When “Adam Bede” came out, a resident of Nuneaton purchased a copy and at once discovered local earmarks.  The scenes described, the flowers, the stone walls, the bridges, the barns, the people—­all was Nuneaton.  Who wrote it?  No one knew, but it was surely some one in Nuneaton.  So they picked out a Mr. Liggins, a solemn-faced preacher, who was always about to do something great, and they said “Liggins.”  Soon all London said “Liggins.”  As for Liggins, he looked wise and smiled knowingly.  Then articles began to appear in the periodicals purporting to have been written by the author of “Adam Bede.”  A book came out called “Adam Bede, Jr.,” and to protect her publisher, the public and herself, George Eliot had to reveal her identity.

Many men have written good books and never tasted fame; but few, like Liggins of Nuneaton, have become famous by doing nothing.  It only proves that some things can be done as well as others.  This breed of men has long dwelt in Warwickshire; Shakespeare had them in mind when he wrote, “There be men who do a wilful stillness entertain with purpose to be dressed in an opinion of wisdom, gravity and profound conceit.”

Lord Acton in an able article in the “Nineteenth Century” makes this statement: 

“George Eliot paid high for happiness with Lewes.  She forfeited freedom of speech, the first place among English women, and a tomb in Westminster Abbey.”

The original dedication in “Adam Bede” reads thus: 

“To my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the manuscript of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life.”

Lord Acton of course assumes that this book would have been written, dedication and all, just the same had Miss Evans never met Mr. Lewes.

Once there was a child called Romola.  She said to her father one day, as she sat on his knee:  “Papa, who would take care of me—­give me my bath and put me to bed nights—­if you had never happened to meet Mamma?”

* * * * *

The days I spent in Warwickshire were very pleasant.

The serene beauty of the country and the kindly courtesy of the people impressed me greatly.  Having beheld the scenes of George Eliot’s childhood, I desired to view the place where her last days were spent.  It was a fine May day when I took the little steamer from London Bridge for Chelsea.

A bird-call from the dingy brick building where Turner died, and two blocks from the old home of Carlyle, is Cheyne Walk—­a broad avenue facing the river.  The houses are old, but they have a look of gracious gentility that speaks of ease and plenty.  High iron fences are in front, but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of roses that gather over the windows and doors.

I stood at the gate of Number 4 Cheyne Walk and admired the pretty flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then I rang the bell—­an old pull-out affair with polished knob.