often been asserted as her models, but as the actual men and women she had before her.

Dinah, the preacher-woman, there is not the slightest doubt, was suggested by the history of her aunt, Mrs. E. Evans of Wirksworth, who was once the most popular Wesleyan orator of North Derbyshire and Staffordshire. With a strange perversity, her niece always denied this. But the fact cannot be contested. This lady is said by all biographers, and by her depicter, to have ceased to preach after her marriage to Mr. S. Evans, who was himself, to the end of his days, a popular speaker in the Connexion; but although this is sanctioned by the novelist's own statement about Dinah Morris when she marries her to Adam Bede, it is not correct. Mrs. E. Evans was far too devoted to her work to be stayed by marriage, or even the later rule of the Methodist Conference prohibiting female preachers. The plan therefore adopted-and which was (as I was told by an intimate friend of hers, himself an aged local preacher of Ashbourne, the Oakbourne of the novel) contrived by herself to evade the decree of the "Legal Hundred" in Conference assembled was that her husband, Samuel Evans, of Wirksworth, used to be entered on the "Plan of Circuit" to preach at two different chapels on the same day and hour, and she used to select at which of them she should appear as his substitute. Thus by a little of the art of casuistry the law of the Connexion was obeyed, and the resolve to "win souls" on the part of Mrs. Evans (Dinah Morris) attained as well. We were forced to give way to her,'' continued the old preacher, for her temper was so quick and masterful that she ruled the whole circuit, as well as she did her husband Sam Evans."

Her beauty was of the type of the rapt saint in an old picture, and the description of Dinah Morris in the first chapter of "Adam Bede," when preaching on the green of Ellaston, the Hayslope of the tale, is exactly that of the Ranter preacher-woman I allude to : "It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low, perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting, between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. . The eyebrows, of the same color as her hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes. though no darker, were long and abundant; nothing was left blurred or unfinished.

The eyes were of no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer, could help melting away before their glance.

Yes, that is she, as she now stands before me: Sarah Smith the farmer's daughter, of the little hamlet of Okeover, which nearly adjoins Ellaston (Hayslope), and photographed as she stood, rapt by deep religious sympathy and passion, to preach hope and comfort to the rough young farming-men and miners of the borderland of Stafford and Derby, along the valley of the pellucid Dove. George Eliot always strenuously denied having had her aunt, E. Evans, in her eye when she drew Dinah Morris, and probably saved her conscience the irritation of a lie by the reflection that the mind was that of Evans, but the bodily personation that of Smith. And further to excuse her equivocation, Mrs. E. Evans was a Wesleyan, and Sarah Smith a Ranter, as the people call the sect, or Primitive Methodist, as they are officially styled, as she makes her Dinah to be. Yet there is not a doubt Elizabeth Evans was her original thought; but Elizabeth Evans was a dark, sinall woman, not fair and statuesque like Smith.

Yet Adam Bede was the portrait that attracted the national attention most deeply, and the one as to whose personal identity there has been most discussion in literary circles. Some assert the model was her own father, Robert Evans. This is a great error, as his tal

ents-and the whole family were above, far above, the average of mental ability -were much inferior. The real Adam Bede was, indeed, my old friend in youth, William Evans, of Ellaston, in Staffordshire, a man of genius and success as a Gothic artist, sculptor, and church-builder. His career was most extraordinary, and his genius in his art unrivalled for centuries past. He was not a mere draughtsman, but a reproduction of those executive artists who filled Britain with the minsters, cathedrals, abbeys, and churches in the days of the Plantagenets and Tudors, and whose devotion to their science and art made them careless as to the fame of a literary repute. I need not stay to transcribe his personal appearance, for it was done exactly by his niece, George Eliot. But he was not, as supposed,

fine specimen of Anglo-Saxon manhood, as some foolish writers have said, for he was by blood a Welshman or Kymro, a pure Ancient Briton in body, mind, and features. A day's journey in Wales will show you a hundred of his like. He had the square, massive features of his splendid and tenacious race, and the full, high development of forehead and coronal brain that distinguishes the Kymric people, with all the deep but silent poetic feelings and devotion to literary ideas and religious conviction of his nation. He was, and always had been, a High-Churchman of the British type, convinced of the Apostolic origin and purity of his National Church, and doggedly proud of its traditions and temples. It is strange that George Eliot did no justice to her relative as a poet in sculpture, but leaves him in her tale, first and last, as merely a worthy energetic village carpenter, and gives us no suggestion of his artistic and executive brain, without which the re-vival of the Brito- Arabian style of architecture, called Gothic, of our age, would never have been accomplished. He designed and began it when the men who were afterward associated with him, Pugin and Scott, were children, or only drawers and draughtsmen of old frag ments. But William Evans (Adam Bede) never boasted of this fact, and never seemed to see or care that those who followed in his footsteps were reaping fame as well as wealth, while he was

only known to the inner circle of artlovers as the unrivalled executor and secret suggester of great works. If allowed to carry out his ideas to perfection, and to the satisfaction of his taste, he was supremely happy, and left it to inferior men to air and puff their vanity in the newspapers and magazines, as if his works and thoughts, which they had, as draughtsmen, put upon paper, were the offspring of their sole genius.

I had often wished to learn from himself some account of his life and works, but as he was the most modest and silent of men, I failed to do so, though we were on the most intimate terms of friendship. But one Sunday, in the spring of 1858, as he and I were strolling home from afternoon service at Okeover Church, he stopped on the crown of the bridge over the Dove which unites Staffordshire to Derby, to watch the dancing stream, and the ousels flitting over it, and the cloud of green-drake flies sporting upon the water. He looked intently at the scene, and I remarked, "How beautiful it is! the first time I saw the river from this spot, Mr. Evans, I felt as if it would make me a poet.

are

"Yes," he answered, many strange thoughts come into us when we young. I used, when a lad, to compare the leaves of the alders, as they grew, with the carvings of them in stone in Ashbourne Church, and wish I could do it as those old men did.'

66

"I wish you would tell me how you became a Gothic artist, sculptor, and builder," I here said; for I know that you were not brought up to be so, from what folks say."

Well, then," he replied to my delight, "I'll tell you, though I do not think I ever told any one before. I don't care to be talked of. I wish to make all my works perfect. If I can do that, it is enough for me. No, I was not educated to the work I do. My father was, as you know, a Welshman, and a wheelwright and carpenter at Ellaston; for I never quitted, nor do I intend to leave, the district of my birth. I learned his trade, but from a lad used to copy or design Gothic sculpture in wood, and, as I grew up, was always urging my father to go into church-repairing or building. pairing or building. He used to say,

'Nay, my boy, we get a living by cartwheels, and to cart-wheels I'll stick, and so must you.' I did as a son should to his father-obeyed; but my desire for artistic work was like a fire inside me, it made my bones ache with longing desire to use my hands and mind for other things than ploughs, cart-wheels, and cottage doors. I dreamed of it at night, and I thought of it all day long, whatever I was doing; and all my spare time I spent in visiting and looking at churches, at Haddon Hall, at Chatsworth, and carving in oak imitations of what I saw, or designing fresh forms. So it went on, I entreating my father to begin such work, or at least to find me money to start it myself—I even worried him at meals daily; but his reply was always the same : I'll stick to wheels and wrighting.' One night my disconOne night my discontent and rage to launch out to my instinctive work had been like a nightmare to me, and at breakfast I felt frantic and could not eat. I refused to speak to my father, and took up a copy of the Staffordshire Advertiser to read, to work off or hide my rage and despair, and the first thing my eye caught was an advertisement for tenders to repair Tutbury Church! I flung the paper on the floor, and cried out, Father, I must do it; and I will do it. Here's an advertisement for tenders to repair Tutbury Church. Let me send one. I've saved a little out of my wages, and if you won't help I'll pull on alone by borrow ing.'

"If you're such a fool,' replied my father with anger, as to try, you may, for I can't stand you longer, always fooling about architecting; you'll never get the job. And if you do, you'll fail

over it.

"I'll try at any rate,' I said, and ran out to harness the pony into the market-cart. I found the wheel was off it for repairs, but at once put it on the axle as it was, harnessed, and drove off like mad. But before I reached Tutbury I cooled enough to reflect that I was about to offer for a contract with no knowledge of what was required-no plans, no estimates, and not knowing to whom I was to apply for them when I reached the town, for in my excitement and hurry I had never read the advertisement through, but only the heading,

nor had I looked at the date for tenders to be sent. I stopped the pony and was about to turn back to learn these points, when I reflected upon the contemptuous laugh my father would give if I did so and confessed my folly; and that I should become the standing joke of the Ellaston wits for life, so I pushed on and determined to take my luck. I drew up to the vicarage at Tutbury, and found the vicar was at the vestry-room at a committee meeting. I went on to the church and got hold of the sexton, who was there waiting to answer the calls of the committee, and observed some half-a-dozen gentlemen with rolls of paper in their hands. My heart fell,. for I knew they were builders or architects, and guessed that it was the day of tender for the works, and I was too late. However, I thought, I am in for it, but I won't return without a last try, so took the sexton aside and tipped him, with a request to get the vicar to come out and see me, as I had special business with him. He pocketed the shilling, and soon returned with his chief. We stepped into the churchyard, and I told him my errand.

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Can't you, sir,' I exclaimed, 'put it off another week? I never saw the advertisement till this morning, and I started without breakfast, in such a hurry that I did not even read the notice to learn the date. If you will let me see the plans for five minutes I'll tell if I can bid for the work. Give me a chance. I've been begging my father to let me begin church-work for years, and this morning he consented. If I go back without seeing the plans he will never assent again.

He must have seen I was as near crying as a school-boy who has forgotten his lessons, or blundered over his copybook.

Well, young friend,' he answered, come with me to the vestry, and I will try what I can do for you to get a few days' delay.'

We went, and the good parson spoke. Who is he-a friend of yours?'

Gentlemen,' I said, 'I am a total stranger to your good vicar, though he has admitted me to you. I am not an architect, but a carpenter. I have no recommendation, for I started in such a hurry after reading the advertisement, that I would not go to ask any; but Sir C. Leighton, or Mr. Harrison of Snelston Hall, for whom I have worked and repaired carvings, would have given me them had I asked.'

"The lot, while I spoke, were shuffling the plans and papers on the table, and smiling with a sneer at me, when a gentleman-farmer-looking man with a red face glanced at me, and asked, Mr. Harrison ?-my friend, Mr. Harrison? A first-class man. I hunt with him. If he would give a recommendation, gentlemen,' he said to his fellow committeemen, you may rest secure this young man is respectable.'

46 6 'No doubt. No doubt,' was the general answer. 'But what can we do? -the young man has no estimates, has not seen the plans, and to-day is the day to decide.'

The farmer jumped up, and declared he was not at all satisfied with any of the estimates. "Give the young man a chance. If he has friends such as my friends Leighton and Harrison-he dropped the title I noticed-' he will be respectable

I broke in, for I saw I had now a friend on the committee,' Let me have the plans for-say twenty-four hours, or to-morrow at this time, gentlemen, and I will bring an estimate,' I cried.

"Do it for Mr. Harrison's friend,' cried the farmer.

"Yes, I think we might grant that,' said the vicar.

I was told to withdraw, and in ten minutes called in and given a copy of the plans, to be brought back the next day with my estimate. I took them, and drove home as hard as the pony could go. I ate nothing, but sat up through the night, and by ten o'clock. next morning had all in order, though

'Did you get the work?" I asked, breathless.

"Yes, I did,"-and the gray-headed man looked at me with an air of triumph, and a strong glance of fire in his eyes-" but,' with a sigh, "it was a scandalous shame, for my estimate was only £19 lower than that of a native of Tutbury, whom they knew to be a trusty hand at work, and I was a stranger."

You were fortunate to have been a trifle cheaper in your figures," I returned.

It was not that, young friend," answered the honest and true-hearted man. 'Had I been above the native, it would have been all the same. I won, because I had a 'friend on the committee.' the farmer, who did not know me, but who wished to flash the boast of acquaintance with the baronet and squire I had spoken of; and he declared he would smash up the whole bag of tricks rather than I should lose the contract, and as he had the most obstinate temper of the lot the others voted with him. And now to give you a lesson," he continued, "that you will find useful as you try to push your way in the world -there is no such thing as competitive success on earth-it is always the 'friend

on

the committee' who pulls you through. Competition is a farce, remember that.'

But you must have competed often since then?-had you always a toadying farmer on the committee for all your great works?"

"You are mistaken," replied Adam Bede (William Evans); I never competed again. I felt so ashamed at the injustice done in selecting me that I have refused to have it inflicted on me a second time.'

"How have you then progressed so wonderfully as to have a European fame as an executive Gothic architect?"

"I

"In this way," was the answer. always tried to do my duty, even if I lost money by it. I never scamped a piece of work, or let others do it for me. Thus, on looking into the plans for that Tutbury restoration, I saw they

were not in accord with the original design of the church, so I talked over the architect-draughtsman, and suggested alterations to make the repairs harmonize. I drew out sketches of my ideas, made full-sized wood models with my own hands, and offered to allow any alterations I proposed to be introduced into the plans without extra charge by me, or increased payment on my contract. He was a man of sense and taste,

and I had my way. The work was well done in the organ-loft, and the rest. Every one was pleased, and I got recommendations to architects by it. It was not done as we should now carry on a restoration, but taste was defective then. I worked hard with my own hands, besides, and lost nothing by the affair. By it I got connected with church restoration, and in time with Pugin and Scot. With the latter I soon became right hand, and he never does a stroke without consulting me. I always pleased by my work and style." "I suppose you have done since then many larger affairs?"

Yes, I have, of large ones, either wholly built or extensively restored sixty-five churches and cathedrals, and I have endeavored to have every one more perfect than the last. The finest minster restorations I have executed are the two now in my hands, St. Mary's, Stafford, and Lichfield. There, I have a fairly free hand.”

But of all you have done, which church, minster, or hall do you consider your masterpiece?" I asked rather impertinently, as young men will.

He hesitated, turned, and scrutinized me for a few moments, and played with his glasses as if with a chisel, then answered,." It is hard to say. I love every one best while I am doing it, but to my feeling the most perfect and complete work, as a piece of art, I ever accomplished, was the little church at Okeover we have just left. It is small, it is almost like a gem for size to some I have done, but all in all it is the most perfect work of my life. Mr. Okeover gave myself and Gilbert Scott free hands to do as we desired, cost was nothing, perfection and artistic beauty were to be all, we were bound by no contracts, and I put my whole soul into it, and so did Scott. Yes," he continued, as if speak

ing to himself, I think that was the most beautiful thing I ever did. But, then, Mr. Okeover is himself an artist by genius, and he can comprehend art. Now, sir, he continued, moving on, you will understand why I so often come from Ellaston to church at Okeover,—it is a pleasure to feel I once had a free hand to form my own thoughts into things to be seen, and to know that the man for whom I did so can appreciate the result."

We parted at the stile, with an invitation to come over to his workshop at Ellaston, to examine some splendid carvings and sculpture preparing for Lichfield Cathedral. Some time after I did so, and also was allowed to inspect his residence throughout. It was, as a basis, the old house of his father, but by the son's wealth and genius transformed into the most beautiful Gothic villa in Europe. The old walls were cased in and out with the richest arabesque or Gothic work in oak and walnut. Windows, doors, porches-without, within, all was wainscoted in black, or dark oak, from floor to ceiling, in every room, and the furniture was in exquisite keeping with it. It was the dream of its designer's life, fixed in imperishable form, and the cost must have been immense. Beside it the richest decorations of a palace looked poor, and had its creator and owner been a vain man, who advertised his genius, it would have been visited by connoisseurs from all parts of the earth as a wonder. But Evans was still Adam Bede not the British peasant, the mere vigorous craftsman of his great-niece's novel, but the sterling Englishman, the true resolute Briton, whose one idea was to do his duty, and to leave the rest to God.

He was also a man of fine and noble intellect a deeply religious man. He has been dead many years, but he has left proof behind him of the mighty capacities of the race he sprang from, and its superiority to the vain and aping Frenchman, or the volatile and selfish and effeminate Italian, or the stolid, conceited German. Why George Eliot omitted to display the noble career of her uncle, as well as the man in the humble field where he began his life, is a mystery. It would have added force