suicide. In her depth and fervour the little Jewess strikes us as a being from another world beside the emptiness and stupidity which characterise so many of her cultivated and accomplished companions. When was the gratitude of a girlish heart more sweetly depicted than in Mirah Cohen—or Lapidoth, as her father calls her? She is unable to understand how she can be anything to Deronda, and the jealousy which Gwendolen's passionate clinging to him arouses in her is timid and half unconscious. With the love of truth which distinguishes genius, George Eliot has fearlessly dared to accuse English society of scarcely comprehending a phenomenon such as Mirah, so modest and tender, in spite of her having been on the stage, and in whom there is no trace of that "Jewish impudence," so confidently expected in women of her race.
But the colours in 'Daniel Deronda'
