As for books that are not books, as Milton bade us do with ’neat repasts of wine,’ she wisely spared to interpose them oft.  Her standards of knowledge were those of the erudite and the savant, and even in the region of beauty she was never content with any but definite impressions.  In one place in these volumes, by the way, she makes a remark curiously inconsistent with the usual scientific attitude of her mind.  She has been reading Darwin’s Origin of Species, on which she makes the truly astonishing criticism that it is ’sadly wanting in illustrative facts,’ and that ’it is not impressive from want of luminous and orderly presentation’ (ii. 43-48).  Then she says that ’the development theory, and all other explanation of processes by which things came to be, produce a feeble impression compared with the mystery that lies under processes.’  This position it does not now concern us to discuss, but at least it is in singular discrepancy with her strong habitual preference for accurate and quantitative knowledge, over vague and misty moods in the region of the unknowable and the unreachable.

George Eliot’s means of access to books were very full.  She knew French, German, Italian, and Spanish accurately.  Greek and Latin, Mr. Cross tells us, she could read with thorough delight to herself; though after the appalling specimen of Mill’s juvenile Latinity that Mr. Bain has disinterred, the fastidious collegian may be sceptical of the scholarship of prodigies.  Hebrew was her favourite study to the end of her days.  People commonly supposed that she had been inoculated with an artificial taste for science by her companion.  We now learn that she took a decided interest in natural science long before she made Mr. Lewes’s acquaintance, and many of the roundabout pedantries that displeased people in her latest writings, and were set down to his account, appeared in her composition before she had ever exchanged a word with him.

All who knew her well enough were aware that she had what Mr. Cross describes as ‘limitless persistency in application.’  This is an old account of genius, but nobody illustrates more effectively the infinite capacity of taking pains.  In reading, in looking at pictures, in playing difficult music, in talking, she was equally importunate in the search, and equally insistent on mastery.  Her faculty of sustained concentration was part of her immense intellectual power.  ’Continuous thought did not fatigue her.  She could keep her mind on the stretch hour after hour; the body might give way, but the brain remained unwearied’ (iii. 422).  It is only a trifling illustration of the infection of her indefatigable quality of taking pains, that Lewes should have formed the important habit of rewriting every page of his work, even of short articles for Reviews, before letting it go to the press.  The journal shows what sore pain and travail composition was to her.  She wrote the last volume of Adam Bede in six weeks; she ’could