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2. The Sentimental Turn

Dorlcote Mill, as envisioned for an edition of George Eliot's "The Mill on the Floss"

Dorlcote Mill, as envisioned for an 1885 edition of George Eliot's novel The Mill on the Floss. By the time of ths engraving, a more sentimental perspective upon England's agrarian past is in evidence.

Written during England's industrial revolution, George Eliot's "The Mill on the Floss" (1860) depicts the Tulliver family and their rural community in a state of crisis.  Here, Mr. Tulliver contemplates the loss of Dorlcote Mill and his impending bankruptcy, with Eliot's narrator contrasting modern social turbulence to this more "old-fashioned," place-bound man.

He had led an easy life, ordering much and working little, and had no aptitude for any new business. He must perhaps take to day-labor, and his wife must have help from her sisters,--a prospect doubly bitter to him, now they had let all Bessy's precious things be sold, probably because they liked to set her against him, by making her feel that he had brought her to that pass. He listened to their admonitory talk, when they came to urge on him what he was bound to do for poor Bessy's sake, with averted eyes, that every now and then flashed on them furtively when their backs were turned. Nothing but the dread of needing their help could have made it an easier alternative to take their advice.

But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had done after him. The Tullivers had lived on this spot for generations, and he had sat listening on a low stool on winter evenings while his father talked of the old half-timbered mill that had been there before the last great floods which damaged it so that his grandfather pulled it down and built the new one. It was when he got able to walk about and look at all the old objects that he felt the strain of his clinging affection for the old home as part of his life, part of himself. He couldn't bear to think of himself living on any other spot than this, where he knew the sound of every gate door, and felt that the shape and color of every roof and weather-stain and broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy, which was hardly time to linger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the tropics, and is at home with palms and banyans,–which is nourished on books of travel and stretches the theatre of its imagination to the Zambesi,–can hardly get a dim notion of what an old-fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot, where all his memories centred, and where life seemed like a familiar smooth-handled tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And just now he was living in that freshened memory of the far-off time which comes to us in the passive hours of recovery from sickness.

View at Beaver Brook Falls, The Author's Residence

Richard M. Staigg, "View at Beaver Brook Falls, The Author's Residence" (1866). The "author" referred to is landscape architect Robert Morris Copeland," upon whose estate the picturesque ruins were located. The falls between Waltham and Belmont, MA had been a mill site until an 1848 fire burned down most of the establishment except for its waterwheel (which had been kept running). It's not clear whether James Russell Lowell's 1848 poem "Beaver Brook" was written in response to the fire.

James Russell Lowell (1819-1891), a friend of  Ralph Waldo Emerson and other Transcendentalist figures, for a time was one of America's better-known writers--a loose grouping called "The Fireside Poets." This excerpt from his poem "Beaver Brook" (1848) contrasts the blind toil of human materialism and glimpses of spiritual transcendence.

Beneath a bony buttonwood
The mill's red door lets forth the din;
The whitened miller, dust-imbued,
Flits past the square of dark within.

No mountain torrent's strength is here;
Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,
Heaps its small pitcher to the ear,
And gently waits the miller's will.

Swift slips Undine along the race
Unheard, and then, with flashing bound,
Floods the dull wheel with light and grace,
And, laughing, hunts the loath drudge round.

The miller dreams not at what cost
The quivering millstones hum and whirl,
Nor how for every turn are tost
Armfuls of diamond and of pearl.

But Summer cleared my happier eyes
With drops of some celestial juice,
To see how Beauty underlies
Forevermore each form of use.

And more; methought I saw that flood,
Which now so dull and darkling steals,
Thick, here and there, with human blood,
To turn the world's laborious wheels.

James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916) enjoyed great popularity at the end of the 19th century for his dialect poems of rural life and writings for children.  This excerpt from "At the Old Home by The Mill" originally was published in 1887.
This is "The Old Home by the Mill"—fer we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and the old folks—the old spring, and a few
Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!
Here, Marg'et!—fetch the man a tin to drink out of! Our spring
Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't "taste" anything!
She's kindo' agein', Marg'et is—"the old process"—like me,
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here—like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.

"The Church With an Overshot Wheel" (1904), which first appeared in a Minneapolis trade journal called The Northwestern Miller, is a typically heart-tugging short story by O. Henry--the pen name of William Sydney Porter (1862-1910). In this tale, a miller from the Cumberland Mountains is devastated when his young daughter mysteriously disappears, relocating to the Upper Midwest where he owns "great, ugly, mountain-like mills that the freight trains crawled around all day like ants around an ant-heap." Still, he has not forgotten his rural home or his daughter...

When Abram Strong became prosperous he paid a visit to Lakelands and the old mill. The scene was a sad one for him, but he was a strong man, and always appeared cheery and kindly. It was then that he was inspired to convert the old mill into a church. Lakelands was too poor to build one; and the still poorer mountaineers could not assist. There was no place of worship nearer than twenty miles.

The miller altered the appearance of the mill as little as possible. The big overshot-wheel was left in its place. The young people who came to the church used to cut their initials in its soft and slowly decaying wood. The dam was partly destroyed, and the clear mountain stream rippled unchecked down its rocky bed. Inside the mill the changes were greater. The shafts and millstones and belts and pulleys were, of course, all removed. There were two rows of benches with aisles between, and a little raised platform and pulpit at one end. On three sides overhead was a gallery containing seats, and reached by a stairway inside. There was also an organ -- a real pipe organ -- in the gallery, that was the pride of the congregation of the Old Mill Church. Miss Phoebe Summers was the organist. The Lakelands boys proudly took turns at pumping it for her at each Sunday's service. The Rev. Mr. Banbridge was the preacher, and rode down from Squirrel Gap on his old white horse without ever missing a service. And Abram Strong paid for everything. He paid the preacher five hundred dollars a year; and Miss Phoebe two hundred dollars.

Thus, in memory of Aglaia, the old mill was converted into a blessing for the community in which she had once lived. It seemed that the brief life of the child had brought about more good than the three score years and ten of many. But Abram Strong set up yet another monument to her memory.

Out from his mills in the Northwest came the "Aglaia" flour, made from the hardest and finest wheat that could be raised. The country soon found out that the "Aglaia" flour had two prices. One was the highest market price, and the other was -- nothing.

Wherever there happened a calamity that left people destitute -- a fire, a flood, a tornado, a strike, or a famine, there would go hurrying a generous consignment of the "Aglaia" at its "nothing" price. It was given away cautiously and judiciously, but it was freely given, and not a penny could the hungry ones pay for it. There got to be a saying that whenever there was a disastrous fire in the poor districts of a city the fire chief's buggy reached the scene first, next the "Aglaia" flour wagon, and then the fire engines.

So this was Abram Strong's other monument to Aglaia. Perhaps to a poet the theme may seem too utilitarian for beauty; but to some the fancy will seem sweet and fine that the pure, white, virgin flour, flying on its mission of love and charity, might be likened to the spirit of the lost child whose memory it signalized.