[Sidenote: Letter to the Brays, 30th Oct. 1857.]
"Conscience goes to the hammering in of nails" is my gospel. There can be no harm in preaching _that_ to women at any rate. But I should be sorry to undertake any more specific enunciation of doctrine on a question so entangled as the "woman question." The part of the Epicurean gods is always an easy one; but because I prefer it so strongly myself, I the more highly venerate those who are struggling in the thick of the contest. "La carrière ouverte aux taléns," whether the talents be feminine or masculine, I am quite confident is a right maxim. Whether "La carrière ouverte à la Sottise" be equally just when made equally universal, it would be too much like "taking sides" for me to say.
There are only three entries in the journal for October.
_Oct. 9._--Finished "Janet's Repentance." I had meant to carry on the series, and especially I longed to tell the story of the "Clerical Tutor," but my annoyance at Blackwood's want of sympathy in the first part (although he came round to admiration at the third part) determined me to close the series and republish them in two volumes.
_Oct. 22._--Began my new novel, "Adam Bede."
_Oct. 29._--Received a letter from Blackwood offering me £120 for the first edition of "Scenes of Clerical Life."
[Sidenote: Letter to John Blackwood, 30th Oct. 1857.]
I am quite contented with the sum (£120) you offer me for the edition, being thoroughly confident of your disposition to do the best you can for me. I perceive your hope of success for the "Scenes" is not strong, and you certainly have excellent means of knowing the probabilities in such a case.
I am not aware that the motto has been used before, but if you suspect it, we had better leave it out altogether. A stale motto would hardly be an ornament to the titlepage.
[Sidenote: Letter to Mrs. Bray, 1st Nov. 1857.]
How I wish I could get to you by some magic, and have one walk over the hill with you again. Letters are poor things compared with five minutes of looking and speaking, and one kiss. Nevertheless, I do like to have a little letter now and then, though I don't for a moment ask it if you have no spontaneous impulse to give it. I can't help losing belief that people love me--the unbelief is in my nature, and no sort of fork will drive it finally out. I can't help wondering that you can think of _me_ in the past with much pleasure. It all seems so painful to me--made up of blunders and selfishness--and it only comes back upon me as a thing to be forgiven. That is honest, painful truth, and not sentimentality. But I am thankful if others found more good than I am able to remember.