taste is not altogether such as a woman should aim at.  But, with all this, the tone and atmosphere of the books are unquestionably feminine.  The men are a woman’s men—­the women are a woman’s women; the points on which the descriptions dwell in persons of each sex are those which a woman would choose.  In matters of dress we are assured that “George Eliot” avoids the errors of “Jane Eyre”; for no doubt she has had better opportunities of study than those which were afforded by the Sunday finery of Howorth church.  The sketches of nature, of character, of life and manners, show female observation; penetrating where it alone could penetrate, and usually stopping at the boundaries beyond which it does not advance....

On looking at these very slight sketches we cannot but be struck by the uniformly melancholy ending of the tales.  The first culminates in the death of the heroine (a word which in relation to these stories must be very loosely interpreted), Mrs. Barton; the second, in the death of the heroine, Mrs. Gilfil; the third, in the death of the hero, Mr. Tryan; the fourth, in the death of one of the heroines, Hetty Sorrel; the fifth, in the simultaneous death of the heroine and her brother, who is, we suppose, to be regarded as the chief hero.  Surely this is an exaggerated representation of the proportion which sorrow bears to happiness in human life; and the fact that a popular writer has (whether consciously or not) brought every one of the five stories which she has published to a tragical end gives a very uncomfortable idea of the tone of our present literature.  And other such symptoms are only too plentiful—­the announcement of a novel with the title of “Why Paul Freeoll Killed his Wife” being one of the latest.  With all respect for the talents of the lady who offers us the solution of this question, we must honestly profess that we would rather not know, and that we regret such an employment of her pen.

And in “George Eliot’s” writings there is very much of this kind to regret.  She delights in unpleasant subjects—­in the representation of things which are repulsive, coarse, and degrading.  Thus, in “Mr. Gilfil’s Story,” Tina is only prevented from committing murder by the opportune death of her intended victim.  In “Janet’s Repentance,” a drunken husband beats his beautiful but drunken wife, turns her out of doors at midnight in her night-dress, and dies of “delirium tremens and meningitis.” ...