WILLIAM AND LUCY SMITH.*

THE charm of this biography no doubt consists in the singular beauty of nature, and fineness of character and talent, possessed by those who are the subjects of it. The best part of the book is made up of their writings, their letters, the recollbctions of their friends,—the life of William Smith himself being given in the words of the memoir which his wife pre- fixed to an edition of his second work, Gravenhurst ; and her own life, up to within a few days of the end, being entirely told in her own letters.

In earlier days, William Smith was chiefly known as the author of Thorndale, one of those philosophical books which are never very popular or very well understood, except among minds addicted to the same kind of thought,—a philosophy perhaps too vague, too questioning, to be of much real use in the history of human progress. But this is not the time or place to criticise Thorndale. Gravenhurst, written after the

author's marriage, when life had triumphed a little over philosophy, is a much more attractive and interesting book.

It contains some thoughts which are extremely beautiful,— the following, for instance, spoken by one of his characters, Ada Newcome :— " To love is the great glory, the last culture, the highest

happiness ; to be loved is little in comparison Oh, if One really existed, as I and others believe, who loved all the world, and in some inexplicable way suffered for its salvation, He was a God, at least, in His sublime happiness. Nor should I say that it was a religion of sorrow ' that such a love had inaugurated."

This book sets forth a view of moral evil which we fancy is only possible to a mind that knows much more of itself and its own theories than of the world outside. This view is also, as the editor says, quite different from that "long familiar in theology." We think that here the old theologians were

• The Story of William and Lucy Smith. Edited by George Merriam. Edinburgh and London : William Blackwood and Bons. 1892.

right, and the author of Gravenhurst and his brother- philosophers are wrong. But these are deep questions, and we must return to the biography.

It was after fifty years of a hermit, student life, during which, besides Thorndale and other philosophical work, William Smith did a great deal of reviewing for Blaelct000d's Magazine, that at last, staying at Keswick, he made acquaintance with his future wife, Miss Lucy Cumming. In many ways, no one could have been a greater contrast to himself. He was singularly shy and retiring, diffident, reserved, always glad to fly from his fellow-creatures, and so sensitive with regard to his own works, that he could hardly bear to hear them men- tioned; in short, the most solitary of men, living entirely with Nature, and in his own thoughts. Once, at Bo*ness, he spent six months in a small lodging without speaking to any one. To such a nature as this, very human after all, and sometimes very lonely, the charm of finding itself loved and admired must have been irresistible. The woman who brought his life out of shade into sunshine was herself like a ray of sunshine, as all her friends say. Instead of his reserve, she had an openness of character and disposition which was itself almost extreme. "A union of insight, tenderness, sympathy, and vivid interest in everything about her ; " all this leading to the unrestrained expression of her feelings, either in writing the memoir of her husband, or in letters to her friends, who were many,—and yet making her perfectly, enthusiastically happy through the months and years which she and her husband passed in their solitude a deux. Her chief objects in life were his happiness and his fame. It seems as if, in the first year of their marriage, she may have betrayed some wish that the world should know more of him whose genius she herself admired so much. Nothing certainly could be more natural; but the following lines of his, written for her " on the inside of an old envelope," seem to have given a final reply to any such ambition :— " Oh, vex me not with needless cry

Of what the world may think or claim; Let the sweet life pass sweetly by, The same, the same, and every day the same.

Thee, Nature, Thought—that burns in me

A living and consuming flame—

These must suffice ; let the life be The same, the same, and evermore the same.

Here find I task-work, here society—

Thou art my gold, thou art my fame; Let the sweet life pass sweetly by,

The same, the same, and every day the same."

Their married life lasted only eleven years, and few wives probably could look back on a time of more unclouded happiness. Her own generous devotion no doubt had a great deal to do with this ; but he, when alone with her and un- troubled by strangers, seems to have been the most charming of companions, lively, even brilliant, with a sweet, unselfish temper, and high-minded in a fashion that grows rarer.

The truth of the words, " We live by admiration, hope, and love," has seldom been more fully proved than by Lucy Smith in the ten years she survived her husband. It was impossible for her life to be anything but vivid, and there was no selfishness in the deepest of her grief. A few words here and there in letters to her friends show the nobleness of her spirit :—

" When God sends darkness, let it be dark. 'Tie so vain to think we can light it up with candles, or make it anything but dark. It may be because of the darkness we shall see some new beauty in the stars."

Prom Llanberis, 1876.—" It came across me the other night, driving by moonlight through this grand and solemn Pass, that one might read those words, Sorrow not even as others that have no hope,' in an inverse sense to the generally received. Sorrow not less, but more ! You who have hope need never seek to get rid of your sacred Sorrow. You may safely receive her, a lifelong inmate of your inmost heart. There she will dwell, suffering nothing low or worldly to dwell with her. Sorrow greatly, abidingly, consciously, thankfully,—you who have hope !' " And again :—" The sense of loss is keen, and at times over- whelming; and yet the next best thing in life to a great joy is a great sorrow."

Mrs. Smith's memoir of her husband, which is chiefly repro- duced in this book, was at first written only for herself and her friends. It was apparently the advice of " George Eliot " which led her to consent to its being published in the same volume with Gravenhurst. There is much in this memoir which at first sight strikes one as almost too sacred to be given to the world at all: there are passages, in themselves beautiful, which bring something like a sense of listening to secrets, or reading a letter addressed to somebody else. The editor himself seems to fear " possible animadversion;" but in the case of reprinting the memoir, we think he has been right to run this risk. We agree with him ; we " scarcely wish to spare a word." As we read, the character of the writer becomes more and more clear to us,—the transparency, the yearning for sympathy, the absolute necessity of expression, the high appreciation of all that was good ; and we can enter fully into her desire to make her husband more known to those who had loved him, and to those from whom he had chosen to hide himself.

As a matter of personal taste, we are somewhat tried by the great unreserve with which the editor has printed the letters entrusted to him. He has certainly succeeded in giving a vivid picture of Lucy Smith, on every side of her varied and most fascinating character. But a severe system of cutting would hardly have interfered with this, and would have removed a good deal with which the public cannot possibly have any concern. We also find that the editor describes his hero and heroine, and moralises on them, to a quite unneces- sary degree, and with an amount of long words almost over. whelming.

About a year after the death of Mrs. William Smith, a little volume of extremely pretty verses was printed for her friends. Many of them had already appeared in Good Words. Some

are reproduced in the present book. We should like to quote one little specimen, called " Moods :"-

"Lord, in Thy sky of blue,

No stain of cloud appears ; Gone all my faithless fears, Only Thy love seems true.

Help me to thank Thee, then, I pray, Walk in the light and cheerfully obey !

Lord, when I look on high, Clouds only meet my sight ; Fears deepen with the night ; But yet it is Thy sky.

Help me to trust Thee, then, I pray, Wait in the dark and tearfully obey."