Robert Lytton to GE, [Vienna, April? 1862]
Title
Robert Lytton to GE, [Vienna, April? 1862]
Title
Robert Lytton to GE, [Vienna, April? 1862]
Sender
Robert Lytton
Recipient
F
Date(s)
- 1862-04
Place
Vienna
Letter Content
Robert Lytton to GE, [Vienna, April? 1862]
MS: Yale.
The writer of some anonymous verses (entitled [A Great man]) which appeared some months ago in a number of "All the Year Round," 572 has just received from the office of that Periodical an envelope containing some words for which he is anxious to express to "George Elliot," not only the sincerity of his thanks, but something also of the peculiar sensations with which those words have been read by him.
The silence which surrounds anonymous publication (especially the publication of anonymous verses in periodicals wherein such verses are but so much stuff to stop gaps with) is so echoless and impalpable that to those who speak in it, it may well appear inanimate; and thus, losing the sense of responsibility in the sense of solitude, they feel (at least this writer has felt) like children who sing and shout at random when they think themselves alone. Any voice, therefore, that breaks this silence, in response to such random invasion of it, cannot but be, however kindly and welcoming its character, strange and startling in the effect of it; and the words of George Elliot have indeed in the present instance occasioned "a stirring" -- nay, a flutter, of the heart. He who writes this letter yet recalls how, once, when he was a peticoated child, in what appeared to be the solitude of a certain shrubbery, he was detected in the performance of certain devotional ceremonies of an altogether childish audacity, the occasion thereof being the [Baptism] (or some such formal act of consecration and admission into a child's idea of the general kinship of Nature) of a newly born beetle. He remembers that the child was in no wise disconcerted, in this serious occupation, by that sense of Heavenly witness which children feel, without fearing it; but to this day he vividly recalls the consternation and embarrassment with which he unexpectedly found himself under the enquiring eye of a friendly governess, who was to him at that time a high object of veneration.
Very like what that child then felt, is what the man now feels, on finding that unknown and invisible Everybody (which amounts to Nobody) suddenly replaced by the well known and honoured presence of one who is the object, not of childish, but mature admiration.
It is probable that the Letter of George Elliot has been lying for some months at the office of "All the Year Round," as the writer has only quite recently received it; and the feelings with which that letter has been read are not older than those with which this letter is written.
Some such explanation of a reply so tardy to a greeting so welcome and so valued, seems necessary, since it has been said by a great authority that emotions are like oysters and should be enjoyed fresh, as they will not bear keeping. Apology must also be offered for the length of this letter. If a passerby should drop a pebble down a well, it behoves the water there to render back such echoes as may at least prove that it is a well, not a shallow puddle, and that the depths of it have been reached and stirred. If this conviction does not justify, it is hoped that it may at least excuse, the garrulity of thanks for a pleasure deeply felt.
MS: Yale.
The writer of some anonymous verses (entitled [A Great man]) which appeared some months ago in a number of "All the Year Round," 572 has just received from the office of that Periodical an envelope containing some words for which he is anxious to express to "George Elliot," not only the sincerity of his thanks, but something also of the peculiar sensations with which those words have been read by him.
The silence which surrounds anonymous publication (especially the publication of anonymous verses in periodicals wherein such verses are but so much stuff to stop gaps with) is so echoless and impalpable that to those who speak in it, it may well appear inanimate; and thus, losing the sense of responsibility in the sense of solitude, they feel (at least this writer has felt) like children who sing and shout at random when they think themselves alone. Any voice, therefore, that breaks this silence, in response to such random invasion of it, cannot but be, however kindly and welcoming its character, strange and startling in the effect of it; and the words of George Elliot have indeed in the present instance occasioned "a stirring" -- nay, a flutter, of the heart. He who writes this letter yet recalls how, once, when he was a peticoated child, in what appeared to be the solitude of a certain shrubbery, he was detected in the performance of certain devotional ceremonies of an altogether childish audacity, the occasion thereof being the [Baptism] (or some such formal act of consecration and admission into a child's idea of the general kinship of Nature) of a newly born beetle. He remembers that the child was in no wise disconcerted, in this serious occupation, by that sense of Heavenly witness which children feel, without fearing it; but to this day he vividly recalls the consternation and embarrassment with which he unexpectedly found himself under the enquiring eye of a friendly governess, who was to him at that time a high object of veneration.
Very like what that child then felt, is what the man now feels, on finding that unknown and invisible Everybody (which amounts to Nobody) suddenly replaced by the well known and honoured presence of one who is the object, not of childish, but mature admiration.
It is probable that the Letter of George Elliot has been lying for some months at the office of "All the Year Round," as the writer has only quite recently received it; and the feelings with which that letter has been read are not older than those with which this letter is written.
Some such explanation of a reply so tardy to a greeting so welcome and so valued, seems necessary, since it has been said by a great authority that emotions are like oysters and should be enjoyed fresh, as they will not bear keeping. Apology must also be offered for the length of this letter. If a passerby should drop a pebble down a well, it behoves the water there to render back such echoes as may at least prove that it is a well, not a shallow puddle, and that the depths of it have been reached and stirred. If this conviction does not justify, it is hoped that it may at least excuse, the garrulity of thanks for a pleasure deeply felt.
Citation
Robert Lytton, Robert Lytton to GE, [Vienna, April? 1862], Complete George Eliot Letters(2026), George Eliot Archive, edited by Beverley Park Rilett. https://GeorgeEliotArchive.org, Accessed September 7, 2026. https://www.georgeeliotarchive.org/items/show/95587