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Evening Star, Issue 7367, 12 November 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Barton all the poorer in more ways than one. Up to this point I have been speaking of only one side, or aspect, of language, viz., the intellectual, omitting altogether the emotional side, the extremes of which extend from the ludicrous, or laughable, to the tearful or sympathetic, in composition. Bain says : “ The main element of the ludicrous in composition is furnished by a degradation of something associated with power, dignity, or gravity, but it must not be associated with pity and the accuracy of this definition may be very clearly seen in a passage referring to an invitation to Mr and Mrs Barton to dine with the Countess some time before the separation from her brother. Poor Milly, sorely pressed for a decent dress, sets to work and turns her faded black silk, making it look almost as good as new. “ When the party were seated at dinner, John, the man-servant, approached Mrs Barton with a gravy tureen and also with a slight odor of the stable, which usually adhered to him throughout his indoor functions. John was rather nervous, and the Countess happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs Barton’s black silk. Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and tried to make light of the matter for the sake of John aswell as the others.” No one who knows poor Milly’s circumstances can laugh at this; but when wo think of the Countess’s assumption of dignity and importance, if the tureen had only slipped on to her pink silk, the situation would have been intensely ludicrous ; but, when the accident happens to poor Milly, as Bain puts it, “lauahter is arrested," and sympathy takes its place. “ Then there is, besides, the laugh of victory, of ridicule, as well as the loving laugh of humor.” The Rev. Amos, starting away early one cold morning to preach to a group of paupers in the workhouse, meets there a curious lot of people, a description of which raises our sympathy and our sense of the humorous :

Eight in front of Mr Barton sat old Maxum—probably because he was stone-deaf, and it was more edifying to bear nothing at a short distance than along one; next him Poll Fodge—a one-eyed woman who fixed her one sore eye on Mr Barton with a sort of hardy defiance, impervious to softening influences; another, who had been a footman, still carried his chin as if conscious of a stiff cravat, and when engaged in field-work (his dilapidated hat set on with a knowing inclination to the left car) ; carted and uncarted the manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of that jaunty demeanor with which he used to usher in my lady’s morning visitors. Of him it is remarked what in truth may be said of a good many more —that he had an irrepressible tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction. Mr Barton returns home from his morning’s work in better spirits than might reasonably be expected, considering his unfortunate position and gloomy prospects; but these, if resting lightly on him, press all the more heavily on his wife, Milly. Her fingers are worn to the bone sewing, patching, washing for her husband and her six dear children ; and all the accumulating circumstances of hard work and poverty are slowly sapping hei strength. The eldest of the family is Patty, nine years old ; there are two other girls, two boys, the baby, and another coming ; and, if your tender feelings are not called forth towards her, they are never likely to be aroused by all the arts, rules, and circumstances of pathos as exemplified in the qualities of style falling under tender emotion or feeling. In compositions of this character “ Nothing,” says Bain, “ must be marred with bombast, fustian, or falsetto; nor must it degenerate into maudlin sentiment.” And the passage I select I think you will acknowledge is free from anything of this kind. I am aware that the effect of a fine passage is often completely lost by being introduced abruptly or introduced without all those accompanying feelings that gather as we read the continuous narrative, and lead us up in spirit to full sympathy with the closing scene; but when so great an authority as Charles Dickens thought highly of it, I do not fear to give it even under these unfavorable conditions. After reading ‘ Amos Barton ’ Dickens wrote :

I have been so strongly affected by this tale that I hope you will excuse me writing to you to express my admiration of its extraordinary merit. The exquisite truth and delicacy both o. the humor and the pathos I have never seen the like of.

Milly became seriously ill, and Mrs Hacket, a kind neighbor bad come in. The Doctor said: “I am very glad to see you are here, Mrs Hacket. No time must be lost in sending for the children, Mrs Barton wints to see them.” Mrs Hacket, returning to Mr Barton, said she would like to go upstairs now. He went upstairs with her, and opened the door. The chamber fronted the west; the sun was just setting, and the red light foil full upon the bed where Milly lay, with the hand of death visibly upon her. Amos and Mrs Hacket stood beside the bed, and Milly opened her eyes. “My darling, Mrs Hacket is to come to see you.” Milly smiled and looked at her with that strange, far-off look which belongs to ebbing life. “Are the children coming?” she said painfully. “Yes,.dear; they will be here directly. Amos leit the room to bring the children.” Taking Chubby in his arms, ho said: “ God is going to take away your dear mamma from us. She wants to see you to say good-bye. You must bo very good, and not cry.” Ho could say no more, but turned round to see if Nancy was there with Walter, and then led the way upstairs, leading Dickey with the other hand. Mrs Hacket followed with Sophy and Patty, and then came Nancy with Walter and Fred. It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the stairs, for when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eagerly looking towards the door. They all stood by the bedside—Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby and Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first,' and, clasping the poor, pale child by the hand, said; “ Patty, I am going away from you. Love your papa; comfort him, and cake care of your little brothers and sisters. God will help you.” Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said “Yes, mamma.” She motioned with her pallid lips for the dear child to lean towards her, and kissed her; and then Fatty’s great anguish overcame her, and she burst into sobs. Amos drew her towards him, while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them, more faintly: “ Patty will try to be your mamma when lam gone, my darlings. You will bo good, and not vex her.” They leaned towards her, and she stroked their fair heads, and kissed their tear-stained cheeks. The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her.

Little Waltersaid: “Mamma, Mamma,” and stretched out his feet and arms, and smiled; and Chubby seemed gravely wondering; but Dickey, Who had been looking fixedly at her with hanging lip ever since he came into the room, now seemed suddenly pierced with the idoq that Mamma was going away somewbeto. His little hear! swelled and be cried aloud. MUly kept her eyes sh\xt some time after the children were gone. Amos had sunk on bis knees, and was holding her hand while he watched her face. By-and-by she opened her eyes, and drawing him close to her, whispered slowly: “My dear—dear-husband—you have been—very—good to me. You—have—made me—very—happy.” She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her breathing becoming more and more difficult, until evening deepened into night, and until iqijnight was past. About half-past twelve she seemed to bo trying to speak, and they leaned to catch her words: “Music—music—didn't you hear it?” Amos knelt by the bedside. Ho did not believe in his sorrow. It was a dream. He did not know she was gone. “She feels no more pain now,” said Mr Brand. “She isn’t dead ? ” shrieked the poor desolate man, struggling to shake off Mr Brand, who had taken him by the arm. But his heavy frame was not equal to the resistance, and he was taken from the room, ##*•*«

They laid her in the grave —the sweet mother with her baby in her arms—while the Christmas snow lay thick upon the graves. The simple touching beauty of this passage is my apology for quoting it at such length. When the chapter on Milly’s death was as yet in MS. someone suggested to her that individualising and naming 1115 children marred the effect of the scene ; but George Eliot, true to the feelings of nature and the principles of art, knew and felt that “ the concrete and the particular give vividness and reality to a picture,” and she rightly refused to touch it.

My love for Amos and Milly has led mo to dwell longer on this part than I intended, and I am obliged to omit the third part altogether. In this I purposed showing that after a course of reading, and after a study of one or two books in the manner I have feebly sketched out, there is a third thing needed quite as important as any of these,, and that is much practice of one's own style on some definite plan. In place of this I will add another lesson more in keeping with our feelings after reading the history of Mr Barton : Let us at all times learn to

judge kindly; stretch out a helping hand when we can; for if his parishioners had done this, instead of the ‘ Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton,’ we should in all probability have been favored witli bright and happy ‘ Scenes of Clerical Life ’ by George Eliot.