Charles Lamb speaks somewhere of a woman’s “divine plain face,” and perhaps the same criticism might be passed on George Eliot. The plainness vanished as soon as she smiled, and the tone of the voice was singularly sympathetic and harmonious. As to Mr. Lewes’ looks or personal appearance, one never thought of the matter at all. Small, spare, sallow, much bearded, with brilliant eyes, he could neither be called handsome nor ugly. Delightful he ever was, kindness itself, always on the look-out to serve and to amuse. For he knew--none better--the value of a smile. With George Eliot acquaintance ripened slower into friendship. In spite of her warm human sympathies and the keenness of her desire to enter into the feelings of others, her manner at first awed, perhaps even repelled. It was so much more difficult for her than for Mr. Lewes to quit her own world of thought and speculation, and enter into that of the common joys and sorrows and aspirations of humanity. Yet few delighted more in gathering her friends together. “From my good father I learned the pleasure of being hospitable,” she once said to me with a glow of feeling. “He rejoiced ever to receive his friends, and to my eyes now the pleasure wears the shape of a duty.” I am not sure as to the precise words she used, but this was the sentiment. It is pleasant to record their love of the good and the beautiful in the least little thing--George Eliot’s rapture at the sight of an exquisite flower, Mr. Lewes’ delight in a bright happy child; also the keenness of their sympathy with common joys and sorrows, and the unbounded kindliness and pitifulness of their nature. ---- ----: ‘A Week with George Eliot.’ _Temple Bar_, February, 1885. * * * * * [Sidenote: First attempt at fiction.] [Sidenote: “A capital title.”] [Sidenote: ‘Scenes from Clerical Life.’] [Sidenote: Last chapters of ‘Amos Barton.’]