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This success, I must further inform you, is in a great degree owing to Mr. Eliot's friendship to us both; for he brings you in with himself at his surest borough. As it was impossible to act with more zeal and friendship than Mr. Eliot has acted in this whole affair, I desire that you will, by the very next post, write him a letter of thanks, warm and young thanks, not old and cold ones.
The foyer of the opera in Paris may be a fine sight, but I doubt if it can compare with the inside of Eliot's drug store in Mariposa for real gaiety and joy of living. This night the store was especially crowded because it was a Saturday and that meant early closing for all the hotels, except, of course, Smith's.
He saw his face, strained and smoothed with exhaustion, sallow white against the pillows, the back-drawn-mouth, the sharp, peaked nose, the iron grey hair, pointed with sweat, sticking to the forehead. A face of piteous, tired patience, waiting. He saw Eliot's face, close, close beside it by the edge of the pillow, grave and sombre and intent.
Reading George Eliot's description of Dinah Morris preaching Methodisim on the green at Hayslope had prepared me in a measure, but when I heard a highly educated and exceptionally able woman conducting the services all through, and especially reading the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments with so much intelligence that they seemed to take on new meaning, I felt how much the world had been losing for so many centuries.
He'll tell ye that th' on'y readin' is Doctor Eliot's cillybrated old blend an' he'll talk larnedly about th' varyous vintages. But I've seen him read books that wud kill a thruckman. Th' result iv it is that Hogan is always wrong about ivrything. He sees th' wurruld upside down. Some men are affected diff'rent. Readin' makes thim weep. But it makes Hogan believe in fairies while he's at it.
A drizzling rain was falling, and twilight was coming on. Turning, he cut through Cedar Street and down Willow to avoid passing Urian Eliot's fine house.
"In no department of our life are George Eliot's words truer than in this department: 'Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who sit with us at the same hearth are often the farthest off from the deep human soul within us full of unspoken evil and unacted good. We cannot prevent a boy's obtaining information on sexual questions.
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.
"Of course," she said, "I think his views about women are obsolete and ridiculous. But I don't see what they've got to do with liking him or not, personally." E. Eliot's smile became grim again, but she said nothing, so Betty asked a direct question. "That was what you meant, wasn't it?" "Yes," the other woman said, "that was what I meant.
The major knot, or culmination, of his plot was therefore the revelation of the scarlet letter, a scene which would have been only an incident in George Eliot's dénouement.
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