Much biography, perhaps we might say most, is hardly above the level of that ‘personal talk,’ to which Wordsworth sagely preferred long barren silence, the flapping of the flame of his cottage fire, and the under-song of the kettle on the hob.  It would not, then, have much surprised us if George Eliot had insisted that her works should remain the only commemoration of her life.  There be some who think that those who have enriched the world with great thoughts and fine creations, might best be content to rest unmarked ’where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,’ leaving as little work to the literary executor, except of the purely crematory sort, as did Aristotle, Plato, Shakespeare, and some others whose names the world will not willingly let die.  But this is a stoic’s doctrine; the objector may easily retort that if it had been sternly acted on, we should have known very very little about Dr. Johnson, and nothing about Socrates.

This is but an ungracious prelude to some remarks upon a book, which must be pronounced a striking success.  There will be very little dispute as to the fact that the editor of these memorials of George Eliot has done his work with excellent taste, judgment, and sense.  He found no autobiography nor fragment of one, but he has skilfully shaped a kind of autobiography by a plan which, so far as we know, he is justified in calling new, and which leaves her life to write itself in extracts from her letters and journals.  With the least possible obtrusion from the biographer, the original pieces are formed into a connected whole ’that combines a narrative of day-to-day life with the play of light and shade which only letters written in serious moods can give.’  The idea is a good one, and Mr. Cross deserves great credit for it.  We may hope that its success will encourage imitators.  Certainly there are drawbacks.  We miss the animation of mixed narrative.  There is, too, a touch of monotony in listening for so long to the voice of a single speaker addressing others who are silent behind a screen.  But Mr. Cross could not, we think, have devised a better way of dealing with his material:  it is simple, modest, and effective.

George Eliot, after all, led the life of a studious recluse, with none of the bustle, variety, motion, and large communication with the outer world, that justified Lockhart and Moore in making a long story of the lives of Scott and Byron.  Even here, among men of letters, who were also men of action and of great sociability, are not all biographies too long?  Let any sensible reader turn to the shelf where his Lives repose; we shall be surprised if he does not find that nearly every one of them, taking the present century alone, and including such splendid and attractive subjects as Goethe, Hume, Romilly, Mackintosh, Horner, Chalmers, Arnold, Southey, Cowper, would not have been all the better for judicious curtailment.  Lockhart, who wrote the longest, wrote also the shortest, the