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MASTERPIECE STUDIES 
 
 IN. 
 
 LITEEATUEE 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 TOGETHER WITH A 
 
 MANUALFORTEACHING ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE L. MARSH AND JAMES F. ROYSTER 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
 1904 
 
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 LIBRARY of GONflRESSl 
 Two CoDtes Heceived 
 
 JUN 2 1904 
 
 Cooyrleht Entry 
 
 CLASS d XXc. No. 
 COPY B 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY 
 SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 Silas Marner George Eliot 
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Washington Irving 
 
 Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 
 
 A Manual for Teaching English Classics | ^ZZk^lur 
 
The Selections in this hook are taken 
 from different volumes of the Lake English 
 Classics. The pages are numbered in the 
 order of the books from which the selections 
 are taken and are therefore not consecutive 
 here. 
 
Zbc Xahe EuQlieb (Elaeaice 
 
 SILAS mar:neb 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 
 
 BY 
 
 ALBERT ELMER HANCOCK, Ph.D. 
 
 INSTEUCTOR OF BNGLISH IN HAVEBFORD COLLEQB 
 
 CHICAGO 
 SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
 1904 
 
Copyright 1899 
 By SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In the following introductory pages the editor has 
 endeavored to place before the student in a very simple 
 way, first, the most important things about George Eliot 
 and her literary career, and second, a plan for the ana- 
 lytic study of Silas Marner. In the first part the aim 
 has been to emphasize ideas more than facts, to show the 
 principles of art and conduct for which George Eliot 
 stood, and which are the most illuminating commen- 
 taries on her works. In the second part the purpose 
 has been to suggest a method whereby the mere desultory 
 reading of Silas Marner may be turned into reading 
 that is in an elementary sense critical ; for though a 
 novel is primarily a story to be read for pleasure, no one 
 will like it less because he can intelligently discuss the 
 reasons for his enjoyment. 
 
 A. E. H. 
 Haverford College, Penn., 
 June, 1899o 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Preface , . . • . 3 
 
 Introduction 
 
 I. George Eliot and Her Work 
 
 Biography 7 
 
 A Glimpse at the Novels .... 12 
 
 The Psychological Method 16 
 
 Realism in Humble Life .... 18 
 Her Philosophy of Life : Humanism . . .20 
 
 Style 22 
 
 n. Analysis of Silas Marner 
 
 Purpose 25 
 
 The Characters 27 
 
 The Descriptions 28 
 
 • Dramatic Incidents 28 
 
 Didactic Interpolations 29 
 
 III. Bibliography 30 
 
 Topics for Themes and Discussions . • 32 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 I. GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 
 
 The career of George Eliot, as Mary 
 
 Biography. ° '' 
 
 Ann Evans styled herself when she began 
 to write novels, naturally divides itself into three periods. 
 In the first, she is a young country girl of Derbyshire, 
 conspicuous for her natural talents and her scholarship, 
 yet, apparently destined to lead an uneventful domestic 
 life. In the second, a short period, she is a translator, 
 a critic, an editor, and one of a coterie of progressive 
 and radical thinkers in London. In the third, from 
 1856 to 1880, a quarter of a century of real glory, she 
 is the author of a series of novels which, when all is 
 told, entitle her to the honor of being one of the very 
 greatest writers of English prose fiction. 
 
 Mary Ann Evans was born on St. Cecilia's day in 
 1819, on her father's farm at Arbury, in Warwickshire, 
 one of the midland counties of England. Shortly 
 afterward the family moved to Griff House, the home 
 of her girlhood, a large, substantial, ivy-covered build- 
 ing, set among flowers, hedges and impressive trees. 
 Robert Evans was a prosperous land agent, and he gave 
 his daughter a more than decent schooling. The daughter 
 was a diligent student and an insatiate reader. At the 
 Coventry school for young ladies, she was, tradition says, 
 quiet, reserved, almost timid, but withal the school favor- 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ite. Her nickname was Little Mamma, and the title 
 suggests her unusual seriousness of character. 
 
 At sixteen, after her mother's death, she went back to 
 her father's house as its mistress. Here, amid the 
 trivial home duties, she continued her studies, and, in 
 the course of time, became a really distinguished student 
 of Greek, Latin, French, German, Italian and Hebrew, 
 — one pauses to take breath at the list. She had an inor- 
 dinate capacity for knowledge, and a unique ability for 
 speculation. Though never fervent in her religious 
 emotion, she was a firm believer in the truths of revela- 
 tion until she was eighteen ; but with the thoughtful 
 years she began to examine critically the system of Chris- 
 tian theology. To her unaided intellect its truth was 
 not demonstrable, and she ceased, reluctantly, to attend 
 church The father was a rigidly orthodox member 
 of the established church and he refused to live with 
 an agnostic child. The family ties were broken, and 
 the daughter sadly left the house. At the end of two 
 months, impelled by the sense of filial duty, the girl 
 returned with a promise to conform in the outward 
 ceremonies. But her intellectual rebellion was unsub- 
 dued, and this incident found her at the cross-roads, turn- 
 ing toward the highway of skepticism. She was, in the 
 broad sense, all through life deeply and truly religious ; 
 she always wrote of religious subjects with a saddened 
 yet remote sympathy, but she never regained the simple 
 faith of her childhood. Shortly after her return home 
 her father died, and then, needing a change of scene, she 
 crossed to the continent for a year's residence at Geneva. 
 
 These early years were spent in the accumulation 
 of literary capital. She wae observing, unconsciously 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 9 
 
 perhaps, the joys and sorrows, the trivial cares and 
 duties, the humorous limitations, the sterling virtues, 
 the unwritten tragedies of the men and women of pro- 
 vincial England. Her mind was storing up the facts 
 and details of humble life, and of the nobility of this, 
 like Wordsworth before her in the north, she was to 
 become the sympathetic advocate. 
 
 A short yet important period of literary apprentice- 
 ship followed her return from the continent. In London 
 she became associated with such eminent leaders of 
 thought as Herbert Spencer and John Stuart Mill. She 
 had translated from the German Strauss 's Life of Jesus; 
 now she translated Feuer bach's Essence of Christianity. 
 She wrote criticisms and reviews for the magazines, for 
 example one on the selfish religion of Young in his 
 Night Thoughts^ another on ** Silly Novels by Lady Nov- 
 elists." She became assistant editor of a radical organ, 
 the Westminster Review. On a red letter day she was 
 introduced to George Henry Lewes, a brilliant and ver- 
 satile vrriter, the author of the Life of Goethe. The 
 acquaintance soon ripened into love, and in 1854 the two 
 joined fortunes and fates, and set out for Germany on a 
 honeymoon. 
 
 There is in the history of Miss Evans, up to her 
 thirty -sixth year, no suggestion of her future career and 
 greatness as a novelist. Indeed the beginning of this 
 career seems accidental. One day she determined to 
 write a series of short stories and she began the volume 
 afterwards called Scenes from Clerical Life with the 
 Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton. 
 
 "One night G, went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet 
 evening for writing it I read it to him when he came 
 
10 INTRODUCTION 
 
 home. We both cried over it, and then he came up and 
 kissed me, saying, 'I think your pathos is better than your 
 fun.'" 
 
 This story, sent to Blackwoods under the pseudonym 
 of George Eliot, was accepted, and paid for with fifty 
 guineas. Amos Barton and its companion pieces gave 
 her at once a reputation. Encouraged and delighted, 
 the new author meditated a sustained effort : the result 
 was Adam Bede. The book made a sensation and a new 
 literary figure. Thackeray and Dickens gave her the 
 due meed of praise, the latter suspecting the writer to 
 be a woman. The Mill on the Floss, containing much 
 that was autobiographical, followed and intensified her 
 first success. Then came Silas Mar7ier, in plot a 
 pure creation of the imagination; artistically, some 
 think, the best of all her works. In 1860, after a resi- 
 dence at Florence, and much historical research, she 
 issued her historical novel, Romola. This was published 
 serially in the Cornhill Magazine. Almost exhausted by 
 Romola, her next effort was a poem, or if not a poem, a 
 narrative in noble verse, the Spanish Gypsy. Felix 
 Holt, the Radical, followed, in three volumes. Then 
 came Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, two books 
 wherein George Eliot, forsaking humble life, reached 
 up for her subjects to a higher stratum of society. 
 With Theophrastus Such, a series of erudite essays, she 
 closed her brilliant career in an anti-climax. Before the 
 publication of this last, however, Mr. Lewes had died 
 and two years after his death George Eliot married Mr. 
 J W. Cross, an American banker resident in England. 
 During these years of authorship she lived, surrounded 
 by friends, in London, breaking the stress of creative 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 11 
 
 work with trips to the continent. On the 22d of Decem- 
 ber, 1880, she died, leaving a heritage of good books, 
 and from this heritage the world is incalculably richer 
 in human sympathy and love. 
 
 The character of George Eliot is worthy of special 
 study; for, in many respects, it is undoubtedly unique. 
 She possessed the best traits of both sexes. Her per- 
 sonal appearance suggested the masculine; it was 
 impressive rather than beautiful. She had a high fore- 
 head, a massive face, a firmly set moutli and sharp, pene- 
 trating grey eyes. It was a face which recalls one of 
 her favorite characters, the resolute, heavy-browed Savo- 
 narola. In the large head, supported on a fragile body, 
 there was a brain, critical, logical, able to get outside of 
 self and to take an impersonal view; capable of long, 
 arduous concentration, and ruled by a vigorous, conquer- 
 ing will. Indeed the reading public readily accepted the 
 unknown writer as a man. But for all this she was very 
 truly a woman and her real greatness was the gift of her 
 womanhood. There was in her nature a charming lack of 
 self-sufficiency; there was, too, the feminine variability; 
 she was nervous, excitable, at times low-spirited, always 
 hungry for affection and eager to give a return in kind. 
 Her manners were sweet, gentle, unobtrusive, quite free 
 from all the affectations of the literary lioness. She 
 avoided rather than courted adulation and fame. One 
 might have expected to find her, with all her knowledge 
 and gifts, a Lady Mary Blue-stocking. But she was 
 simply a lovable and a loving woman. 
 
 Though unbidden, let us slip back into one of her after- 
 noons at home in the drawing room of the Priory in 
 Kegent's Park. If we are fortunate we may find there 
 
12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Tennyson or Browning, or more probably Herbert 
 Spencer. It is a large room, decorated by Owen Jones, 
 and hung with drawings by Sir Frederick Leighton. 
 Mr. Lewes is moving about among the visitors, bubbling 
 with wit and airy nothings, a proud master of cere- 
 monies. In an armchair, seated before the fireplace, 
 sits the lady, suggestive almost of royalty, yet unconscious 
 of her uncrowned merit. In repose her face is plain 
 and placid; when she speaks, it becomes half -luminous 
 with a serious yet tender zeal to give her visitors her 
 best thought and sympathy. **She appeared," writes a 
 close friend, *'far greater than her books." Indeed she 
 speaks little of herself and her work. She has the gift, 
 rare among notables, of suppressing self, and the tact to 
 make others speak. These receptions often overtax her 
 strength, and when the company has departed she turns, 
 with a sigh of relief, to the one who remains, her hus- 
 band, and upon him she showers the full measure of that 
 love which led her to dedicate to him every one of her 
 books. 
 
 A Glimpse at The gcuius of Gcorge Eliot was not of 
 the Novels. ^^^ miraculous, inexplicable kind. Her 
 mind was singularly receptive and reflective, and, im- 
 pelled by her natural talents and fed by the facts of 
 experience and observation, it unfolded by a steady and 
 normal growth. We can divide her creative literary 
 career into three periods, and the lines of divison are 
 marked by her choice of subjects. First of all we have 
 her studies in provincial life and character ; and in this 
 group are the Scenes from Clerical Life^ Adam Becle^ 
 The Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner. These deal, 
 in the main, with humble life, and in these we get the 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 13 
 
 truest and most realistic results of her own observation 
 of the daily life, physical and mental, of the obscure 
 yet not unheroic provincials of her native rural county. 
 
 The Scenes from Clerical Life are three short stories, 
 the promising work of a beginner. Adam Bede, her 
 next attempt, is the history of an honest, laborious, 
 God-fearing carpenter, who at first is bewitched by 
 the superficial charms of a vain and foolish dairy maid. 
 Dinah Morris, a young Methodist preacher, eloquent with 
 the gospel of the beauty of holiness and love, is the pre- 
 siding genius of this book, and her union with Adam Bede 
 is the expected result of the law of natural selection. A 
 commonplace story, but, like Shakspere, the author takes 
 the commonplace, and, by her power of creating charac- 
 ters and of endowing them with the human passions, gives 
 to art a picture from nature. The Mill on the Floss is 
 largely autobiogi'aphical. It presents a vivid picture of 
 child life and girlhood and it solves a moral problem. 
 Maggie Tulliver is a real girl ; she plays in the mud, rips 
 her dresses and in her mischievous moments mangles her 
 hair ; but when she grows older and reads The Imitation 
 of Christ her soul opens and she knows the beauty of 
 moral ideals. A crisis comes. After having given her 
 word to one man she falls passionately in love with 
 another; but he is pledged to her dearest friend. In a 
 moment of weakness Maggie yields to selfish impulse, but 
 before it is too late, repentance comes, and the crisis is 
 followed by the heroic tragedy of self-renunciation. 
 SeK-renunciation ! this is the Christian solution of the 
 unchurched author. 
 
 Of Silas Marner we shall speak in detail later. Hav- 
 ing written this tale, George Eliot turns her genius 
 
14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 upon a new field. This is the field of historical fiction, 
 And the single product is Romola. Romola is the result, 
 not of observation and experience, but of reading and 
 research. It takes us to Florence and the golden days 
 of the Eenaissance, the court of the Medici and the con- 
 vent of Savonarola. * 'A magnificent effort of the creative 
 intellect, but a splendid failure," some say. "It isn't 
 true to Italy," say the critics. Perhaps not; nor is the 
 play of Hamlet true to Denmark, but both are true to 
 life. Most readers, doubtless, will not refuse to enjoy 
 the sunlight because the astronomers say there are spots 
 on the sun. Tito Melema, the central figure, is the 
 author's most profound study in psychology. He is a 
 young man gifted with all the graces and qualities that 
 bring success, but he loves pleasure above all things and 
 avoids any painful self-sacrifice. One mistake, a slight 
 impulsive act of selfishness, leads to another and then an- 
 other, and before the man is aware he is caught in the 
 toils of fate and dragged to destruction. The slow, sub- 
 tle degradation of this brilliant youth is an awful expres- 
 sion of the vindictive power of Nemesis. Once Tito's 
 real character is known, Komola, his pure, noble, yet 
 essentially pagan wife would flee from him and from 
 the wickedness of Florence, but Savonarola and an awak- 
 ened conscience christianize her, showing her the path of 
 duty, and by ministering, amid a sinful populace, to the 
 needs of others, her troubled soul finds peace. 
 
 Romola was a tremendous effort, and it was written 
 under clouds of depression and fears of failure. But 
 the indomitable will of George Eliot struggled on to the 
 triumph. The number and the kind of books she read 
 to get her material is astounding. It was, as well it 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 15 
 
 might have been, a notable mountain of difficulty in her 
 career, and the climb left its marks. "I began it a 
 young woman," she wrote at the close, "and I finished 
 it an old woman." With a sense of change, after some 
 efforts in verse, and after the comparatively unsuccessful 
 Felix Holt, the Radical, she entered upon a third field, 
 the life of the cultured classes, and wrote Middlemarch 
 and Daniel Deronda. Middlemarch, at bottom, is a 
 criticism on social limitations and conventions. It shows 
 how the noble aims and ideals of the ardent are crushed 
 and shattered by the sordid facts of reality. Dorothea 
 Brooke is a modern St. Teresa; lured by a Quixotic 
 sense of duty she weds a marrowless recluse, hoping to 
 make him happy and to help him in his monumental 
 work of pedantic scholarship. It is a mistake and the 
 happiness of both is destroyed. Middlemarch is a labor- 
 ious but powerful novel ; in spite of some defects it pos- 
 sesses an unostentatious solidity which leaves a strong 
 impression upon the memory. Daniel Deronda, with 
 all its faults, is the product of George Eliot's maturest 
 mind. It is the record of the conversion and regenera- 
 tion of a selfish young girl, who, early in life, was allured 
 by the ambition for wealth and high station. Gwendolen 
 Harleth marries a brutal, polished egotist, the young 
 nobleman Grandcourt, against the command of her con- 
 science, and when, by his death, his wished-for death, 
 she is released from his tyranny, she gains her freedom 
 only to be tormented with remorse. But in the end she 
 is fully redeemed to womanhood. Deronda, who comes 
 into Gwendolen's life as a spiritual adviser, is a young 
 Jew. He has great plans for the re-establishment of his 
 race in Palestine and the restoration of the Jewish 
 
16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 national life. He is only a high-minded dreamer, an 
 idealist, but in him George Eliot vindicates the Jew and 
 shows that, after all, spiritual ideals are the essential 
 elements of real religion. With this book the author's 
 career as a novelist closes, for TJieophr ashes Such is but 
 the aftermath of a late harvest. 
 The Psycho-"* "^^ ^^^ treatment of character George 
 
 M^hod. Eliot pursues rigorously the psychological 
 method; she is a scientist and her field 
 of work is the spiritual life. Her natural bent is to 
 scrutinize, as with a microscope, the anatomy and 
 physiology of the soul. She studies impulses, motives 
 of conduct and the results of their action. A botanist 
 observes the forms of plants, he notes the processes of 
 their growth, their changes under the varying conditions 
 of seasons and climate ; he picks away the petals of a 
 rose to get at the heart of the flower. So with scien- 
 tific minuteness George Eliot watches and details the 
 constitution and the actions of the inner life of man, 
 and her works are therefore histories of spiritual devel- 
 opment. The characters are not static, not studies from 
 still life, but they are dynamic, always unfolding in the 
 play of contact with the other forces in the world. 
 
 Take, for illustration, Silas Marner. When the story 
 of his life begins this man is an industrious weaver, full 
 of faith in God and love for men. A theft is commit- 
 ted; the cast of the lots, supposedly under the control 
 of Providence, unjustly declares him to be the thief. 
 The light of faith goes out, with it the love for men, and 
 the soul of Marner is in utter darkness. He goes away, 
 lives as a hermit and his life is void of any strong inter- 
 est until the greed for gold supplies him with a ruling 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 1*? 
 
 passion. Then the gold is taken away, and his soal is 
 once more a dark vacuum. At last a waif, a golden- 
 haired little gu'l, comes out of the unknown into his 
 heart, and warms its frigid loneliness with human affec- 
 tion ; — once again the lights of love and faith dawn upon 
 his arid life and through this little child Marner is 
 reconciled with God and man. A psychological study 
 this, for it shows the changes, which, under varying 
 conditions, take place in the soul. 
 
 If looked at in one way, this writer is scientifically 
 exact, cold-blooded, impersonal; in another and more 
 emphatic way, she is deeply human, sympathetic, and 
 full of warmth and mercy. And this is the great merit 
 of her application of the scientific method to literature. 
 In her books there are no arrant knaves, no unspotted 
 saints. Tito Melema, a sinner, is yet affectionate and 
 lovable; even Romola, with all her placid purity, 
 impulsively flees from near duties ; and when Silas Mar- 
 ner is in the deepest depths of his sordid miserliness, 
 the writer indulges in no wrathful reproaches, nor does 
 she for a moment lose faith in the man. Unlike Thack- 
 eray, George Eliot has no bitter vein of cynicism; unlike 
 Dickens, she has no bent toward caricature; and, if 
 lees brilliant than either of these, she is more sane and 
 true. And these qualities of sanity and truth are the 
 vu'tues of her psychological depth and insight. **He 
 that is without sin among yon," said Christ, *'let him 
 cast the first stone." George Eliot, facing sin and sin- 
 ners, seems to write with this same spirit of Christian 
 charity. She knew the real difficulties of righteous 
 living, she knew the full power of temptation, she knew 
 the blindness and the ignorance of human nature, and 
 
18 INTRODUCTION 
 
 because as a psychologist she knew these, her books are 
 filled with that quality of mercy which droppeth as the 
 gentle rain from heaven. In this respect she is greater, 
 even, than the gi'eat Thackeray. 
 KeaUsm in As would be cxpcctcd from what has 
 Humble ife. ^.^^^ heen Said, George Eliot is a realist, 
 and in her best and most spontaneous work, her field is 
 that of normal humble life. 
 
 She is a realist because her books are faithful records 
 of what actually exists in the world. She does not draw 
 from her imagination any impossible heroes or heroines, 
 who, from unattainable heights of virtue or depths of 
 depravity, attract or terrify us into sentimental good- 
 ness. Like David and the men of the Old Testament, 
 the characters in these novels are creatures of flesh and 
 blood ; there is the taint of earth upon them all, and if 
 they are good, they are so because they have fought with 
 sin and conquered. Her eyes have seen, her ears have 
 heard, her heart has felt and their reports are the data 
 upon which she builds her stories. So, in holding fast 
 to the facts of character, to the complexity of human 
 nature, to the delicately intermingled lights and shades 
 of virtue and sinfulness, George Eliot is a true realist. 
 
 And for another reason. Eomantic writers like Jules 
 Verne and Rider Haggard search out the exceptional, 
 the strange, often the fantastic; they write tales of ad- 
 venture, full of novelty and excitement, often arousing 
 morbid curiosity. But George Eliot is quite content to 
 be merely commonplace. Everyday life, everyday joys 
 and sorrows, routine duties, obscure destinies, these are 
 her El Doradoes ; and they are not in the fable lands of 
 the East and the West, but there at home in the midland 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HEi« WORK 19 
 
 counties of England. She does not wander far afield 
 searching for dramatic heroes ; there are scores of sub- 
 jects around her. 
 
 "There are few prophets in the world," she writes in Adam 
 Bede, "few sublimely beautiful women, few heroes. I can't 
 afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities. I 
 want a great deal of those feelings for my fellowmen." 
 
 In another place in Adam Bede there is a criticism of 
 the Dutch domestic painters, and in showing her love 
 for these unobtrusive masters she makes a plea for her 
 own work. The passage is well worth quoting. 
 
 "It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I 
 delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty -minded people 
 des ise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faith- 
 ful ^actures of a monotonous homely existence. ... I turn, 
 without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, 
 sibyls and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her 
 flower pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noon-day 
 light, softened, perhaps, by a screen of leaves, falls on her 
 mob-cap and just touches the rim of her spinning wheel, and 
 her stone jug and all the cheap common things which are the 
 precious necessaries of life to her. . . . 'Foh,' says my ideal- 
 istic friend, 'what vulgar details! What good is there in 
 taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women 
 and clowns? What a low phase of life ! What cliunsy, ugly 
 people!' But bless us, things may be lovable that are not 
 altogether handsome, I hope." 
 
 The fact is, George Eliot has done in prose what 
 Wordsworth did previously in poetry ; she has impressed 
 men with the sense of joy to be found, as Matthew 
 Arnold puts it, in nature and in the simple, primary 
 affections and duties. Both, indeed, have sometimes 
 strayed from their native fields, and, though in no man- 
 
20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ner to their discredit, they have then failed to reach 
 their highest range. The formal classic odes of Words- 
 worth are not equal to his simple ballads, and Middle- 
 march and Daniel Deronda^ strong as they are, are not 
 equal to Adam Bede. The real merit of the poet and 
 the novelist is the glorification of humble life. 
 
 Early in life, as we have seen, George 
 phy of Life: EUot lost the faith of her childhood. Her 
 
 Humanism. . . • • ■ ■ i 
 
 mind was opening to maturity just at the 
 beginning of a new philosophy, the philosophy of Eation- 
 alism or Positivism, the chief apostles of which were 
 Comte in France, and Mill and Spencer in England. 
 These thinkers place the emphasis upon those facts of 
 life concerning which we have positive knowledge, upon 
 the world made known by the senses, the demonstrable 
 truths ; they are agnostic toward the truths of supernat- 
 ural revelation, and they deny the possibility of mira- 
 cles and the suspension of natural law. This is a philos- 
 ophy which sweeps away many of the traditional and 
 essential doctrines of the Cliristian church. 
 
 George Eliot matured in the atmosphere of this phi- 
 losophy, accepted its fundamental principles, and made 
 them the basis of her point of view. Positivism, or 
 better, humanism, permeates all her books. In her 
 feelings, as already noted, she was deeply religious, but 
 her intellect refused to accept the doctrines of the church 
 as proved or provable. *'I have no objections to Chris- 
 tianity but its want of evidence," she wrote. There is, in 
 her intellectual life, no positive belief in God, in immor- 
 tality, in historical Christianity ; but lacking these, she 
 held fast to one thing, the necessity of doing one's duty 
 to the world. Mr. Frederick Myers has reported a dra- 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 21 
 
 matic conversation on this subject; it reveals the heroic 
 nobility of George Eliot, working in the darkness of spir- 
 itual night. 
 
 **I remember how, at Cambridge, I walked with her once in 
 the Fellows' Garden at Trinity on an evening in rainy May, 
 and as she, stirred somewhat beyond her wont, and taking as 
 her text the three words which have been used so often as the 
 inspiring tnmipet call of men, God, Immortality, Duty, pro- 
 nounced with terrible earnestness how inconceivable was the 
 first, how unbelievable was the second, how peremptory and 
 absolute was the third. Never, perhaps, have sterner accents 
 aflSrmed the sovereignty of impersonal and recompensing law. 
 I listened, and night fell; her grave majestic coimtenance 
 turned toward me like a sibyl's in the gloom; it was as 
 though she withdrew from me, one by one, the two scrolls of 
 promise and left me the third scroll only, awful with inevi- 
 table fates. And when we stood at length and parted, 
 under that columnar circuit of forest trees, beneath the last 
 twilight of starless skies, I seemed to be gazing, like Titus at 
 Jerusalem, on vacant seats and empty halls, on a sanctuary 
 with no presence to hallow it, and heaven left lonely of a 
 God." 
 
 But in truth her religion was only half gone; finding 
 it impossible to worship the God of the Bible, she wor- 
 shipped God's creation, humanity; for, like the other 
 Positivists, she was also an ardent lover of her fellow- 
 men. They cease to contemplate the ideas of God and 
 Immortality and they act, with, though apart from, the 
 church, to ameliorate the conditions of this present 
 world. The two great commandments of Christ are to 
 love thy God with all thy heart, mind, soul and strength, 
 and thy neighbor as thyself. The first of these, intel- 
 lectually, George Eliot could not obey ; the second she 
 obeyed with um'elenting zeal, and in doing so, hoped to 
 
22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 attain an unselfish "subjective immortality," a continued 
 impersonal existence in the minds and hearts of happier 
 future generations. She wrote, in one of her poems : 
 
 "Oh! may I join the Choir Invisible 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 In minds made better by their presence, 
 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world." 
 
 Duty, duty to one's neighbor, to future generations, 
 this was the heart of her creed, the first principle of her 
 philosophy of humanism, and her watchword in life. It 
 is to be regretted that she could not attain the clear 
 vision and sublimity of faith in the unseen ; that, unlike 
 her Dolly Winthrop, her own Providence must be blind, 
 relentless, immutable Natural Law : but even the strictest 
 of churchmen will hardly judge her, still less condemn; 
 she did what she could. This lack of faith was, indeed, 
 a great disadvantage. "Her scepticism," writes Mr. 
 Eichard Holt Hutton, a spnitually-minded critic, 
 "seems one of the greatest of the limitations of her 
 genius." And another writer, feeling with truth the 
 deeply religious nature of her heart, very beautifully 
 says, "For the orthodox Christian she is a priestess 
 without an altar, a prophetess without a shrine." 
 
 In the beginning of her career, as a 
 translator from the German, the style of 
 George Eliot was conspicuous for its accuracy and faith- 
 fulness to the original. It was the painstaking work of 
 a scholar, and scholarliness, perhaps, is the first quality 
 of her style. 
 
 Scholarship does not, of course, necessai*ily imply dull- 
 ness; indeed, in George Eliot's novels, the style often, 
 
GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 23 
 
 very often, attains an epigrammatic concreteness and an 
 illuminating brilliancy. However, the impulses of the 
 scholar and the artist are frequently at odds, and fre- 
 quently, too, an excess of knowledge smothers the imagi- 
 nation. George Eliot's style certainly does suffer from 
 too much erudition; for, in the descriptive and reflective 
 passages, and these are many, her diction is heavy, 
 labored and burdened with ponderous Latin words. Her 
 vocabulary is large and, at times, unconsciously ostenta- 
 tious. Romola, for some readers, is spoiled by too many 
 gratuitous details. **The terrible masses of information, " 
 says Leslie Stephen, **have put out the fire." In point 
 of style the work of George Eliot is immoderately ana- 
 lytic ; she will resolve a scene or a complex idea into its 
 minute details and illustrations, she will enumerate 
 indefatigably fact after fact and observation after obser- 
 vation, and the result is a failure to express that soul of 
 style, the underlying lyrical mood. One cannot see the 
 woods for the trees. 
 
 However, even in these heavy passages, there are 
 lightning flashes of epigram and imagination ; there are 
 touches of the artist's hand, touches of real beauty. 
 Dorothea Brooke enters a room, and her coming, writes 
 George Eliot, was like a "sudden and pleasant change 
 in the light." A phrase like that reveals at once the 
 character of the girl, and her kinship with the sainted 
 Teresa. When Arthur Donnithorne, in Adam Bede^ is 
 brooding over his flirtation with Hetty, the author subtly 
 observes, **No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a 
 farmer's niece." There are multitudes of such imagi- 
 native flashes half concealed amid prose more or less 
 dull. 
 
24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But if the passages in the author's own person 
 are often labored, the dramatic passages, where the 
 characters speak for themselves, are spontaneous and 
 vital. The men and women do not utter book-talk, 
 they speak phrases which throb with life and individu- 
 ality. The sharpness of observation, the homely illus- 
 trations, the traits of imagination so noticeable in the 
 uneducated, are all within easy reach of George Eliot's 
 grasp. **There's allays two 'pinions," says Mr. Macey 
 to the tavern group, *' there's the 'pinion a man has of 
 himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. 
 There 'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell 
 could hear itself." Mrs. Poyser, in Adam Bede, is no 
 less aphoristic. **For my part," she says, *'I was never 
 fond o' gentlefolk's servants, they're mostly like the fine 
 lady's fat dogs, nayther good for barkin' nor butcher's 
 meat, but on'y for show." 
 
 It has been already noted that her zeal for analysis, 
 for heaping up details enumeratively, destroys the lyrical 
 mood which transforms mere writing into art. This, 
 unfortunately, is too often the case. But there are 
 times when the poet's impulse controls her, quiets her 
 sharp wits, and casts into the atmosphere of her imagi- 
 nation the subdued magic of poetry. A beautiful exam- 
 ple of this is found at the end of one of the chapters of 
 Silas Marner^ where she speaks of the redeeming influ- 
 ence of a little child in a shattered life. 
 
 "In old days, there were angels who came and took men by 
 the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. 
 We see no white winged angels now. But yet men are led 
 away from threatening destruction ; a hand is put into theirs 
 which leads them forth gently toward a calm and bright land, 
 
ANALYSIS OF ''SILAS MARNER" 25 
 
 so that they look no more backward ; and the hand may be a 
 little child's." 
 
 In coming to a final decision concerning her style, 
 after noting here and there some misused words, some 
 popular solecisms, much heavy Latin verbiage, her tend- 
 ency to sermonize and force the moral, and after noting, 
 too, in her favor, a brilliancy of dialogue, a sparkling 
 of epigram, a well considered accuracy of speech, one 
 must say that the great merit of her books does not lie 
 in the style. It is solid, so solid that at times it ob- 
 scures the light and the play of color ; but it lacks too 
 frequently that essential of great style, a lyrical enthu- 
 siasm which kindles the emotions and compels, as by a 
 magic open sesame, the imagination to open its doors to 
 vistas of the beautiful. 
 
 IL ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER"* 
 
 The analysis of Silas Marner which follows will con- 
 sider these points : purpose, plot, characters, description, 
 dramatic incident, and didactic interpolations. These 
 are standards which may be applied to very many, if 
 not almost all, works of fiction. 
 
 Purpose. George Eliot did not believe, with a certain 
 modern school, that art should exist for art's sake 
 merely. In her view, art was vitally related to life, and 
 particularly to conduct. She wrote therefore with an 
 ethical as well as an artistic purpose and with distinct 
 designs upon the conscience. In Silas Marner her ar- 
 tistic purpose was to give a picture of life in a remote 
 English village; her ethical purpose was, in her own 
 
 * Give the book a rapid preliminary reading before proceeding to make 
 a critical study. 
 
26 INTRODUCTION 
 
 plirase, to set "in a strong light the remedial influences 
 of pure, natural, human relations." Silas Marner, after 
 the loss of his gold, is without any interest which could 
 make his life worth the living; but with the coming 
 of Eppie the dormant human affections are awakened 
 in his heart and he becomes once more at peace with 
 God and his f ellowmen. 
 
 J The Plot. The story is exceedingly simple. A 
 weaver, falsely accused of theft, is driven from his home 
 and friends in Lantern Yard. The injustice of his fate 
 causes him to revolt in his heart against God and to 
 become a misanthi'ope. He emigrates to a distant vil- 
 lage, lives in a hermit's solitude and centers his efforts 
 upon the hoarding of gold. Then his money is mysteri- 
 ously taken from him, and, for a time, his life is a blank. 
 One night, in a storm, a waif, a helpless child, comes 
 straying by chance to his door. The lonely man takes 
 her in, cares for her, learns to love her, and this love, 
 taking the place of his former miser's gi'eed, redeems 
 his lost human nature and makes him once more a man. 
 There is an episode, as is usually the case, connected 
 with the plot and giving breadth and background to 
 the story. The episode concerns the fortunes of Godfrey 
 Cass, the squire's son. He has foolishly married a 
 woman of low station, and, too late, he recognizes the 
 mistake; the marriage, however, has not been made 
 public. His father, and, indeed, he, himself, desire 
 his alliance with a young lady of the village. Godfrey 
 temporizes, hoping that something may turn up to rid 
 him of his wife and the necessity of acknowledging his 
 child. The woman freezes to death in a storm, and 
 Godfrey, cherishing his secret, marries Nancy Lammeter. 
 
ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER" 27 
 
 The episode, so important that this technical term 
 seems hardly descriptive, is connected deftly with the 
 plot by Dunstan, Godfrey's worthless brother, who steals 
 Marner's money, and by Eppie, who, after years of life 
 and love with Marner, proves to be the unacknowledged 
 child of Godfrey. 
 
 The Plots, after all, are but minor elements in 
 
 Characters. ^ novcl ; plot-makiug is a cheap kind of 
 invention. Shakspere borrowed nearly all of his stories ; 
 the plots of Thackeray are mere makeshifts, and those 
 of Dickens are, usually, melodramatic and sensational. 
 Humanity is most interested in itself, and the absorbing 
 interest in a great novel is derived from the human char- 
 acters. It is in character-drawing that George Eliot 
 excels — some critics, indeed, in this regard, ranking her 
 with Shakspere. The characters in her books, as we 
 have noted, are not photographs or sketches taken in a 
 single pose or moment of time ; they are souls developing 
 and transforming amid the tortures of the inquisitorial 
 chamber of experience. It is essential then, in studying 
 these men and women, to note, first of all, their traits — the 
 foibles, the faults, the virtues and vices of each — and 
 further, to observe how their natures unfold, weaken or 
 strengthen under the stress of crises demanding judgment 
 and action. In Silas Marnier we can divide these persons 
 into three groups : first, the upper chcle of village 
 gentlefolk, the Cass family, the Lammeters, the Gunns — 
 the people, that is, who give the social standards; then 
 the group of village gossips and wise-acres, the plain 
 folk who haunt the Eainbow Tavern, Mr. Snell the 
 landlord, Mr. Macey, Mr, Tookey and Mr. Dowlas ; and, 
 last of all, and chief of all, Silas Marner, living for the 
 
28 INTRODUCTION 
 
 most part by himself, his solitude broken, however, by 
 the coming of Eppie and the religious consolation of 
 Dolly Winthrop. The student should learn to charac- 
 terize these people in detail, and to contrast their natures, 
 observing the changes wrought between the beginning 
 and the close of the story ; he should study, for exam- 
 ple, Silas Marner's misanthropy, Nancy Lammeter's 
 prudery, Eppie's sunbeam witchery, Dolly Winthrop's 
 faith in the unseen Providence, and Godfrey's lack of 
 courage when facing the consequences of his own acts. 
 The In a novel, in addition to character study, 
 
 Descriptions, there is always more or less description. 
 This corresponds to the scenery and stage-setting of a 
 play. Descriptions are most effective when they repro- 
 duce a real atmosphere, full of local color, local traits 
 and individual details. In Silas Marner there are 
 faithful pictures of Lantern Yard, Raveloe, the ale-room 
 at the Rainbow, the halls of the Cass House, the Stone- 
 pits and the cottage of Silas Marner. In these the acts 
 of the little di-ama take place. Local and provincial 
 touches are seen in the village superstitions, the mys- 
 terious regard for Marner because of his supposedly 
 unnatural powers over disease, the discussion concern- 
 ing ghosts, the petty rivalries of the village despots, all 
 of which localize and individualize the place. In hold- 
 ing us close to fact, the author gives a true portraiture 
 of a provincial English county in the days before rail- 
 roads covered the kingdom with a cobweb of iron. 
 Dramatic A uovcl, a good uovcl, must be a narrative 
 Incidents. Qf humau acts. We all havc a temptation 
 to skip long descriptions ; but action vitalizes a book and 
 makes the storv dramatic. There is in 8ilas Marner a 
 
ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER" 29 
 
 moderate amount of dramatic incident — the accusation 
 and casting of lots in Lantern Yard, the quarrel of the 
 Cass brothers, the dispute at the ale-house, the theft of 
 the money, the New Y'ear party, the coming of Eppie, 
 the renunciation of her father in Marner's cottage, and 
 the return visit to Lantern Yard. No one of these inci- 
 dents is wildly exciting, it is true ; but excitement is not 
 one of the author's ambitions. Her favorite dramatic 
 method in this book is to have a group gathered for some 
 commonplace purpose, and then to make some one, like 
 the messenger in a Greek play, rush in to announce an 
 important bit of news. In this way Silas, discovering 
 his money gone, breaks in upon the ale-house debate; 
 the discovery of the body of Godfrey's wife interrupts 
 the New Year's party at the Red House; and in a similar 
 way is announced the finding of the remains of Dunstan. 
 This method is a striking feature of George Eliot's 
 dramatic construction and its effectiveness should be duly 
 noted. 
 
 Didactic George Eliot's weakness is her incessant 
 Interpolations, q^^^ ovcr-zcalous desirc to preach. She 
 was unusually serious and never lost an opportunity to 
 address the conscience or to make observations on the 
 abstract or general principles of human nature. "Her 
 books are crowded with teaching of the most positive 
 character," writes Mr. Cooke in his able study of her 
 work. This unconcealed didacticism is artistically a 
 very great blemish and there are many who wish she 
 had been less of the preacher and more of the artist. 
 Still these interpolations, these unwelcome intrusions, are 
 there, and though they interrupt the story, and dampen 
 the reader's enthusiasm, we cannot by wishing conjure 
 
30 INTRODUCTION 
 
 them away. We must take the woman's work as it is 
 and give thanks for the gift. The didactic parts are 
 like doses of medicine, unpleasant, perhaps, but yet they 
 make us better and stronger ; they deepen our reflective 
 powers and our insight into human nature. Fortu- 
 nately, Silas Marner is freer than any other of her books 
 from these lapses, and, for this reason, possesses a unique 
 artistic charm. There are, it is true, here and there, 
 some abstract digressions even in Silas Marner^ but they 
 are never long and wearisome. The student, in passing, 
 may simply note this as a characteristic trait of George 
 Eliot's usual style, and rejoice that in the present in- 
 stance the tendency is more honored in the breach than 
 in the observance. 
 
 III. BIBLIOGRAPHY— LIFE 
 
 The Life of George Eliot: by Oscar Browning, in the Great 
 Writers' series. Written by an intimate friend. A good 
 introductory book. 
 
 George Eliot: by Mathilde Blind. A more extensive treat- 
 ment than that by Mr. Browning. 
 
 George Eliofs Life: by J. W. Cross. It consists of her own 
 letters, edited and arranged by her husband. This is th© 
 standard biography. 
 
 George Eliot; a Critical Study of her Life, Writings and 
 Philosophy: by George WiUis Cooke. A scholarly and pene- 
 trating piece of exposition; a book well worth buying for 
 those who wish a deep appreciation of the thought of George 
 Eliot. 
 
 A List of Critical Essays with Transcripts. 
 
 Edward Dowden; in Studies in Literature, 1789-1877: The 
 most important personality in her works is her second self. 
 She condemns but does not hate; she has sympathy for all 
 creatures. Her English landscapes are in the manner of Con- 
 stable, rich with rough, soft color. Facts in her mind group 
 themselves into moral laws. She shows that out of evil must 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY— LIFE 31 
 
 come evil. Her religious creed is the necessity of self- 
 renunciation. For breadth of sympathy, for power of inter- 
 preting the rarer and more intense experiences of men, she 
 ranks with Shakspere. 
 
 Frederic Harrison; in Early Victorian Literature: She 
 has been called a modern Shakspere. Her j^kilosophy and 
 science mar her artistic gifts. Her success in uniting specu- 
 lation and art is far from complete. Her works are not spon- 
 taneous, not buoyant enough. She was not a born narrator. 
 Silas Marner comes nearer a great success than her more 
 elaborate works ; there is little science or book learning in it. 
 Her work would have been more enjoyable if she had taken 
 less pains. Though she raised the art of romance to a higher 
 plane, she was more of a thinker than an artist. 
 
 Richard Holt Hntton; in Essays on Literary Criticism: 
 Her remarkable feature is the "striking combination of a 
 very deep speculative power with a great deal of realistic 
 imagination." She is the novelist, not of surface manners 
 but of the inward life. Romola is her greatest work. "The 
 only flaw I can see in George Eliot's intellect consists in her 
 attempts to conform her mind cheerfully to facts against 
 which she inwardly rebels. . . . George Eliot, with a faith 
 like that of her own Dinah, would, to my mind, be one of 
 the greatest intellectual personages the world has ever seen. 
 Faith would have vitalized her genius." 
 
 John Morley; in Miscellanies, Volume III: She is "mag- 
 nificent but unreadable." She possesses limitless per- 
 sistency of application. Her unbelief was an intellectual 
 necessity. In one of her own letters she says: "I have too 
 profound a conviction of the efficacy that lies in all sincere 
 faith and the spiritual blight that comes from no-faith, to 
 have any negative propagandism in me." She is a "wise, 
 benignant soul," and her character is most to be appreciated. 
 Her poetry is not interesting, her fiction is lacking in fancy, 
 illusion and enchantment. 
 
 Edmond Scherer; in Essays on English Literature: You note 
 in her face timidity and the need of sympathy and affection. 
 In her, there is a dominion of reason over passion, of reflection 
 ever spontaneity. Her philosophy is a gently sad one. She 
 
32 INTRODUCTION 
 
 divines the interior play of the passions. She lacks the 
 •experience of the troubles, excitements and disorders of love. 
 In her own words, — "the highest virtue is that courage which 
 tjan do without narcotics." 
 
 TOPICS FOR THEMES AND DISCUSSIONS 
 
 Each of the following topics may be taken as the sub- 
 ject of a short theme to be read and criticised in class; 
 or these topics may all be discussed orally. No refer- 
 ences are given, since it is better for the pupil to find 
 for Idmself the facts and the details. The more im- 
 portant topics are marked with an asterisk. 
 
 t. The Personal Appearance of Silas Marner. 
 '2. !Marner's Expulsion from Lantern Yard.* 
 
 3. A Description of the Village of Raveloe.* 
 
 4. The Village Superstitions in Silas Marner. 
 
 5. Marner's Reputation among the Villagers. 
 «6. The Pleasures and Pains of a Miser. 
 
 7. The Development of Marner's Character.* 
 
 ^. Squire Cass as a Type of the Country Gentleman. 
 
 '9. A comparison of Squire Cass with Sir Roger de Coverley.* 
 
 10. The Relations of Godfrey and Dunstan Cass, 
 
 11. The Weakness of Godfrey's Character.* 
 
 12. The History of Marner's Moneybags. 
 
 13. The Faith of Dolly Winthrop.* 
 
 14. Church and Chapel in England. 
 
 15. The Courting of Nancy Lammeter. 
 
 16. The New Year's Party at the Red House.* 
 
 17. The Discussion in the Rainbow.* 
 
 18. The History of Molly. 
 
 19. Marner's Care for Eppie.* 
 
 50. Eppie's Pranks.* 
 
 51. The Love of Aaron and Eppie. 
 
 22. Eppie's Renunciation of her Father.* 
 
 28. The Return to Lantern Yard 
 
 24:. George Eliot as a Realist.* 
 
 SfS, Personal Impressions of Silas MarnerJ^ 
 
PART I 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 In the days when the spinning-wheels^ hnmmed busily 
 in the farm houses — and even great ladies, clotted in 
 silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of 
 polished oak — there might be seen in districts far away 
 among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, cer- 
 tain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the 
 brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a 
 disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked fiercely 
 when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the 
 upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what 
 dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag? — and these 
 pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious 
 burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good 
 reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen 
 thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from 
 that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weav- 
 ing, indispensable though it was, could be carried on 
 entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-^ 
 off time superstition clung easily round every person or 
 thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and 
 occasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the 
 
 ^ The time here indicated vaguely was at the opening of the 
 nineteenth century, and before the close of the Napoleonic wars, 
 
 33 
 
34 SILAS MARNER 
 
 knife-grinder. No one knew where wandering men had 
 their homes or their origin ; and how was a man to be 
 explained nnless you at least knew somebody who knew 
 his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, 
 the world outside their own direct experience was a 
 region of vagueness and mystery: to their untravelled 
 thought a state of wandering was a conception as dim as 
 the winter life of the swallows that came back with the 
 spring; and even a settler, if he came from distant 
 parts, hardly ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of 
 distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a 
 long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended 
 in the commission of a crime ; especially if he had any 
 reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handi- 
 craft. All cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that 
 difficult instrument the tongue, or in some other art 
 unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest 
 folk, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly 
 not over -wise or clever — at least, not beyond such a mat- 
 ter as knowing the signs of the weather ; and the process 
 by which rapidity and dexterity of any kind were 
 acquired was so wholly hidden, that they partook of the 
 nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that 
 those scattered linen-weavers — emigrants from the town 
 into the country — were to the last regarded as aliens by 
 their rustic neighbours, and usually contracted the 
 eccentric habits which belong to a state of loneliness. 
 
 In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, 
 named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone 
 cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the 
 village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a 
 deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas'a 
 
SILAS MARNER 35 
 
 loom, so unlike the natural clieerful trotting of the win- 
 nowing machine, or tlie simpler rhythm of the flail, had 
 a half -fearful fascination for the Eaveloe boys, who 
 would often leave off their nutting or birds '-nesting to 
 peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counter- 
 balancing a certain awe at the mysterious action of the 
 loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn 
 from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with 
 the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But some- 
 times it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an 
 irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small 
 scoundi'els, and, though chary of his time, he liked their 
 intrusion so ill that he would descend from his loom, 
 and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that 
 was always enough to make them take to their legs in 
 terror. For how was it possible to believe that those 
 large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner 's pale face 
 really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to 
 them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart 
 cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who hap- 
 pened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard 
 their fathers and mothers hint that Silas Manner could 
 cure folk's rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still 
 more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair 
 enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such 
 strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might 
 perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener 
 among the grey-hahed peasantry; for the rude mind 
 with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benig- 
 nity. A shadowy conception of power that by much 
 persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting 
 harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the 
 
36 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Invisible in the minds of men who have always been 
 pressed close by primitive wants, and to whom a life of 
 hard toil has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic 
 religions faith. To them pain and mishap present a far 
 wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment : 
 their imagination is almost barren of the images that 
 feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollec- 
 tions that are a perpetual pasture to fear. *'Is there 
 anything yon can fancy that you would like to eat?" I 
 once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last 
 illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had 
 offered him. "No," he answered, "I've never been 
 used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat 
 that." Experience had bred no fancies in him that 
 could raise the phantasm of appetite. 
 
 And Kaveloe was a village where many of the old 
 echoes lingered, undr owned by new voices. Not that it 
 was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts 
 of civilization — inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly- 
 scattered shepherds : on the contrary, it lay in the rich 
 central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry Eng- 
 land, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual 
 point of view, paid highly- desirable tithes.^ But it was 
 nestled in a snug well -wooded hollow, quite an hour's 
 journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was 
 never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of 
 public opinion. It was an important-looking village, 
 with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart 
 of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, 
 with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 
 
 ^ The tenth part of a man's income, demanded by the 
 church. 
 
SILAS MARNER 37 
 
 standing close upon the road, and lifting more impos- 
 ing fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among 
 the trees on the other side of the churchyard : — a village 
 which showed at once the summits of its social life, and 
 told the practised eye that there was no great park and 
 manor -house in the vicinity, but that there were several 
 chiefs in Eaveloe who could farm badly quite at their 
 ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in 
 those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep 
 a jolly Christmas, Whitsun,^ and Easter tide. 
 
 It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to- 
 Eaveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with 
 prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance 
 would have had nothing strange for people of average 
 culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom 
 he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities 
 which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his 
 occupation, and his advent from an unknown region 
 called '']N"orth'ard." So had his way of life: — he 
 invited no comer to step across his door-sill, and he 
 never strolled into the village to di'ink a pint at the 
 Rainbow, or to gossip at the wheelwright's: he sought 
 no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, 
 or in order to supply himself with necessaries ; and it 
 was soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never 
 urge one of them to accept him against her will — quite 
 as if he had heard them declare that they would never 
 marry a dead man come to life again. This view of 
 Marner 's personality was not without another ground 
 than his pale face and unexampled eyes; for Jem 
 Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that one evening as 
 
 ^ The seventh Sunday after Easter. 
 
38 SILAS MARNER 
 
 he was returning homeward he saw Silas Marner leaning 
 against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of 
 resting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would 
 have done; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that 
 Marner 's eyes were set like a dead man's, and he spoke 
 to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his 
 hands clutch'd the bag as if they'd been made of iron; 
 but just as he made up his mind that the weaver was 
 dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, in 
 the winking of an eye, and said "G-ood night," and 
 walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by 
 token that it was the very day he had been mole-catch- 
 ing on Squire Cass's land, down by the old saw -pit. 
 Some said Marner must have been in a *'fit," a word 
 which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; 
 but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, 
 shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known 
 to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, 
 wasn't it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly 
 take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on 
 the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, no; 
 it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, 
 like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as 
 soon as you can say "Gee!" But there might be such 
 a thing as a man's soul being loose from his body, and 
 going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back ; 
 and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to 
 school in this shell-less state to those who could teach 
 them more than their neighbours could learn with their 
 five senses and the parson. And where did Master 
 Marner get his knowledge of herbs from — and charms 
 too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney's story 
 
SILAS MARNER 39 
 
 was no more than what might have been expected by 
 anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally 
 Gates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart 
 had been beating enough to burst her body, for two 
 months and more, while she had been under the doc- 
 tor's care. He might cure more folks if he would; but 
 he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him 
 from doing you a mischief. 
 
 It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was in- 
 debted for protecting him from the persecution that his 
 singularities might have drawn upon him, but still 
 more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neigh- 
 bouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft 
 made him a highly welcome settler to the richer house- 
 wives of the district, and even to the more provident 
 cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the 
 year's end. Their sense of his usefulness would have 
 counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was 
 not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale^ 
 of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had 
 rolled on without producing any change in the impres- 
 sions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the 
 change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen 
 years the Eaveloe men said just the same things about 
 Silas Marner as at the beginning : they did not say them 
 quite so often, but they believed them much more 
 strongly when they did say them. There was only one 
 important addition which the years had brought: it 
 was that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of 
 money somewhere, and that he could buy up "bigger 
 men" than himself. 
 
 ^The measurement ; "tale" is akin to "tally," to keep account. 
 
40 SILAS MAENER 
 
 But while opinion concerning him had remained 
 nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented 
 scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had 
 been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every 
 fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been con- 
 demned to solitude. His life, before he came to Rave- 
 loe, had been filled with the movement, the mental 
 activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as 
 in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated 
 in a narrow religious sect, where the poorest layman lias 
 the chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, 
 and has, at the very least, the weight of a silent voter in 
 the government of his community. Marner was highly 
 thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as 
 the church assembling in Lantern Yard ; he was believed 
 to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith ; 
 and a peculiar interest had been centred in him ever 
 since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into a mysteri- 
 ous rigidity and suspension of consciousness,^ which, last- 
 ing for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. 
 To have sought a medical explanation for this phenome- 
 non would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by 
 his minister and fellow-members, a wilful self -exclusion 
 from the spiritual significance that might lie therein. 
 Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar dis- 
 cipline ; and though the effort to interpret this discipline 
 was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any 
 spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet it was 
 believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in 
 
 ^ A cataleptic state, believed by the superstitious to be due 
 to supernatural influence, and to contain mysterious revela- 
 tions by unseen powers. Compare the visions of Joan of Arc. 
 
SILAS MARNER 41 
 
 an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful man 
 than he might have been tempted into the subsequent 
 creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory ; a 
 less sane man might have believed in such a creation ; 
 but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with 
 many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined 
 any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread 
 itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. 
 He had inherited from his mother some acquaintance 
 with medicinal herbs and their preparation — a little 
 store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a 
 solemn bequest — but of late years he had had doubts 
 about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge, believ- 
 ing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, 
 and that prayer might suffice without herbs ; so that his 
 inherited delight to wander tlu'ough the fields in search 
 of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear 
 to him the character of a temptation. 
 
 Among the members of his church there was one 
 young man, a little older than himself, with whom he 
 had long lived in such close friendship that it was tht 
 -custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them 
 David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was 
 lYilliam Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining 
 instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to 
 over -severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so 
 dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than 
 liis teachers. But whatever blemishes others might dis- 
 cern in William, to his friend's mind he was faultless ; 
 for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting 
 natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire impera- 
 tiveness and lean on contradiction. The expression of 
 
42 SILAS MARNER 
 
 trusting simplicity in Marner's face, heightened by that 
 absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like 
 gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was strongly 
 contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward 
 triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and 
 compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most 
 frequent topics of conversation between the two friends 
 was Assurance of salvation : Silas confessed that he could 
 never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with 
 fear, and listened with longing wonder when William 
 declared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever 
 since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed 
 that he saw the words "calling and election sure" stand- 
 ing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. 
 Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale- 
 faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been like 
 young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the 
 twilight. 
 
 It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friend- 
 ship had suffered no chill even from his formation of 
 another attachment of a closer kind. For some months 
 he had been engaged to a young servant -woman, waiting 
 only for a little increase in their mutual savings in order 
 to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him that 
 Sarah did not object to William's occasional presence in 
 their Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their 
 history that Silas's cataleptic fit occurred during the 
 prayer meeting; and amidst the various queries and 
 expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow- 
 members, William's suggestion alone jarred with the 
 general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for 
 special dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance 
 
SILAS MARNER 4S 
 
 looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of 
 divine favour, and exhorted hlr friend to see that he hid 
 no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound 
 to accept rebuke and admonition as a brotherly office, 
 felt no resentment, but only pain, at his friend's doubts 
 concerning him; and to this was soon added some 
 anxiety at the perception that Sarah's manner towards 
 him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an 
 effort at an increased manifestation of regai'd and invol- 
 untary signs of shi'inking and dislike. He asked her if 
 she wished to break off their engagement ; but she denied 
 this: their engagement was known to the church, and 
 had been recognized in the prayer meetings; it could 
 not be broken off without strict investigation, and 
 Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned 
 by the feeling of the community. At this time the 
 senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a 
 childless widower, he was tended night and day by some 
 of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently 
 took his turn in the night-watching with William, the 
 one relieving the other at two in the morning. The 
 old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the 
 way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his 
 bedside, observed that his usual audible breathing had 
 ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to 
 lift it to see the patient's face distinctly. Examination 
 convinced him that the deacon was dead — had been 
 dead some time, for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked 
 himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock : 
 it was already four in the morning. How was it that 
 William had not come? In much anxiety he went to 
 seek for help, and soon there were several friends 
 
44 SILAS MARNER 
 
 assembled in the house, the minister among them, while 
 Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met 
 William to know the reason of his non-appeai'ance. 
 But at six o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek 
 his friend, William came, and with him the minister. 
 They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet 
 the church members there ; and to his inquiry concern- 
 ing the cause of the summons the only reply was, "You 
 will hear." Nothing further was said until Silas was 
 seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the 
 eyes of those who to him represented God's people fixed 
 solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out a 
 pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and asked him if he 
 knew where he had left that knife? Silas said, he did 
 not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own 
 pocket — but he was trembling at this strange interroga- 
 tion. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to 
 confess and repent. The knife had been found in the 
 bureau by the departed deacon's bedside — found in the 
 place where the little bag of church money had lain, 
 which the minister himself had seen the day before. 
 Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand 
 could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife 
 belonged? For some time Silas was mute with astonish- 
 ment: then he said, "God will clear me: I know noth- 
 ing about the knife being there, or the money being 
 gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find 
 nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which 
 William Dane knows I have had these six months." At 
 this AVilliam groaned, but the minister said, "The proof 
 is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was 
 taken in the night last past, and no man was with our 
 
SILAS MARNER 45 
 
 departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to us 
 that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to 
 take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he 
 had not come ; and, moreover, you neglected the dead 
 body." 
 
 **I must have slept," said Silas. Then after a pause, 
 he added, '*0r I must have had another visitation like 
 that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief 
 must have come and gone while I was not in the body, 
 but out of the body. But, I say again, seai'ch me and 
 my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else." 
 
 The search was made, and it ended — in "William 
 Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked 
 behind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber! On 
 this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to 
 hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen 
 reproach on him, and said, "William, for nine years 
 that we have gone in and out together, have you ever 
 known me tell a lie? But God will clear me." 
 
 "Brother," said William, "how do I know what you 
 may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to 
 give Satan an advantage over you?" 
 
 Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep 
 flush came over his face, and he was about to speak 
 impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some 
 inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him 
 tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at 
 William. 
 
 "I remember now — the knife wasn't in my pocket." 
 
 William said, "I know nothing of what you mean." 
 The other persons present, however, began to inquire 
 where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he 
 
46 SILAS MARNER 
 
 would give no further explanation: he only said, "I 
 am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear 
 me." 
 
 On their return to the vestry there was further deliber- 
 ation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining the 
 culprit was contrary to the principles of the church in 
 Lantern Yard, according to which prosecution was for- 
 bidden to Christians, even had the case held less scandal 
 to the community. But the members were bound to 
 take other measures for finding out the truth, and they 
 resolved on praying and drawing lots.^ This resolution 
 can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unac- 
 quainted with that obscure religious life which has gone 
 on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his 
 brethren, relying on his own innocence being certified 
 by immediate divine interference, but feeling that there 
 was sorrow and mourning behind for him even then — 
 that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. The 
 lots declared that Silas Marner loas guilty. He was 
 solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called 
 upon to render up the stolen money : only on confession, 
 as the sign of repentance, could he be received once 
 more within the folds of the church. Marner listened 
 in silence. At last, when every one rose to depart, he 
 went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken 
 by agitation — 
 
 **The last time I remember using my knife, was when 
 I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don't remember 
 putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, 
 
 ^ The religious sect to which Marner belonged followed, as 
 far as possible, the customs of Biblical times. This method 
 of discovering a sinner recalls the incident of Jonah. 
 
SILAS MARNER 47 
 
 and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. 
 But you may prosper, for all that : there is no just God 
 that governs the earth righteously, but a God of lies, 
 that bears witness against the innocent." 
 
 There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. 
 
 William said meekly, *'I leave our brethi-en to judge 
 whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do 
 nothing but pray for you, Silas." 
 
 Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul — 
 that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short 
 of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his 
 wounded spirit, he said to himself, ''^ She will cast me off 
 too." And he reflected that, if she did not believe the 
 testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as 
 his was. To people accustomed to reason about the 
 forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated 
 itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught 
 state of mind in which the form and the feeling have 
 never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt 
 to think it inevitable that a man in Marner 's position 
 should have begun to question the validity of an appeal 
 to the divine judgment by drawing lots ; but to him this 
 would have been an effort of independent thought such 
 as he had never known; and he must have made the 
 effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into 
 the anguish of disappointed faith. If there is an angel 
 who records the sorrows of men^ as well as their sins, he 
 
 ^ A passage significant of George Eliot's attitude toward a 
 sinner. Sin in her view, and in the modern scientist's view, 
 is largely the result of circumstances over which the indi- 
 vidual will has no control. Dante believed sin to be the per 
 Version of the will, and the sinner to be inexcusable. 
 
48 SILAS MARNER 
 
 knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring 
 from false ideas for which no man is culpable. 
 
 Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, 
 stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah 
 and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The 
 second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by 
 getting into his loom and working away as usual ; and 
 before many hours were past, the minister and one of 
 the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, 
 that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas 
 received the message mutely, and then turned away from 
 the messengers to work at his loom again. In little 
 more than a month from that time, Sarah was married 
 to William Dane ; and not long afterwards it was known 
 to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had 
 departed from the town. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Even people whose lives have been made various by 
 learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on 
 their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invis- 
 ible, nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows 
 are a real experience, when they are suddenly trans- 
 ported to a new land, where the beings around them 
 know nothing of their history, and share none of their 
 ideas — where their mother earth shows another lap, and 
 human life has other forms than those on which their 
 souls have been nourished. Minds that have been 
 unhinged from their old faith and love, have perhaps 
 sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past 
 becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, 
 and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with 
 no memories. But even their experience may hardly 
 enable them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect 
 on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his 
 own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. 
 Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within 
 sight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded 
 region, where he felt hidden even from the heavens by 
 the screening trees and hedgerows. There was nothing 
 here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and 
 looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted gi'ass, 
 that seemed to have any relation with that life centring 
 in Lantern Yard, which had once been to him the altar- 
 
 49 
 
50 SILAS MARNER 
 
 place of high dispensations. The whitewashed walls ;^ 
 the little pews where well-known figures entered with a 
 subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice 
 and then another, pitched in a peculiar key of petition, 
 uttered plirases at once occult and familiar, like the 
 amulet worn on the heart ; the pulpit where the minis- 
 ter delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and 
 fro, and handled the book in a long-accustomed manner ; 
 the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it 
 was given out, and the recurrent swell of voices in song : 
 these things had been the channel of divine influences 
 to Marner — they were the fostering home of his religious 
 emotions— they were Christianity and God's kingdom 
 upon earth. A weaver who finds hard words in his 
 hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions ; as the little 
 €hild knows nothing of parental love, but only knows 
 one face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms 
 for refuge and nurture. 
 
 And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard 
 world than the world in Kaveloe? — orchards looking lazy 
 with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide 
 church-yard, which men gazed at lounging at their own 
 doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging 
 along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow; home- 
 steads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light 
 of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be 
 laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There 
 were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall 
 that would stir Silas Marner 's benumbed faith to a 
 sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, 
 
 ' Note this description of the Dissenting chapel and its in- 
 formal service. 
 
SILAS MaRNER 51 
 
 it was believed that each territory was inhabited and 
 ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the 
 bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native 
 gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and 
 the groves and the hills among which he had lived from 
 his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of 
 something not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when 
 they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of 
 an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power 
 he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the 
 prayer -meetings, was very far away from this land in 
 which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless 
 abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, 
 which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The 
 little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, 
 that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to 
 create for him the blackness of night. 
 
 His first movement after the shock had been to work 
 in his loom ; and he went on with this unremittingly, 
 never asking himself why, now he was come to Eaveloe, 
 he worked far into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. 
 Osgood's table-linen sooner than she expected — without 
 contemplating beforehand the money she would put into 
 his hand for the work. He seemed to weave, like the 
 spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every 
 man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to 
 become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the love- 
 less chasms of his life. Silas's hand satisfied itself with 
 throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little 
 squares in the cloth complete themselves under his 
 effort. Then there were the calls of hunger ; and Silas, 
 in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, din- 
 
52 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, 
 and put his own kettle on the fire ; and all these immedi- 
 ate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to 
 reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spin- 
 ning insect. He hated the thought of the past ; there 
 was nothing that called out his love and fellowship 
 toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the 
 future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that 
 cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilder- 
 ment, now its old narrow pathway was closed, and affec- 
 tion seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen 
 on its keenest nerves. 
 
 But at last Mrs. Osgood's table-linen was finished, and 
 Silas was paid in gold. His earnings in his native town, 
 where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after 
 a lower rate ; he had been paid weekly, and of his weekly 
 earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of piety 
 and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had 
 five bright guineas put into his hand; no man expected 
 a share of them, and he loved no man that he should 
 offer him a share. But what were the guineas to him 
 who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It 
 was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to 
 him to feel them in his palm, and to look at their bright 
 faces, which were all his own: it was another element of 
 life, like the weaving and the satisfaction of hunger, 
 subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief and love 
 from which he had been cut off. The weaver's hand 
 had known the touch of hard-won money even before 
 the palm had grown to its full breadth; for twenty 
 years, mysterious money had stood to him as the symbol 
 of earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He 
 
SILAS MARNER 53 
 
 had seemed to love it little in the years when every 
 penny had its purpose for him ; for he loved the purpose 
 then. But now, when all purpose was gone, that habit 
 of looking towards the money and grasping it with a sense 
 of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for 
 the seeds of desire ; and as Silas walked homeward across; 
 the fields in the twilight, he drew out the money and 
 thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom. 
 
 About this time an incident happened which seemed 
 to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neigh- 
 bours. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mendedy 
 he saw the cobbler's wife seated by the fire, suffering 
 from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, 
 w^hich he had witnessed as the precm'sors of his mother's 
 death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and 
 remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had 
 found from a simple prepai'ation of foxglove, he prom- 
 ised Sally Gates to bring her something that would ease 
 her, since the doctor did her no good. In this office of 
 chai'ity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come 
 to Raveloe, a sense of unity between his past and present 
 life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue 
 from the insect-like existence into which his nature had 
 shrunk. But Sally Gates 's disease had raised her into a 
 personage of much interest and importance among the 
 neighbours, and the fact of her having found relief from 
 drinking Silas Marner's "stuff" became a matter of 
 general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, 
 it was natural that it should have an effect ; but when a 
 weaver, who came from nobody knew where, worked 
 wonders wiili a bottle of brown waters, the occult cbar- 
 acti'r of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing 
 
54 SILAS MARNER 
 
 had not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley 
 died; and she had charms as well as * 'stuff :" everybody 
 went to her when theh children had fits. Silas Marner 
 must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know 
 what would bring back Sally Gates 's breath, if he didn't 
 know a fine sight more than that? The Wise Woman 
 had words that she muttered to herself, so that you 
 couldn't hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of 
 red thread round the child's toe the while, it would keep 
 off the water in the head. There were women in Rave- 
 loe, at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise 
 Woman's little bags round their necks, and, in conse- 
 quence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter 
 had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and 
 more ; and now it was all clear how he should have come 
 from unknown parts, and be so ** comical-looking." 
 But Sally Gates must mind and not tell the doctor, for 
 he would be sure to set his face against Marner : he was 
 always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to 
 threaten those who went to her that they should have 
 none of his help any more. 
 
 Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly 
 beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the 
 hooping-cough, or bring back the milk, and by men who 
 wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the 
 hands ; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the 
 applicants brought silver in then* palms. Silas might 
 have driven a profitable trade in charms as well as in his 
 small list of drugs ; but money on this condition was no 
 temptation to him: he had never known an impulse 
 towards falsity, and he drove one after another away 
 'Tith growing irritation, for the news of him as a wise 
 
SILAS MARNER 65 
 
 man had spread even to Tarley, and it was long before 
 people ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking 
 his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length 
 changed into dread, for no one believed him when he 
 said he knew no charms and could work no cures, and 
 every man and woman who had an accident or a new 
 attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down 
 to Master Marner's ill-will and irritated glances. Thus 
 it came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally 
 Gates, which had given him a transient sense of brother- 
 hood, heightened the repulsion between him and his 
 neighbours, and made his isolation more complete. 
 
 Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half- 
 crowns, grew to a heap, and Mai'ner drew less and less 
 for his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keep- 
 ing himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a day 
 on as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut 
 up in solitary imprisonment, found an interest in mark- 
 ing the moments by straight strokes of a certain length 
 on the wall, until the growth of the sum of straight 
 strokes, arranged, in triangles, has become a mastering 
 purpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity or 
 fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement or 
 sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is 
 incipient habit? That will help us to understand how 
 the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing pas- 
 sion in men whose imaginations, even in the very begin- 
 ning of their hoard, showed them no purpose beyond it. 
 Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a square, 
 and then into a larger square ; and every added guinea, 
 while it was itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In 
 this strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he 
 
56 SILAS MARNER 
 
 might, if he had had a less intense nature, have sat 
 weaving, weaving — ^looking towards the end of his pat- 
 tern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the 
 riddle, and everything else but his immediate sensations ; 
 but the money had come to mark off his weaving into 
 periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained 
 with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, 
 as his loom was, and he would on no account have 
 exchanged those coins, which had become his familiai's, 
 for other coins with unknown faces. He handled them, 
 he counted them, till their form and colour were like the 
 satisfaction of a thirst to him ; but it was only in the 
 night, when his work was done, that he drew them out 
 to enjoy their companionship. He had taken up some 
 bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he had 
 made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained 
 his guineas and silver coins, covering the bricks with 
 sand whenever he replaced them. Not that the idea of 
 being robbed presented itself often or strongly to his 
 mind : hoarding was common in country districts in those 
 days ; there were old labourers in the parish of Eaveloe 
 who were known to have their savings by them, prob- 
 ably inside their flock-beds ;^ but their rustic neighbours, 
 though not all of them as honest as their ancestors in 
 the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold 
 enough to lay a plan of burglary. How could they have 
 spent the money in their own village without betraying 
 themselves? They would be obliged to "run away" — a 
 course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey. 
 
 So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this soli- 
 tude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life nar- 
 
 ^ Rough mattresses stuffed with wool. 
 
SILAS MARNER 57 
 
 rowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere 
 pulsation of desii'e and satisfaction that had no relation 
 to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the 
 functions of weaving and hoarding, without any con- 
 templation of an end towards which the functions 
 tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been 
 undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off 
 from faith and love — only, instead of a loom and a heap 
 of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some 
 ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely 
 Marner's face and figure shrank and bent themselves 
 into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his 
 life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as 
 a handle or a crooked tube, which "has no meaning 
 standing apart. The prominent eyes that used to look 
 trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been 
 made to see only one kind of thing that was very small, 
 like tiny grain, for which they hunted everywhere : and 
 he was so withered and yellow, that, though he was not 
 yet forty, the children always called him "Old Master 
 Marner." 
 
 Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident 
 happened, which showed that the sap of affection was 
 not all gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his 
 water from a well a couple of fields off, and for this pur- 
 pose, ever since he came to Kaveloe, he had had a brown 
 earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious 
 utensil among the very few conveniences he had granted 
 himself. It had been his companion for twelve years, 
 always standing on the same spot, always lending its 
 handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had 
 an expression for him of willing helpfulness, and the 
 
68 SILAS MARNER 
 
 impress of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction 
 mingled with that of having the fresh clear water. One 
 day as he was returning from the well, he stumbled 
 against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling 
 with force against the stones that overarched the ditch 
 below him, was broken in tln^ee pieces. Silas picked up 
 the pieces and carried them home with grief in his 
 heart. The brown pot could never be of use to him any 
 more, but he stuck the bits together and propped the 
 ruin in its old place for a memorial. 
 
 This is the history of Silas Marner, until the fifteenth 
 year after he came to Raveloe.^ The livelong day he sat 
 in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes 
 bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the 
 brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repe- 
 tition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint 
 as the holding of his breath. But at night came his 
 revelry: at night he closed his shutters, and made fast 
 his doors, and drew forth his gold. Long ago the heap 
 of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold 
 them, and he had made for them two thick leather 
 bags, which wasted no room in their resting-place, but 
 lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the guin- 
 eas shone as they came pouring out of the dark leather 
 mouths ! The silver bore no large proportion in amount 
 to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which 
 
 ^ The author began at the mid-point in the man's life, then 
 returned to give his earlier history. This is the artistic prin- 
 ciple of plunging in medias res; it is used, for example, in 
 Tennyson's Idylls of the King. It has the advantage over 
 straight-away narrative in that it introduces the reader at the 
 start to the germinal incident of the drama. 
 
SILAS MARNER 59 
 
 formed his chief work were always partly paid for in 
 gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily 
 wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to 
 spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he 
 would not change the silver — the crowns and half-crowns 
 that were his own earnings, begotten by his labour; he 
 loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and 
 bathed his hands in them ; then he counted them and 
 set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded out- 
 line between his thumb and fingers, and thought fondly 
 of the guineas that were only half earned by the work 
 in his loom, as if they had been unborn children — 
 thought of the guineas that were coming slowly through 
 the coming years, through all his life, which spread 
 far away before him, the end quite hidden by countless 
 days of weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still 
 with his loom and his money when he made his 
 journeys through the fields and the lanes to fetch 
 and carry home his work, so that his steps never 
 wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search 
 of the once familiar herbs : these too belonged to the 
 past, from which his life had shrunk away, like a rivu- 
 let that has sunk far down from the grassy fringe of its 
 old breadth into a little shivering thread, that cuts a 
 groove for itself in the barren sand. 
 
 But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a 
 second great change came over Marner's life, and his 
 history became blent in a singular manner with the 
 life of his neighbom's. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 The greatest; man in Raveloe waa Squire Cass, who 
 lived in the large red house with the handsome flight of 
 stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, 
 nearly opposite the church. He was only one among 
 several landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured 
 with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood's family 
 was also understood to be of timeless origin — the Rave- 
 loe imagination having never ventured back to that fear- 
 ful blank when there were no Osgoods — ^still, he merely 
 owned the farm he occupied ; whereas Squire Cass had a 
 tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite 
 as if he had been a lord. 
 
 It was still that glorious war-time* which was felt to be 
 a peculiar favour of Providence towards the landed inter- 
 est, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry the 
 race of small squires and yeomen' down that road to ruin 
 for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry were 
 plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking now 
 
 ^ The Napoleonic wars, in which England played a leading 
 part, occasioned a rise in the prices of agricultural and 
 manufactured products. There was a temporary and delusive 
 prosperity ; for a time, rents were high and the incomes of 
 landowners were thereby increased. 
 
 ' Squire, a landed country gentleman, often a magistrate. 
 Yeoman, an independent farmer, who, though not of gentlo 
 blood, owns his own land. 
 
 60 
 
SILAS MARNER 61 
 
 in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled 
 it; for our old-fashioned country life had many differ- 
 ent aspects, as all life must have when it is spread over 
 a various surface, and breathed on variously by multi- 
 tudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the 
 thoughts of men, which are forever moving and crossing 
 each other with incalculable results. Eaveloe lay low 
 among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from 
 the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnest- 
 ness : the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and 
 apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable 
 families, and the poor thought that the rich were 
 entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly life ; besides, 
 their feasting caused a multiplication of orts,^ which were 
 ihe heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling 
 of Squire Cass's hams, but her longing. was arrested by 
 the unctuous liquor in which they were boiled ; and when 
 the seasons brought round the great merry-makings, 
 they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the 
 poor. For the Eaveloe feasts were like the rounds of 
 beef and the barrels of ale — they were on a large scale, 
 and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. 
 After ladies had packed up their best gowns and top- 
 knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording 
 streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or 
 snowy weather, when there was no knowing how high 
 the water would rise, it was not to be supposed that 
 they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this 
 ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, 
 when there was little work to be done, and the hours 
 
 ^ Remnants of the food of the rich given to the poor. "Cold 
 pieces" for beggars. 
 
62 SILAS MARNER 
 
 were long, that several neighbours should keep open house 
 
 in succession. So soon as Sqaire Cass's standing dishes 
 diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests had noth- 
 ing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to 
 Mr. Osgood's, at the Orchards, and they found hams 
 and chines^ uncut, pork-pies with the scent of the fire in 
 them, spun butter in all its freshness — everything, in 
 fact, that appetites at leisure could desue, in perhaps 
 greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, 
 than at Squire Cass's. 
 
 For the Squire's wife had died long ago, and tl?e Red 
 House was without that presence of the wife and mother 
 which is the fountain of wholesome love and fear in par- 
 lour and kitchen; and this helped to account not only 
 for there being more profusion than finished excellence 
 in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency 
 with which the proud Squire condescended to preside in 
 the parlour of the Eainbow rather than under the shadow 
 of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact 
 that his sons had turned out rather ill. Eaveloe was 
 not a place where moral censure was severe, but it was 
 thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all 
 his sons at home in idleness ; and though some licence 
 was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could 
 afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the 
 second son, Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, 
 whose taste for swopping and betting might turn out to 
 be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be 
 sure, the neighbom's said, it was no matter what became 
 of Dunsey — a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to 
 enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry — 
 
 * A bit of the backbone of an animal cut for cooking. 
 
SILAS MARNER 63 
 
 always provided that his doings did not bring trouble on 
 a family like Squire Cass's, with a monument in the 
 church, and tankards older than King George. But it 
 would be a thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, 
 a fine open-faced good-natured young man who was to 
 come into the land some day, should take to going along 
 the same road with his brother, as he had seemed to do 
 of late. If he went on in that way, he would lose Miss 
 Nancy Lammeter ; for it was well known that she had 
 looked very shyly on him , ever since last Whitsuntide 
 twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his 
 being away from home days and days together. There 
 was something wrong, more than common — that was 
 quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn't look half so fresh- 
 coloured and open as he used to do. At one time every- 
 body was saying. What a handsome couple he and Miss 
 Nancy Lammeter would make ! and if she could come to 
 be mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine 
 change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in 
 that way, that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be 
 wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the 
 best, according to his place. Such a daughter-in-law 
 would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought 
 a penny to her fortune ; for it was to be feared that, not- 
 withstanding his incomings, there were more holes in 
 his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. 
 But if Mr. Godfrey didn't turn over a new leaf, he 
 might say *' Good-bye" to Miss Nancy Lammeter. 
 
 It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, 
 with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the 
 fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November 
 afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life at 
 
64 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Baveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls 
 decorated with guns, whij^s, and foxes' brushes, on coats 
 and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth 
 a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes 
 propped lip in the chimney-corners : signs of a domestic 
 life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the 
 look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey's blond face was in 
 «ad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening 
 for some one's approach, and presently the sound of a 
 heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard 
 across the large empty entrance -hall. 
 
 The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking 
 young man entered, with the flushed face and the 
 gratuitously elated bearing which mark the first stage of 
 intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him 
 Godfrey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on 
 the more active expression of hatred. The handsome 
 ^rown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the 
 chair in the chimney-corner. 
 
 *'Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?" 
 isaid Dunsey, in a mocking tone. "You're my elders 
 and betters, you know ; I was obliged to come when you 
 aent for me." 
 
 ■"^Why, this is what I want — and just shake yourself 
 sober and listen, will you?" said Godfrey, savagely. He 
 ■had himself been drinking more than was good for him, 
 trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating auger. *'I 
 want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler's 
 to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you ; for he's 
 threatening to distrain for it, and it'll all be out soon, 
 whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, before 
 h.^ went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if 
 
SILAS MAENER 65 
 
 Fowler didn't come and pay up his arrears this week 
 The Squire's short o' cash, and in no humour to stand 
 any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, if 
 ever he found you making away with his money again. 
 So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will 
 you?'* 
 
 "Oh!" said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his 
 brother and looking in his face. ** Suppose, now, you 
 get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? 
 Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you'll 
 not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me : it was 
 your brotherly love made you do it, you know." 
 
 Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. "Don^t 
 come near me with that look, else I'll knock you down.^' 
 
 '*0h no, you won't," said Dunsey, turning away on 
 his heel, however. "Because I'm such a good-natured 
 brother, you know. I might get you turned out of 
 house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I 
 might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married 
 to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was very 
 unhappy because he couldn't live with his drunkei) 
 wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as 
 could be. But you see, I don't do it — I'm so easy and 
 good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll 
 get the hundred pounds for me — I know you will." 
 
 "How can I get the money?" said Godfrey, quiver- 
 ing. "I haven't a shilling to bless myself with. And 
 it's a lie that you'd slip into my place: you'd get your- 
 self turned out too, that's all. For if you begin telling 
 tales, 1*11 follow. Bob's my father's favourite — you 
 know that very well. He'd only think himself well rid 
 of you." 
 
66 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ''Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head side- 
 ways as he looked out of the window. "It 'ud be very 
 pleasant to me to go in your company — ^you're such a 
 handsome brother, and we've always been so fond of 
 quarrelling with one another, I shouldn't know what to 
 do without you. But you'd like better for us both to 
 stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll 
 manage to get that little sum o' money, and I'll bid you 
 good-bye, though I'm sorry to part." 
 
 Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him^ 
 and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath — 
 
 *'I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money." 
 
 *'Borrow of old Kimble." 
 
 *'I tell you, he won't lend me any more, and I shan't 
 ask him." 
 
 ''Well, then, sell Wildfire." 
 
 **Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money 
 directly." 
 
 *'Well, you've only got to ride him to the hunt to- 
 morrow. There'll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. 
 You'll get more bids than one." 
 
 *'I daresay, and get back home at eight o'clock, 
 splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's 
 birthday dance." 
 
 "Oho!" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, 
 and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. "And 
 there's sweri Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance 
 with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and 
 be taken into favour, and " 
 
 "Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool," said 
 Godfrey, turning red, "else I'll throttle you." 
 
 "What for?" said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, 
 
SILAS MARNER 67 
 
 but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt- 
 end of it on his palm. "You've a very good chance. 
 I'd advise you to creep up her sleeve again :^ it 'ud be 
 saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too 
 much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. 
 Miss Nancy wouldn't mind being a second, if she didn't 
 know it. And you've got a good-natured brother, 
 who'll keep your secret well, because you'll be so very 
 obliging to him." 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is," said Godfrey, quivering, 
 and pale again, "my patience is pretty near at an end. 
 If you'd a little more sharpness in you, you might know 
 that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one 
 leap as easy as another. I don't know but what it is so 
 now : I may as well tell the Squire everything myself — I 
 should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, 
 after all, he'll know some time. She's been threatening 
 to come herself and tell him. So, don't flatter yourself 
 that your secrecy's worth any price you choose to ask. 
 You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify 
 her with, and she'll do as she threatens some day. It's 
 all one. I'll tell my father everything myself, and you 
 may go to the devil." 
 
 Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mai'k, and 
 that there was a point at which even the hesitating God- 
 frey might be driven into decision. But he said, with 
 an air of unconcern — 
 
 "As you please; but I'll have a draught of ale first." 
 And ringing the bell, he tln'ew himself across two chairs, 
 and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his 
 whip. 
 
 * A figure of speech meaning ''to get into her good graces." 
 
68 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily 
 moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pock- 
 ets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame 
 of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to 
 no decision when the dangers to be braved were such as 
 could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His 
 natural irresolution and moral cowardice^ were exagger- 
 ated by a position in which dreaded consequences seemed 
 to press equally on all sides, and his irritation had no 
 sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and anticipate all 
 possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on 
 himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to 
 him than the present evil. The results of confession 
 were not contingent, they were certain; whereas betrayal 
 was not certain. From the near vision of that certainty 
 he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of 
 repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally 
 disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as 
 an uprooted tree, which, by the favour of earth and sky, 
 has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot where it first 
 shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to 
 think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lam- 
 meter were to be won on those terms; but, since he 
 must irrevocably lose her as well as the inheritance, and 
 must break every tie but the one that degraded him and 
 left him without motive for trying to recover his better 
 self, he could imagine no future for himself on the 
 other side of confession but that of " 'listing for a 
 soldier" — the most desperate step, short of suicide, in 
 the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather 
 
 1 The key notes of Godfrey "s character. Note how he acts, 
 or fails to act, in critical moments. 
 
SILAS MARNER 69 
 
 trust to casualties than to his own resolve — rather go on 
 sitting at the feast, and sipping the wine he loved, 
 though with the sword hanging over him and terror in his 
 heart, than rush away into the cold darkness where there 
 was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dun- 
 stan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with 
 the fulfilment of his own threat. But his pride would 
 not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than 
 by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for 
 this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than 
 usual. 
 
 **It's just like you," Godfrey burst out, in a bitter 
 tone, *'to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool 
 way — the last thing I've got to call my own, and the 
 best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if 
 you'd got a spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to 
 see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering about 
 it. But it's my belief you'd sell yourself, if it was only 
 for the pleasure of making somebody feel he'd got a bad 
 bargain." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very placably, **you do me 
 justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ticing people 
 into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let me 
 sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to-morrow for 
 you, with pleasure. I shouldn't look so handsome as 
 you in the saddle, but it's the horse they'll bid for, and 
 not the rider." 
 
 *'Yes, I daresay — trust my horse to you!" 
 
 **As you please," said Dunstan, rapping the window- 
 seat again with an air of great unconcern. "It's you 
 have got to pay Fowler's money; it's none of my busi- 
 ness. You received the money from him when you 
 
70 SILAS MARNER 
 
 went to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it wasn't 
 paid. I'd nothing to do with that ; you chose to be so 
 obliging as to give it to me, that was all. If you don't 
 want to pay the money, let it alone; it's all one to me. 
 But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking 
 to sell the horse, seeing it's not convenient to you to go 
 so far to-morrow." 
 
 Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would 
 have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from 
 nis hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; 
 and no bodily fear could have deterred him ; but he was 
 mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feel- 
 ings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke 
 again it was in a half-conciliatory tone. 
 
 "Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? 
 You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If 
 you don't, you know, everything 'ull go to smash, for 
 I've got nothing else to trust to. And you'll have less 
 pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your 
 own skull's to be broken too." 
 
 **Ay, ay," said Dunstan, rising; '*all right. I 
 thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring old 
 Bryce up to the scratch. I'll get you a hundred and 
 twenty for him, if I get you a penny. ' ' 
 
 "But it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it 
 did yesterday, and then you can't go," said Godfrey, 
 hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or 
 not. 
 
 "!N"ot tV," said Dunstan. "I'm always lucky in my 
 weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. 
 You never hold trumps, 5^ou know — I always do. 
 You've got the beauty, you see, and I've got the luck, 
 
SILAS MARNER 71 
 
 80 you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence ;* 
 you'll ne-NQi get along without me." 
 
 *' Confound you, hold your tongue!" said Godfrey, 
 impetuously. **And take care to keep sober to-morrow, 
 else you'll get pitched on your head coming home, and 
 Wildfire might be the worse for it." 
 
 **Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, open- 
 ing the door. *'You never knew me see double when 
 I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the fun. 
 Besides, whenever I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my 
 legs." 
 
 With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, 
 and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his per- 
 sonal circumstances which was now unbroken from day 
 to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, 
 card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of 
 seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied 
 pains springing from the higher sensibility that accom- 
 panies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that 
 dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation 
 which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent com- 
 panionship of their own griefs and discontents. The 
 lives of those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to 
 think very prosaic figures — men whose only work was to 
 ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier in 
 their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in 
 the half -listless gratification of senses dulled by monot- 
 ony — had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. 
 Calamities came to them too, and their early errors 
 carried hard consequences: perhaps the love of some 
 sweet maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had 
 
 ^ A coin carried for luck. 
 
72 SILAS MARNER 
 
 opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the 
 days wonld not seem too long, even without rioting; 
 but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, 
 and then what was left to them, especially when they 
 had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a 
 gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to 
 drink and get angry, so that they might be independent 
 of variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the 
 things they had said already any time that twelvemonth? 
 Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there 
 were some whom — thanks to their native human kind- 
 ness — even riot could never drive into brutality; men 
 who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen 
 point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced by the 
 reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in 
 fetters from which no struggle could loose them; and 
 under these sad circumstances, common to us all, their 
 thoughts could find no resting-place outside the ever 
 trodden round of their own petty history. 
 
 That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in 
 this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of 
 compunction, helped by those small indefinable influences 
 which every personal relation exerts on a pliant nature, 
 had urged him into a secret marriage, which was a 
 blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion,^ 
 delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to 
 be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter mem- 
 
 ^ George Eliot is a realist, but she avoids or passes over loath- 
 some details. A reahst of the French school would probably 
 have emphasized these details, and, perhaps, made of this 
 episode a chief theme of the book. We should distinguish 
 between the various kinds of realism. That of George Eliot 
 is commendable both for its truth and its good taste. 
 
1?ILAS MARNER 73 
 
 ory. He had long known that the delusion was partly 
 due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his 
 brother's degrading marriage the means of gratifying at 
 once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey 
 could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that 
 destiny had put into his mouth would have chafed him 
 less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud 
 when he was alone had had no other object than Dun- 
 stan 's diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less 
 from the consequences of avowal. But he had some- 
 thing else to curse — ^his own vicious folly, which now 
 seemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all 
 our follies and vices do when their promptings have long 
 passed away. Eor four years he had thought of Nancy 
 Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, 
 as the woman who made him think of the future with 
 joy : she would be his wife, and would make home lovely 
 to him, as his father's home had never been; and it 
 would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off 
 those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a 
 feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey's was an 
 essentially domestic nature, bred up in a home where 
 the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits 
 were not chastised by the presence of household order. 
 His easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with 
 the family courses, but the need of some tender perma- 
 nent affection, the longing for some influence that would 
 make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the 
 neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lam- 
 meter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem 
 like those fresh bright hours of the morning when temp- 
 tations go to sleep and leave the ear open to the voice of 
 
74 SILAS MARNER 
 
 the good angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, and peace. 
 And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough 
 to save him from a course which shut him out of it for 
 ever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken 
 rope by which Nancy would have drawn him safe to the 
 green banks where it was easy to step firmly, he had let 
 himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which 
 it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for him- 
 self which robbed him of all wholesome motive and 
 were a constant exasperation. 
 
 Still, there was one position worse than the present : 
 it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret 
 was disclosed ; and the desire that continually triumphed 
 over every other was that of warding off the evil day, 
 when he would have to bear the consequences of his 
 father's violent resentment for the wound inflicted on 
 his family pride — would have, perhaps, to turn his back 
 on that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was 
 a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the 
 certainty that he was banished for ever from the sight 
 and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the inter- 
 val, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, 
 at least, of the hateful consequences to which he had 
 sold himself; the more opportunities remained for him 
 to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and 
 gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. 
 Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, 
 every now and then, after having passed weeks in which 
 he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize 
 that only made him spring forward and find his chain 
 all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was 
 on him now, and it would have been strong enough to 
 
SILAS MARNER 75 
 
 have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather 
 than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had 
 another reason for his disinclination towards the mor- 
 row's hunt. That other reason was the fact that the 
 morning's meet was near Batherley, the market- town 
 where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became 
 more odious to him every day ; and to his thought the 
 whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man 
 creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the 
 kindliest nature; and the good-humoured, affectionate- 
 hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, 
 visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and 
 depart, and enter again, like demons who had' found in 
 him a ready-garnished home. 
 
 What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He 
 might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk 
 about the cock-fighting : everybody was there, and what 
 else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, 
 he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the 
 brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, 
 and had been watching him for some time, now jumped 
 up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey 
 thrust her away without looking at her, and left the 
 room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff — per- 
 haps because she saw no other career open to her. 
 
CHAPTER rV 
 
 DuNSTAiT Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at 
 the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to 
 ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along 
 the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed hy the 
 piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where 
 stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter's shed, now for 
 fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot 
 looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trod- 
 den clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in 
 the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan's first thought 
 as he approached it ; the second was, that the old fool of 
 a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a 
 great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it 
 that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of 
 Marner 's miserliness, had never thought of suggesting 
 to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old 
 fellow into lending the money on the excellent security 
 of the young Squire's prospects? The resource oc- 
 curred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as 
 Marner 's hoard was likely to he large enough to leave 
 Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate 
 needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful 
 k*other, that he had almost turned the horse's head 
 towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough 
 to accept the suggestion : he would snatch eagerly at a 
 plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. 
 
 76 
 
SILAS MARNER 77 
 
 But when Dunstan's meditation reached this point, the 
 inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. He 
 didn't want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred 
 that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dun- 
 stan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having 
 a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bai'gain, 
 swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. He 
 might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his 
 brother's horse, and not the less have the further satis- 
 faction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner's money. 
 So he rode on to cover. 
 
 Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite 
 sure they would be — he was such a lucky fellow. 
 
 ** Heyday!" said Bryce, who had long had his eye on 
 Wildfire, * 'you're on your brother's horse to-day: how's 
 that?" 
 
 "Oh, I've swopped with him," said Dunstan, whose 
 delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not 
 to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would 
 not believe him — "Wildfire's mine now." 
 
 "What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned 
 hack of yours?" said Bryce, quite aware that he should 
 get another lie in answer. 
 
 "Oh, there was a little account between us," said 
 Dunsey, carelessly, "and Wildfire made it even. I 
 accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was 
 against my will, for I'd got an itch for a mare o' Jortin's 
 — as rare a bit o' blood as ever you threw your leg across. 
 But I shall keep Wildfire, now I've got him, though I'd 
 a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day, from 
 a man over at Flitton — he's buying for Lord Cromleck 
 — a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat. 
 
78 SILAS MARNER 
 
 But I mean to stick to Wildfire : I shan't get a better at 
 a fence in a hurry. The mare's got more blood, but 
 she's a bit too weak in the hind -quarters." 
 
 Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell 
 the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse- 
 dealing is only one of many human transactions carried 
 on in this ingenious manner) ; and they both considered 
 that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce 
 replied, ironically — m 
 
 *'I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep] 
 him; for I never heard of a man who didn't want to sell] 
 his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the! 
 horse is worth. You'll be lucky if you get a hundred." ^ 
 
 Keating rode up now, and the transaction became 
 more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the 
 horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on 
 the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley 
 stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise 
 for him to give up the day's hunting, proceed at once to 
 Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce 's return, hire a 
 horse to carry him home with the money in his pocket. 
 But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence 
 in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket- 
 pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to 
 overcome, especially with a horse under him that would 
 take the fences to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, 
 however, took one fence too many, and got his horse 
 pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favoured per- 
 son, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without 
 injury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, 
 turned on his flank and painfully panted his last. It 
 happened that Dunstan, a short time before, having had 
 
SILAS MARNER 70 
 
 to get down to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good 
 many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him 
 in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and 
 under this exasperation had taken the fences more 
 blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds 
 again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence he 
 was between eager riders in advance, not troubling them- 
 selves about what happened behind them, and far-off 
 stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite aloof 
 from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. 
 Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for immedi- 
 ate annoyances than for remote consequences, no sooner 
 recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over with 
 Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence of 
 witnesses to a position which no swaggering could make 
 enviable. Reinforcing himself, after his shake, with a 
 little brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he 
 could to a coppice on his right hand, through which it 
 occurred to him that he could make his way to Batherley 
 without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. 
 His first intention was to hire a horse there and ride 
 home forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun 
 in his hand and along an ordinary road, was as much 
 out of the question to him as to other spirited young 
 men of his kind. He did not much mind about taking 
 the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the 
 same time the resource of Marner's money; and if God- 
 frey kicked, as he always did, at the notion of making a 
 fresh debt from which he himself got the smallest share 
 of advantage, why, he wouldn't kick long: Dunstan felt 
 sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. The idea 
 of Marner's money kept growing in vividness, now the 
 
80 SILAS MARNER 
 
 4 
 
 want of it had become immediate ; the prospect of hav- 
 ing to make his appearance with the muddy boots of a 
 pedestrian at Batherley and to encounter the grinning 
 queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of 
 his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his 
 felicitous plan; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat- 
 pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his memory to 
 the fact that the two or tln*ee small coins his fore-finger 
 encountered there, were of too pale a colour to cover that 
 email debt, without payment of which the stable-keeper 
 had declared he would never do any more business with 
 Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in 
 W^hich the run had brought him, he was not so very 
 much farther from home than he was from Batherley; 
 but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, 
 was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception 
 that there were other reasons for choosing the unprece- 
 dented course of walking home. It was now nearly four 
 o'clock, and a mist was gathering: the sooner he got 
 into the road the better. He remembered having 
 crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a little 
 while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his 
 coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly 
 round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots 
 with a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he 
 was not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the 
 sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of 
 bodily exertion, which somehow and at some time he 
 should be able to dress up and magnify to the admi- 
 ration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young 
 gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a 
 mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a 
 
 \ 
 
SILAS MARNER 81 
 
 desirable corrective to a too bewildering di'eamy sense of 
 unwontedness in his position ; and Dunstan, as he went 
 along through the gathering mist, was always rapping 
 his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey's whip, which he 
 had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold 
 handle ; of course no one could see, when Dunstan held 
 it, that the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters 
 on that gold handle — they could only see that it was a 
 very handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear that 
 he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he 
 would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen when 
 people get close to each other; but when he at last 
 found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without 
 having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was 
 part of his usual good-luck. But now the mist, helped 
 by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than he 
 desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable 
 to slip — hid everything, so that he had to guide his steps 
 by dragging his whip along the low bushes in advance of 
 the hedgerow. He must soon, he thought, be getting 
 near the opening at the Stone-pits : he should find it 
 out by the break in the hedgerow. He found it out, 
 however, by another circumstance which he had not 
 expected — namely, by certain gleams of light, which he 
 presently guessed to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. 
 That cottage and the money hidden within it had been 
 in his mind continually during his walk, and he had 
 been imagining ways of cajoling and tempting the 
 weaver to part with the immediate possession of his money 
 for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if 
 there must be a little frightening added to the cajolery, 
 for his own arithmetical convictions were not clear enough 
 
82 SILAS MARNER 
 
 to afford him any forcible demonstration as to the 
 advantages of interest ; and as for security, he regarded 
 it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by making him 
 believe that he would be paid. Altogether, the oper- 
 ation on the miser's mind was a task that Godfrey would 
 be sure to hand over to his more daring and cunning 
 brother : Dunstan had made up his mind to that ; and by 
 the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinks 
 of Marner's shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the 
 weaver had become so familiar to him, that it occurred 
 to him as quite a natural thing to make the acquaint- 
 ance forthwith. There might be several conveniences 
 attending this course: the weaver had possibly got a 
 lantern, and Dunstan was t^red of feeling his way. He 
 was still nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and 
 the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the 
 mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, 
 not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, 
 since he was not certain whether the light were in front 
 or on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground 
 before him cautiously with his whip -handle, and at last 
 arrived safely at the door. He knocked loudly, rather 
 enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be fright- 
 ened at the sudden noise. He heard no movement in 
 reply : all was silence in the cottage. Was the weaver 
 gone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a light? 
 That was a strange forgetfulness in the miser. Dunstan 
 knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a 
 reply, pushed his fingers through the latch -hole, intend- 
 ing to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and 
 down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, 
 to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, 
 
SILAS MARNER 83 
 
 and he found himself in front of a bright fire which lit 
 up every corner of the cottage — the bed, the loom, the 
 three chairs, and the table — and showed him that Mar- 
 ner was not there. 
 
 Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting 
 to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth : he 
 walked in and seated himseK by it at once. There was 
 something in front of the fire, too, that would have 
 been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a differ- 
 ent stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork sus- 
 pended from the kettle-hanger by a string passed 
 through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive 
 housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had 
 been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, 
 apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too 
 rapidly during the owner's absence. The old staring 
 simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought 
 Dunstan. People had always said he lived on mouldy 
 bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But where 
 could he be at this time, and on such an evening, leav- 
 ing his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door 
 unfastened? Dunstan 's own recent difficulty in making 
 his way suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps 
 gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some 
 such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. 
 That was an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying con- 
 sequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, 
 who had a right to his money? Who would know 
 where his money was hidden? W7io would hnow that 
 anybody had come to tahe it away? He went no farther 
 into the subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, 
 *' Where is the money?" now took such entire possession 
 
84 SILAS MARNER 
 
 of him as to make him quite forget that the weaver's 
 death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving 
 at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to 
 retain the impression that the notion from which the 
 inference started was purely problematic. And Dun- 
 stan's mind was as dull as the mind of a possible felon 
 usually is. There were only three hiding-places where 
 he had ever heard of cottagers' hoards being found: the 
 thatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cot- 
 tage had no thatch; and Dunstan's first act, after a 
 train of thought made rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, 
 was to go up to the bed ; but while he did so, his eyes 
 travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, dis- 
 tinct in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprin- 
 kling of sand. But not everywhere ; for there was one 
 spot, and one only, which was quite covered with sand, 
 and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had appar- 
 ently been careful to spread it over a given space. It 
 was near the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dun- 
 stan darted to that spot, swept away the sand with his 
 whip, and, inserting the thin end of the hook between 
 the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he 
 lifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was 
 the object of his search; for what could there be but 
 money in those two leathern bags? And, from their 
 weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt 
 round the hole, to be certain that it held no more; then 
 hastily replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over 
 them. Hardly more than five minutes had passed since 
 he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a 
 long while; and though he was without any distinct 
 recognition of the possibility that Marner might b© 
 
SILAS MARNER 85 
 
 alive, and might re-enter the cottage at any moment, he 
 felt an undefinable dread laying hold on him, as he rose 
 to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would hasten 
 out into the darkness, and then consider what he should 
 do with the bags. He closed the door behind him im- 
 mediately, that he might shut in the stream of light : a 
 few steps would be enough to carry him beyond betrayal 
 by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch- 
 hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he 
 was glad of it; though it was awkward walking with 
 both hands filled, so that it was as much as he could 
 do to grasp his whip along with one of the bags. But 
 when he had gone a yard or two, he might take his 
 time. So he stepped forward into the darkness. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, 
 Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards away 
 from it, plodding along from the village with a sack 
 thrown round his shoulders as an over-coat, and with a 
 horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his 
 mind was at ease, free from the presentiment of change. 
 The sense of security more frequently springs from habit 
 than from conviction, and for this reason it often sub- 
 sists after such a change in the conditions as might have 
 been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time dur- 
 ing which a given event has not happened, is, in this 
 logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why the 
 event should never happen, even when the lapse of time 
 is precisely the added condition which makes the event 
 imminent. A man will tell you that he has worked in 
 a mine for forty years unhurt by an accident as a reason 
 why he should apprehend no danger, though the roof 
 is beginning to sink ; and it is often observable, that the 
 older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain 
 a believing conception of his own death. This influence 
 of habit Tv^as necessarily strong in a man whose life was so 
 monotonous as Marner 's — who saw no new people and 
 heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of 
 the unexpected and the changeful; and it explains 
 simply enough, why his mind could be at ease, though 
 he had left his house and his treasure more defenceless 
 
 86 
 
SILAS MARKER 87 
 
 than usual. Silas was thinking with double compla- 
 cency of his supper : fii'st, because it would be hot and 
 savoury; and secondly, because it would cost him noth- 
 ing. For the little bit of pork was a present from that 
 excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, to whom 
 he had this day carried home a handsome piece of linen ; 
 and it was only on occasion of ^ present like this, that 
 Silas indulged himself with roast-meat. Supper was his 
 favourite meal, because it came at his time of revelry, 
 when his heart warmed over his gold; whenever he had 
 roast-meat, he always chose to have it for supper. But 
 this evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knotted his 
 string fast round his bit of pork, twisted the string 
 according to rule over his door-key, passed it through 
 the handle, and made it fast on the hanger, than he 
 remembered that a piece of very fine twine was indispen- 
 sable to liis * 'setting up" a new piece of work in his 
 loom early in the morning. It had slipped his memory, 
 because, in coming from Mr. Lammeter 's, he had not had 
 to pass through the village ; but to lose time by going on 
 errands in the morning was out of the question. It was 
 a nasty fog to turn out into, but there were things Silas 
 loved better than his own comfort ; so, drawing his pork 
 to the extremity of the hanger, and arming himself with 
 his lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, in 
 ordinary weather, would have been a twenty minutes' 
 errand. He could not have locked his door without 
 undoing his well-knotted string and retarding his sup- 
 per ; it was not worth his while to make that sacrifice. 
 What thief would find his way to the Stone-pits on such 
 a night as this? and why should he come on this particu- 
 lar night, when he had never come through all the fif- 
 
88 SILAS MARNER 
 
 teen years before? These qnestions were not distinctly 
 present in Silas's mind; they merely serve to represent 
 the vaguely -felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. 
 
 He reached his door in much satisfaction that his 
 errand was done: he opened it, and to his short-sighted 
 eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that 
 the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod 
 about the floor while putting by his lantern and throw- 
 ing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of 
 Duns tan's feet on the sand, in the marks of his own 
 nailed boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the 
 fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending 
 the meat and warming himself at the same time. 
 
 Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone 
 upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and meagre 
 form, would perhaps have understood the mixture of 
 contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with which he 
 was regarded by his neighbours in Eaveloe. Yet few 
 men could be more harmless than poor Marner. In his 
 truthful simple soul, not even the gi'owing greed and 
 worship of gold could beget any vice dh'ectly injurious 
 to others. The light of his faith quite put out, and his 
 affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force 
 of his nature to his work and his money ; and like all 
 objects to which a man devotes himself, they had 
 fashioned him into correspondence with themselves. 
 His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in 
 its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more 
 the monotonous craving for its monotonous response. 
 His gold, as he hung over it and saw it grow, gathered 
 his power of loving together into a hard isolation like its 
 own. 
 
SILAS MARNER 89 
 
 As soon as lie was warm he began to think it would be 
 a long while to wait till after supper before he drew out 
 his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the 
 table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. For joy 
 is the best of wine, and Silas's guineas were a golden 
 wine of that sort. 
 
 He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the 
 floor near his loom, swept away the sand without notic- 
 ing any change, and removed the bricks. The sight 
 of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, 
 but the belief that his gold was gone could not come at 
 once — only terror, and the eager effort to put an end to 
 the terror. He passed his trembling hand all about the 
 hole, trying to think it possible that his eyes had 
 deceived him ; then he held the candle in the hole and 
 examined it curiously, trembling more and more. At 
 last he shook so violently that he let fall the candle, and 
 lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady himself, 
 that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere 
 else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgot- 
 ten it? A man falling into dark waters seeks a momen- 
 tary footing even on sliding stones ; and Silas, by acting 
 as if he believed in false hopes, warded off the moment 
 of despair. He seai'ched in every corner, he turned his 
 bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it ; he looked in his 
 brick oven where he laid his sticks. When there was no 
 other place to be searched, he kneeled down again and 
 felt once more all round the hole. There was no untried 
 refuge left for a moment's shelter from the terrible 
 truth. 
 
 Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes 
 with the prostration of thought under an overpowering 
 
90 SILAS MARNER 
 
 passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities, 
 that belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct 
 from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated 
 by the external fact. Silas got up from his knees 
 trembling, and looked round at the table: didn't the 
 gold lie there after all? The table was bare. Then he 
 turned and looked behind him — looked all round his 
 dwelling, seeming to strain his brown eyes after some 
 possible appearance of the bags where he had already 
 sought them in vain. He could see every object in his 
 cottage — and his gold was not there. 
 
 Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and 
 gave a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation. For 
 a few moments after, he stood motionless ; but the cry 
 had relieved him from the first maddening pressure of 
 the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, 
 and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively 
 seeking this as the strongest assurance of reality. 
 
 And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and 
 the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a thief 
 began to present itself, and he entertained it eagerly, 
 because a thief might be caught and made to restore the 
 gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, 
 and he started from his loom to the door. As he opened 
 it the rain beat in upon him, for it was falling more and 
 more heavily. There were no footsteps to be tracked 
 on such a night — footsteps? When had the thief come? 
 During Silas's absence in the daytime the door had been 
 locked, and there had been no marks of any inroad on 
 his return by daylight. And in the evening, too, he 
 said to himself, everything was the same as when he had 
 left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not 
 
SILAS MARNER 91 
 
 been moved. Was it a thief who had taken the bags? 
 or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach which 
 had delighted in making him a second time desolate? 
 He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind 
 with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who 
 could be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all 
 the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked any 
 questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
 suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and 
 otherwise disreputable : he had often met Marner in his 
 journeys across the fields, and had said something jest- 
 ingly about the weaver's money; nay, he had once irri- 
 tated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to 
 light his pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem 
 Rodney was the man — there was ease in the thought. 
 Jem could be found and made to restore the money: 
 Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get 
 back his gold which had gone from him, and left his 
 soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert. The 
 robber must be laid hold of. Marner 's ideas of legal 
 authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and 
 proclaim his loss ; and the great people in the village — 
 the clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass — would 
 make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the 
 stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under the 
 stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not 
 caring to fasten his door ; for he felt as if he had noth- 
 ing left to lose. He >an swiftly, till want of breath 
 compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the 
 village at the turning close to the Rainbow. 
 
 The Rainbow, in Marner 's view, was a place of lux- 
 urious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose wives 
 
92 SILAS MARNER 
 
 had superfluous stores of linen ; it was the place where 
 he was likely to find the powers and dignities of Kaveloe, 
 and where he could most speedily make his loss public. 
 He lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or 
 kitchen on the right hand, where the less lofty custom- 
 ers of the house were in the habit of assembling, the par- 
 lour on the left being reserved for the more select society 
 in which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double 
 pleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the 
 parlour was dark to-night, the chief personages who 
 ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. Osgood's birth- 
 day dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence 
 of this, the party on the high -screened seats in the 
 kitchen was more numerous than usual ; several person- 
 ages, who would otherwise have been admitted into the 
 parlour and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and 
 condescension for their betters, being content this even- 
 ing to vary their enjoyment by taking their spirits -and- 
 water where they could themselves hector and condescend 
 in company that called for beer. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 The conversation, which was at a high pitch of ani- 
 mation when Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, 
 had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the com- 
 pany first assembled. The pipes began to be puffed in a 
 silence which had an air of severity ; the more important 
 customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, 
 staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the 
 first man who winked ; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly 
 men in fustian^ jackets and smock-frocks,^ kept their 
 eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, 
 as if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended 
 with embarrassing sadness. At last, Mr. Snell, the 
 landlord, a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to 
 stand aloof from human differences as those of beings 
 who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by 
 saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher — 
 
 "Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in 
 yesterday, Bob?" 
 
 The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was 
 not disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs 
 before he spat and replied, "And they wouldn't be fur 
 wrong, John." 
 
 After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as 
 severely as before. 
 
 ^ Fustian is cloth of coarse cotton or corduroy. 
 2 A smock-frock is a long, shirt-like outer garment, worn 
 by the rural laborers in England. 
 
 93 
 
94 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "Was it a red Diirliam?" said the farrier,^ taking up 
 the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. 
 
 The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord 
 looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the 
 responsibility of answering. 
 
 *'Eed it was," said the butcher, in his good-humoured 
 husky treble — "and a Durham it was." 
 
 "Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of," 
 said the farrier, looking round with some triumph; "I 
 know who it is has got the red Durhams o' this country- 
 side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll bet a 
 penny?" The farrier leaned forward with his hands on 
 his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twinkled 
 knowingly. 
 
 "Well; yes — she might," said the butcher, slowly, 
 considering that he was giving a decided affirmative. 
 "I don't say contrairy." 
 
 "I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing 
 himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; "if 7 
 don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows, I should like to know 
 who does — that's all. And as for the cow you've bought, 
 bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drenching'' of her 
 — contradick me who will." 
 
 The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's con- 
 versational spirit was roused a little. 
 
 'I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; "I'm 
 for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs 
 — I'm for cutting 'em short myself; but /don't quarrel 
 
 ' Sometimes a shoer of horses, at other times a veterinary 
 surgeon. 
 
 2 To drench an animal is to pour medicine forcibly down its 
 throat. 
 
SILAS MARNER 95 
 
 with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss — and any- 
 body as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tears into their eyes 
 to look at it." 
 
 "Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," 
 pursued the farrier angrily; "and it was Mr. Lam- 
 meter's cow, else you told a lie when you said it was 
 a red Durham." 
 
 "T tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild 
 huskiness as before, "and I contradick none — not if a 
 man was to swear himself black : he's no meat o' mine, 
 nor none o' my bargains. All I say is, it's a lovely 
 carkiss. And what I say I'll stick to; but I'll quarrel 
 wi' no man." 
 
 "No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking 
 at the company generally; "and p'rhaps you aren't pig- 
 headed ; and p'rhaps you didn't say the cow was a red 
 Durham; and p'rhaps you didn't say she'd got a star on 
 her brow — stick to that, now you're at it." 
 
 "Come, come," said the landlord; "let the cow alone. 
 The truth lies atween you: you're both right and both 
 wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. 
 Lammeter's, I say nothing to that; but this I say, as 
 the Kainbow's the Rainbow. And for the matter o' 
 that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters, you know 
 the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You 
 remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come to 
 these parts, and took the Warrens?" 
 
 Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which 
 functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share 
 with a small -featured young man who sat opposite him, 
 held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs 
 with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with criti- 
 
96 SILAS MAENER 
 
 cism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord's 
 appeal, and said — 
 
 "Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks 
 talk. I've laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. 
 Ask them as have been to school at Tarley: they've 
 learnt pernoiincing; that's come up since my day." 
 
 "If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the 
 deputy-clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm 
 nowise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm 
 says — 
 
 *I know what's right, nor only so. 
 But also practise what I know. ' " 
 
 "Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune, 
 when it's set for you; if you're for practising, I wish 
 you'd -practise that," said a large jocose -looking man, 
 an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, but 
 on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he 
 spoke, at t^vo of the company, who were.known officially 
 as the "bassoon" and the "key-bugle," in the confi- 
 dence that he was expressing the sense of the musical 
 profession in Raveloe. 
 
 Mr. Tookey, the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopu- 
 larity common to deputies, turned very red, but replied, 
 with careful moderation — "Mr. Winthrop, if you'll 
 bring me any proof as I'm in the wrong, I'm not the 
 man to say I won't alter. But there's people set up 
 their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole 
 choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I 
 hope." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied 
 with this attack on youthful presumption; "you're 
 right there, Tookey: there's allays two 'pinions; there's 
 
SILAS MARNER 97 
 
 the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion 
 other folks have on him. There 'd be two 'pimona 
 about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amidst 
 the general laughter, "I undertook to partially fill up 
 the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, 
 whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; 
 and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir — 
 else why have you done the same yourself?" 
 
 **Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," 
 said Ben Winthrop. *'The old gentleman's got a gift. 
 Why the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only 
 to hear him sing the *Red Rovier;' didn't he, Mr. 
 Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad 
 Aaron, he's got a gift — ^he can sing a tune off straight, 
 like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you'd 
 better stick to your * Amens' : your voice is well enough 
 when you keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as 
 isn 't right made for music : it 's no better nor a hollow 
 stalk." 
 
 This kind of unflinching frankness was the most 
 piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, 
 and Ben Winthrop 's insult was felt by everybody to have 
 capped Mr. Macey 's epigram. 
 
 *'I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, 
 unable to keep cool any longer. * 'There's a consperacy 
 to turn me out o' the choir, as I shouldn't share the 
 Christmas money — that's where it is. But I shall speak 
 to Mr. Crackenthorp ; I'll not be put upon by no 
 man." 
 
 "Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll 
 pay you your share to keep out of it — that's what we'll 
 
98 SILAS MARNER 
 
 do. There's things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides 
 Tarmin." 
 
 *'Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that pay- 
 ing people for their absence was a principle dangerous to 
 society; "a joke's a joke. We're all good friends here, 
 I hope. We must give and take. You're both right 
 and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree wi' Mr. 
 Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine was 
 asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's 
 right and Winthrop's right, and they've only to split 
 the difference and make themselves even." 
 
 The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in 
 some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no 
 ear for music himself, and never went to church, as 
 being of the medical profession, and likely to be in 
 requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having 
 music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for 
 Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the 
 peace. 
 
 **To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's 
 conciliatory view, *'we're fond of our old clerk; it's 
 nat'ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a 
 brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country- 
 side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our 
 village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, 
 Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for noth- 
 ing — ^that I would. " 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, in the height of compla- 
 cency; **our family's been known for musicianers as far 
 back as anybody can tell. But them things are dying 
 out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; 
 there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's 
 
SILAS MARNER 99 
 
 nobod}^ remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old 
 crows." 
 
 "Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's 
 father come into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" 
 said the landlord. 
 
 "I should think I did," said the old man, who had 
 now gone through that complimentary process necessary 
 to bring him up to the point of narration; "and a fine 
 old gentleman he was — as fine, and finer nor the Mr. 
 Lam meter as now is. He came from a bit north 'ard, so 
 far as I could ever make out. But there's nobody 
 rightly knows about those parts : only it couldn't be far 
 north 'ard, nor much different from this country, for he 
 brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be 
 pastures there, and everything reasonable. We beared 
 tell as he'd sold his own land to come and take the War- 
 rens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of his 
 own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But 
 they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's 
 reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty 
 much what I've made out ; yet some folks are so wise, 
 they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the 
 while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, 
 and they niver see't. Howsomever, it was soon seen as 
 we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights and 
 customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was well 
 looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's 
 the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister — 
 soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' 
 the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she 
 was— eh, you can't think — they pretend this young lass 
 is like her, but that's the way wi' people as don't know 
 
 LcfO. 
 
100 SILAS MARNER 
 
 what come before 'em. / should know, for I helped 
 the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him 
 marry 'em." 
 
 Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative 
 in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to 
 precedent. 
 
 *'Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. 
 Macey, so as you were likely to remember that mar- 
 riage?" said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. 
 
 **I should think there did — a very partic'lar thing," 
 said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. *'For Mr. Drumlow 
 — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he'd 
 got a bit confused in his head, what wi' age and wi' 
 taking a drop o' summat warm when the service come 
 of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter he'd 
 have no way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, 
 to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in, for 
 it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't 
 help ; and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was 
 fond on him — but when he come to put the questions, 
 he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy, like, and he says, 
 *Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?' says he, 
 and then he says, 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy 
 wedded husband?' says he. But the partic'larest thing 
 of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and 
 they answered straight off 'yes,' like as if it had been 
 me saying *Amen' i' the right place, without listening 
 to what went before." 
 
 ''But you knew what was going on well "enough, 
 didn't you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh?" 
 said the butcher. 
 
 "Lor bless you!" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smil- 
 
SILAS MARNER 101 
 
 ing in pity at the impotence of his hearer's imagination 
 — "why, I was all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a 
 coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn't stop 
 the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that; and 
 yet I said to myself, I says, * Suppose they shouldn't be 
 fast maiTied, 'cause the words are contrairy?' and my 
 head went working like a mill, for I was allays 
 nncommon for turning things over and seeing all round 
 'em; and I says to myself, 'Is't the meanin' or the 
 words as makes folks fast i' wedlock?' For the parson 
 meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. 
 But then, when I come to think on it, meanin' goes but 
 a little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick 
 things together and your glue may be bad, and then 
 where are you? And so I says to mysen, 'It isn't the 
 meanin', it's the glue.' And I was worreted as if I'd 
 got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the 
 vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But 
 Where's the use o' talking? — you can't think what goes 
 on in a 'cute man's inside." 
 
 "But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. 
 Macey?" said the landlord. 
 
 "Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. 
 Drumlow, and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, 
 as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, 
 *Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,' he says; 'it's 
 neither the meaning nor the words — it's the regesteT 
 does it — that's the glue.' So you see he settled it 
 easy ; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, 
 like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the 
 rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and 
 many's the time. And sure enough the wedding turned 
 
102 SILAS MARNER 
 
 out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter — ^that's Miss 
 Osgood as was — died afore the lasses was growed up; 
 but for prosperity and everything respectable, there's 
 no family more looked on." 
 
 Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this 
 story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been 
 a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the 
 pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners 
 might give their whole minds to the expected words. 
 But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the land- 
 lord, duly put the leading question. 
 
 **Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't 
 they say, when he come into these parts?" 
 
 "Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; "but I daresay it's as 
 much as this Mr. Lammeter 's done to keep it whole. 
 For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on 
 the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it's what 
 they call Charity Land." 
 
 "Ay, and there's few folks know so well as you how 
 it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the 
 butcher. 
 
 "How should they?" said the old clerk, with some 
 contempt. "Why, my grandfather made the groom's 
 livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables 
 at the Warrens. Why, they're stables four times as big 
 as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but bosses 
 and hunting. Cliff didn't — a Lunnon tailor, some folks 
 said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't 
 ride; lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' 
 the boss than if his legs had been cross -sticks : my 
 grandfather beared old Squire Cass say so many and 
 many a time. But ride he would as if Old Harry had 
 
SILAS MARNER 103 
 
 been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen; 
 and nothing would his father have him do, but he must 
 ride and ride — though the lad was frighted, they said. 
 And it was a common saying as the father wanted to 
 ride the tailor out o' the lad, and make a gentleman on 
 him — not but what I'm a tailor myself, but in respect 
 as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for 'Macey, 
 tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore the 
 Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he 
 was ashamed o' being called a tailor, and he was sore 
 vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the 
 gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, 
 the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn't 
 live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and 
 they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night, wi' 
 a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' 
 lights burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and 
 there he'd stand, cracking his whip and looking at his 
 bosses ; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't 
 get burnt down wi' the poor dumb creaturs in 'em. 
 But at last he died raving, and tliey found as he'd left 
 all his property. Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, 
 and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; 
 though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em 
 — ^they're out o' all charicter — lor bless you! if you was 
 to set the doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like 
 thunder half o'er the parish." 
 
 **Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than 
 what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the 
 landlord. 
 
 *'Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all," 
 said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, *'and then make 
 
104 SILAS MARNER 
 
 believe, if you like, as you didn't see lights i' the 
 stables, nor hear the stamping o' the bosses, nor the 
 cracking o' the whips, and howling, too, if it's tow'rt 
 daybreak. * Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it 
 ever sin' I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was 
 the holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. 
 That's what my father told me, and he was a reasonable 
 man, though there's folks nowadays know what hap- 
 pened afore they were born better nor they know their 
 own business." 
 
 **What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?" said the land- 
 lord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with 
 impatience for his cue. ** There's a nut for you to 
 crack." 
 
 Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, 
 and was proud of his position. 
 
 **Say? I say what a man should say as doesn't shut 
 his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say, as I'm ready to 
 wager any man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any 
 dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as 
 we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't the 
 blowing of our own noses. That's what I say, and I've 
 said it many a time; but there's nobody 'ull ventur a 
 ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so sure of." 
 
 ''Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is," said Ben 
 Winthrop. "You might as well bet a man as he 
 wouldn't catch the rheumatise if he stood up to's neck 
 in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun for a 
 man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise. 
 Polks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't a-going to ven- 
 tur near it for a matter o' ten pound." 
 
 *'If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it," 
 
SILAS MARNER 105 
 
 said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his 
 thumbs together, *'he's no call to lay any bet — let him 
 go and stan' by himself — there's nobody 'nil hinder 
 him ; and then he can let the parish 'ners know if they're 
 wrong." 
 
 ''Thank you! I'm obliged to yon," said the farrier, 
 with a snort of scorn. "If folks are fools, it's no busi- 
 ness o' mine. / don't want to make out the truth about 
 ghos'es : I know it a'ready. But I'm not against a bet 
 — everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten 
 pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and stand 
 by myself. I want no company. I'd as lief do it as I'd 
 fill this pipe." 
 
 "Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do 
 it? That's no fair bet," said the butcher. 
 
 "Ko fair bet?" replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. "I 
 should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to 
 bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to 
 hear you say it. ' ' 
 
 "Very like you would," said the butcher. "But it's 
 no business o' mine. You're none o' my bargains, and 
 I aren't a- going to try and 'bate your price. If any- 
 body '11 bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I'm 
 for peace and quietness, I am." 
 
 "Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you 
 hold a stick up at him," said the farrier. "But I'm 
 afraid o' neither man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a 
 fair bet. / aren't a turn-tail cur. " 
 
 "Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the land- 
 lord, speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. 
 "There's folks, i' my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, 
 not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before 'em. 
 
106 SILAS MARNER 
 
 And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife, now, 
 can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese under 
 her nose. I never see'd a ghost myself; but then I says 
 to myself, *Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em.' 
 I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairi- 
 ways. And so, I'm for holding with both sides; for, as 
 I say, the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was 
 to go and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' Clijff's 
 Holiday all the night through, I'd back him; and if 
 anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for all 
 that, I'd back him too. For the smell's what I go by." 
 
 The landlord's analogical argument was not well 
 received by the farrier — a man intensely opposed to com- 
 promise. 
 
 **Tut, tut," he said, setting down his glass with 
 refreshed irritation; ** what's the smell got to do with it? 
 Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye? That's what 
 I should like to know. If ghos'es want me to believe 
 in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' lone 
 places — ^let 'em come where there's company and 
 candles." 
 
 *'As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody 
 so ignirant!" said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the 
 farrier's crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions 
 of ghostly phenomena. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Yet the next moment there seemed to be some evi- 
 dence that ghosts had a more condescending disposition 
 than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for the pale thin 
 figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the 
 warm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the 
 company with his strange unearthly eyes. The long 
 pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the antennse 
 of startled insects, and every man present, not excepting 
 even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, 
 not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition ; for the 
 door by which Silas had entered was hidden by the high- 
 screened seats, and no one had noticed his approach. 
 Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, might 
 be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, 
 which would tend to neutralize his share of the general 
 alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas Marner 
 was in that strange trance of his, his soul went loose from 
 his body? Here was the demonstration: nevertheless, 
 on the whole, he would have been as well contented 
 without it. For a few moments there was a dead 
 silence, Marner 's want of breath and agitation not 
 allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the 
 habitual sense that he was bound to keep his house open 
 to all company, and confident in the protection of his 
 unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the task of 
 adjuring the ghost. * 
 
 107 
 
108 SILAS MARNER 
 
 **Master Marner," lie said, in a conciliatory tone, 
 *' what's lacking to you? What's your business here?" 
 
 "Robbed!" said Silas, gaspingly. "I've been robbed! 
 I want the constable — and the Justice — and Squire Cass 
 — and Mr. Orackenthorp. " 
 
 "Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney," said the landlord, 
 the idea of a ghost subsiding; "he's off his head, I 
 doubt. He's wet through." 
 
 Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conven- 
 iently near Marner's standing-place; but he declined to 
 give his services. 
 
 "Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if 
 you've a mind," said Jem, rather sullenly. "He's been 
 robbed, and murdered too, for what I know," he added, 
 in a muttering tone. 
 
 "Jem Rodney!" said Silas, turning and fixing his 
 strange eyes on the suspected man. 
 
 "Ay, Master Marner, what do ye want wi' me?" said 
 Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking-can as 
 d defensive weapon. 
 
 "If it was you stole my money," said Silas, clasping 
 his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, 
 "give it me back — and I won't meddle with you. I 
 won't set the constable on you. Give it me back, and 
 I'll let you — I'll let you have a guinea." 
 
 "Me stole your money!" said Jem, angrily. "I'll 
 pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my stealing your 
 money." 
 
 "Come, come, Master Marner," said the landlord, 
 now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the 
 shoulder, "if you've got any information to lay, speak 
 it out sensible, and show as you're in your right mind^ 
 
SILAS MARNER 109 
 
 if you expect anybody to listen to you. You're as wet 
 aa a drownded rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and speak 
 straight forrard." 
 
 "Ah, to be sure, man," said the farrier, who began 
 to feel that he had not been quite on a par with himself 
 and the occasion. "Let's have no more staring and 
 screaming, else we'll have you strapped for a madman. 
 That was why I didn't speak at the first — thinks I the 
 man's run mad." 
 
 "Ay, ay, make him sit down," said several voices at 
 once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained 
 still an open question. 
 
 The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and 
 then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else, in 
 the centre of the circle and in the direct rays of the fire. 
 The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct purpose 
 beyond that of getting help to recover his money, sub- 
 mitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the com- 
 pany were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and 
 all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, 
 having seated himself again, said — 
 
 "Now then. Master Marner, what's this you've got to 
 say — as you've been robbed? Speak out." 
 
 "He'd better not say again as it was me robbed him," 
 cried Jem Rodney, hastily. "What could I ha' done 
 with his money? I could as easy steal the parson's 
 surplice, and wear it." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Jem, and let's hear what he's got 
 to say," said the landlord. "Now then, Master 
 Marner." 
 
 Silas now told his story, under frequent questioning as 
 the mysterious character of the robbery became evident. 
 
110 SILAS MAENER 
 
 This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble 
 to his Eaveloe neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a 
 hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces 
 and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had 
 doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his passion- 
 ate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness 
 rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any 
 more than without us : there have been many circula- 
 tions of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the 
 bud. 
 
 The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first 
 listened to him, gradually melted away before the con- 
 vincing simplicity of his distress : it was impossible for 
 the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling the 
 truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once 
 from the nature of his statements to the absence of any 
 motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. 
 Macey observed, '* Folks as had the devil to back 'em 
 were not likely to be so mushed"^ as poor Silas was. 
 Eather, from the strange fact that the robber had left 
 no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, 
 utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would 
 go away from home without locking his door, the more 
 probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable 
 intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been 
 broken up, and that, in consequence, this ill turn had 
 been done to Marner by somebody it was quite in vain to 
 set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon 
 should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked, 
 was a question which did not present itself. 
 
 ^'Zt isn't Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master 
 
 ^Colloquial for "upset." 
 
SILAS MARNER 111 
 
 Maxner," said the landlord. **You mustn't be a-cast- 
 ing your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a 
 reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so if 
 anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and 
 niver to wink ; but Jem's been a-sitting here drinking 
 his can, like the decentest man i' the parish, since 
 before you left your house, Master Marner, by your own 
 account." 
 
 *'Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey; '*let's have no accusing 
 o' the innicent. That isn't the law. There must be 
 folks to swear again' a man before he can be ta'en up. 
 Let's have no accusing o' the innicent. Master Marner." 
 
 Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could 
 not be wakened by these words. With a movement of 
 compunction as new and strange to him as everything 
 else within the last hour, he started from his chair, and 
 went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted ta 
 assure himself of the expression in his face. 
 
 "I was wrong," he said — **yes, yes — I ought to have 
 thought. There's nothing to witness against you,. 
 Jem. Only you'd been into my house oftener than any- 
 body else, and so you came into my head. I don't 
 accuse you — I won't accuse anybody — only," he added, 
 lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with 
 bewildered misery, *'I try — I try to think where my 
 guineas can be." 
 
 "Ay, ay, they're gone where it's hot enough to melt 
 'em, I doubt," said Mr. Macey. 
 
 "Tchuh!" said the farrier. And then he asked, with 
 a cross-examining air, "How much money might there 
 be in the bags. Master Marner?" 
 
 **Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and 
 
112 SILAS MARNER 
 
 sixpence, last night when I counted it," said Silas, 
 seating himself again, with a groan. 
 
 *'Pooh! why, they'd be none so heavy to carry. 
 Some tramp's been in, that's all; and as for the no 
 footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right 
 — ^why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect's. Master 
 Marner; they're obliged to look so close, you can't see 
 much at a time. It's my opinion as, if I'd been you, or 
 you'd been me — for it comes to the same thing — you 
 wouldn't have thought you'd found everything as you 
 left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o' 
 the company should go with you to Master Kench, the 
 constable's — ^he's ill i' bed, I know that much — and get 
 him to appoint one of us his deppity ; for that's the law, 
 and I don't think anybody 'uU take upon him to con- 
 tradick me there. It isn't much of a walk to Kench's ; 
 and then, if it's me as is deppity, I'll go back with you, 
 Master Marner, and examine your premises ; and if any- 
 body's got any fault to find with that, I'll thank him to 
 stand up and say it out like a man." 
 
 By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-estab- 
 lished his self-complacency, and waited with confidence 
 to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sensible 
 men. 
 
 *'Let us see how the night is, though," said the land- 
 lord, who also considered himself personally concerned 
 in this proposition. "Why, it rains heavy still," he 
 said, returning from the door. 
 
 "Well, I'm not the man to be afraid o' the rain," 
 said the farrier. "For it'll look bad when Justice 
 Malam hears as respectable men like us had a informa- 
 tion laid before 'em and took no steps." 
 
SILAS MARNER 113 
 
 The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking 
 the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small 
 ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the 710I0 
 episcopari^ he consented to take on himself the chill 
 dignity of going to Kench's. But to the farrier's 
 strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to 
 his proposing himself as a deputy-constable; for that 
 oracular old gentlemen, claiming to know the law, 
 stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no 
 doctor could be a constable. 
 
 "And you're a doctor, I reckon, though you're only a 
 cow-doctor, for a fly's a fly, though it may be a hoss 
 fly," concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his 
 own " 'cuteness." 
 
 There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of 
 course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but 
 contending that a doctor could be a constable if he 
 liked — the law meant, he needn't be one if he didn't 
 like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the 
 law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other 
 folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more 
 than of other men not to like being constables, how 
 came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity? 
 
 "/don't want to act the constable," said the farrier, 
 driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; "and 
 there's no man can say it of me, if he'd tell the truth. 
 But if there's to be any jealousy and ent'^/ing aboui 
 going to Kench's in the rain, let them go as like it — 
 you won't get me to go, I can tell you." 
 
 ^ I do not wish to he a bishop. A phrase used by those ap- 
 pointed bishops of the Established Church, The landlord, 
 like the bishops, makes a pretence of taking the honor and 
 responsibility unwillingly. 
 
114 SILAS MARNER 
 
 By the landlord's intervention, however, the dispute 
 was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a 
 second person disinclined to act officially ; and so poor 
 Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out 
 with his two companions into the rain again, thinking 
 of the long night hours before him, not as those do who 
 long to rest, but as those who expect to ** watch for the 
 morning." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 When" Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's 
 party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn 
 that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not 
 sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance — per- 
 haps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing 
 himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the 
 run had kept him in that neighborhood ; for he was not 
 likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in 
 suspense. Godfrey's mind was too full of Nancy Lam- 
 meter's looks and behaviour, too full of the exasper- 
 ation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her 
 always produced in him, for him to give much thought 
 to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan's conduct. 
 The next morning the whole village was excited by 
 the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one 
 else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news 
 about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had 
 washed away all possibility of distinguishing footmarks, 
 but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the 
 direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a 
 flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's 
 tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still 
 standing on his shelf; and the inference generally 
 accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was some- 
 how connected with the robbery. A small minority 
 shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it 
 
 115 
 
116 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by 
 tinder-boxes, that Master Marner's tale had a qneer look 
 with it, and that such things had been known as a 
 man's doing himself a mischief, and then setting the 
 justice to look for the doer. But when questioned 
 closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what 
 Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they 
 only shook their heads as before, and observed that 
 there was no knowing what some folks counted gain ; 
 moreover, that everybody had a right to their own 
 opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, 
 as everybody knew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, 
 though he joined in the defence of Marner against all 
 suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; 
 indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, 
 tending to imply that everything must be done by human 
 hands, and that there was no power which could make 
 away with the guineas without moving the bricks. 
 Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. 
 Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was 
 a view of the case peculiarly suited to a pai'ish -clerk, 
 carried it still further, and doubted whether it was right 
 to inquire into a robbery at all when the circumstances 
 were so mysterious. 
 
 "As if," concluded Mr. Tookey — "as if there was 
 nothing but what could be made out by justices and 
 constables." 
 
 "Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark, 
 Tookey," said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside, 
 admonishingly. "That's what you're allays at; if I 
 throw a stone and hit, you think there's summat better 
 than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. 
 
SILAS MARNER 117 
 
 What I said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing 
 against justices and constables, for they're o' King 
 George's making, and it 'ud be ill-becoming a man in a 
 parish office to fly out again' King George." 
 
 While these discussions were going on amongst the 
 group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was 
 being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. 
 Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and 
 other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to 
 Mr. Snell, the landlord — he being, as he observed, a 
 man accustomed to put two and two together — to con- 
 nect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he 
 himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, 
 certain recollections of a pedlar who had called to di'ink 
 at the house about a month before, and had actually 
 stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to 
 light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be followed 
 out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with 
 ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. 
 Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect 
 produced on him by the pedlar's countenance and 
 conversation. He had a ''look with his eye"which fell 
 unpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive organism. To be 
 sure, he didn't say anything particular — no, except that 
 about the tinder-box — but it isn't what a man says, it's 
 the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy 
 foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty. 
 
 "Did he wear ear-rings?" Mr. Crackenthorp wished 
 to know, having some acquaintance with foreign 
 customs. 
 
 *'Well — stay — let me see," said Mr. Snell, like a 
 docile clairvoyante, who would really not make a mis- 
 
118 SILAS MARNER 
 
 take if she could help it. After stretching the corners 
 of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were 
 trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the 
 effort, and said, "Well, he'd got ear-rings in his box to 
 sell, so it's nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em. But 
 he called at every house, a'most, in the village; there's 
 somebody else, mayhap, saw 'em in his ears, though I 
 €an't take upon me rightly to say." 
 
 Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody 
 ■else would remember the pedlar's ear-rings. For on the 
 spread of inquiry among the villagers it was stated, with 
 gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to 
 know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and 
 an impression was created that a great deal depended on 
 the eliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who 
 heard the question, not having any distinct image of the 
 pedlar as without ear-rings, immediately had an image 
 of him with ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case 
 might be; and the image was presently taken for a 
 vivid recollection, so that the glazier's wife, a well- 
 intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house 
 was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to 
 declare, as sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament 
 the veiy next Christmas that was ever coming, that she 
 had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of the young moon, 
 in the pedlar's two ears ; while Jinny Gates, the cobbler's 
 daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not 
 only that she had seen them too, but that they had 
 made her blood creep, as it did at that very moment 
 while there she stood. 
 
 Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of 
 the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles 
 
SILAS MARKER 119 
 
 purchased from the pedlar at various houses, and carried 
 to the Rainhow to be exhibited there. In fact, there 
 was a general feeling in the village, that for the clear- 
 ing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done 
 at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an 
 excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe 
 public duties. 
 
 Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little 
 indignation also, when it became known that Silas 
 Marner, on being questioned by the Squire and the 
 parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar 
 than that he called at his door, but had not entered his 
 house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding 
 the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This 
 had been Silas's testimony, though he clutched strongly 
 at the idea of the pedlar's being the culprit, if only 
 because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for 
 his gold after it had been taken away from its hiding 
 place: he could see it now in the pedlar's box. But it 
 was observed with some irritation in the village, that 
 anybody but a "blind creatur" like Marner would have 
 seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave 
 his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn't been 
 lingering there? Doubtless, he had made his observa- 
 tions when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might 
 know — and only look at him — that the weaver was a 
 half -crazy miser. It was a wonder the pedlar hadn't 
 murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their 
 ears, had been known for murderers often and often; 
 there had been one tried at the 'sizes, not so long ago 
 but what there were people living who remembered it. 
 
 Godfrey Oass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during 
 
120 SILAS MARNER 
 
 one of Mr. Snell's frequently repeated recitals of his 
 testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he him- 
 self had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought 
 him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all non- 
 sense, he said, about the man's evil looks. But this 
 was spoken of in the village as the random talk of 
 youth, "as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen some- 
 thing odd about the pedlar!" On the contrary, there 
 were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before 
 Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testi- 
 mony than any the landlord could furnish. It was to 
 be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and 
 throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so 
 prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He 
 was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, 
 he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of 
 Tarley. 
 
 But by this time Godfrey's interest in the robbery had 
 faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and 
 Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Bath- 
 erley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any 
 longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played him 
 the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at 
 the end of a month, when he had gambled away or other- 
 wise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear that 
 urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an 
 accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Os- 
 good's was past, he was irritated with himself that he 
 had trusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to 
 still his fears he encouraged them, with that superstitious 
 impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil 
 very strongly it is the less likely to come ; and when he 
 
SILAS MARNER 121 
 
 heai'd a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising 
 above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if 
 his conjuration had succeeded. But no sooner did the 
 horse come within sight, than his heart sank again. 
 It was not Wildfii'e; and in a few moments more he dis- 
 cerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who 
 pulled up to speak, with a face that implied something 
 disagreeable. 
 
 *'Well, Mr. Godfrey, that's a lucky brother of yours, 
 that Master Dunsey, isn't he?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Godfrey, hastily. 
 
 '*Why, hasn't he been home yet?" said Bryce. 
 
 *'Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What 
 has he done ^vith my horse?" 
 
 "Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended 
 you had parted with it to him." 
 
 "Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?" 
 said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. 
 
 "Worse than that," said Bryce. "You see, I'd made 
 a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and 
 twenty — a swinging price, ^ but I always liked the horse. 
 And what does he do but go and stake him — fly at a 
 hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch 
 before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while 
 when he was found. So he hasn't been home since, has 
 he?" 
 
 "Home? no," said Godfrey, "and he'd better keep 
 away. Confound me for a fool ! I might have known 
 this would be the end of it. ' ' 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth," said Bryce, "after I'd 
 bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that 
 
 ^ A good round sum. 
 
122 SILAS MAENER 
 
 he might be riding and selling the horse without your 
 knowledge, for I didn't believe it was his own. I knew 
 Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But 
 where can he be gone? He's never been seen at Bath- 
 er ley. He couldn't have been hurt, for he must have 
 walked off." 
 
 *'Hurt?" said Godfrey, bitterly. * 'He'll never be 
 hurt — he's made to hurt other people." 
 
 **And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, 
 eh?" said Bryce. 
 
 "Yes; I wanted to part with the horse — he was 
 always a little too hard in the mouth for me," said God- 
 frey ; his pride making him wince under the idea that 
 Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. *'I 
 was going to see after him — I thought some mischief 
 had happened. I'll go back now," he added, turning 
 the horse's head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; 
 for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis of his life was 
 close upon him. "You're coming on to Eaveloe, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, no, not now," said Bryce. "I was coming 
 round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I 
 might as well take you in my way, and just let you 
 know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose 
 Master Dunsey didn't like to show himself till the ill 
 news had blown over a bit. He's perhaps gone to pay a 
 visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge — I know he's 
 fond of the house." 
 
 "Perhaps he is," said Godfrey, rather absently. 
 Then rousing himself, he said, with an effort at careless- 
 ness, "We shall hear of him soon enough, I'll be 
 bound." 
 
SILAS MARNER 123 
 
 Cf 
 
 "Well, here's my turning," said Bryce, not sur- 
 prised to perceive that Godfrey was rather "down;" "so- 
 I'll bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better 
 news another time." 
 
 Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the 
 scene of confession to his father from which he felt that 
 there was now no longer any escape. The revelation 
 about the money must be made the very next morning ; 
 and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to 
 come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the 
 brunt of his father's anger, would tell the whole story 
 out of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. 
 There was one step, perhaps, by which he might still win 
 Dunstan 's silence and put off the evil day: he might 
 tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid 
 to him by Fowler ; and as he had never been guilty of 
 such an offence before, the affair would blow over after 
 a little storming. But Godfrey could not bend himself 
 to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the 
 money, he had already been guilty of a breach of trust 
 hardly less culpable than that of spending the money 
 directly for his own behoof ; and yet there was a dis- 
 tinction between the two acts which made him feel that 
 the one was so much more blackening than the other as 
 to be intolerable to him, 
 
 "I don't pretend to be a good fellow," he said to 
 himself; "but I'm not a scoundrel — at least, I'll stop 
 short somewhere. I'll bear the consequences of what I 
 have done sooner than make believe I've done what I 
 never would have done. I'd never have spent the money 
 for my own pleasure — I was tortured into it." 
 
 Tlnrough the remainder of this day G odf rey, with only 
 
124 SILAS MARNER 
 
 occasional fluctuations, kept liis will bent in the direc- 
 tion of a complete avowal to his father, and he withheld 
 the story of Wildfire's loss till the next morning, that it 
 might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. 
 The old Squire was accustomed to his son's frequent 
 absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan's nor 
 Wildfire's non-appearance a matter calling for remark. 
 Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let 
 slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never 
 have another ; the revelation might be made even in a 
 more odious way than by Dunstan's malignity: she 
 might come as she had threatened to do. And then he 
 tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal : 
 he made up his mind how he would pass from the admis- 
 sion of his weakness in letting Dunstan have the money 
 to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which he 
 had been unable to shake off, and how he would work 
 up his father to expect something very bad before he 
 told him the fact. The old Squire was an implacable 
 man : he made resolutions in violent anger, and he was 
 not to be moved from them after his anger had subsided 
 — as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. 
 Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils 
 to grow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they 
 pressed upon him with exasperating force, and then he 
 turned round with fierce severity and became unrelent- 
 ingly hard. This was his system with his tenants : he 
 allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, 
 reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the 
 wrong way — and then, when he became short of money 
 in consequence of this indulgence, he took the 
 hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. God- 
 
SILAS MARNER 125 
 
 frey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force 
 because he had constantly suffered annoyance from wit- 
 nessing his father's sudden fits of unrelentingness, 
 for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him 
 of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty 
 indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed 
 to him natural enough.) Still there was just 
 the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father's pride 
 might see this marriage in a light that would induce 
 him to hush it up, rather than turn his son out and 
 make the family the talk of the country for ten miles 
 round . 
 
 This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed 
 to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he 
 went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward 
 debating. But when he awoke in the still morning 
 darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening 
 thoughts ; it was as if they had been tired out and were 
 not to be roused to further work. Instead of argu- 
 ments for confession, he could now feel the presence of 
 nothing but its evil consequences : the old dread of dis- 
 grace came back — the old shrinking from the thought 
 of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy 
 — the old disposition to rely on chances which might be 
 favourable to him, and save him from betrayal. Why, 
 after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own 
 act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yester- 
 day. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and had 
 thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their 
 mutual understanding; but what it would be really 
 wisest for him to do, was to try and soften his father's 
 anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as pos- 
 
126 SILAS MARNER 
 
 sible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come 
 back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that 
 the rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable 
 him to keep away still longer), everything might blow 
 over. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than 
 usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlour till his 
 younger brothers had finished their meal and gone out ; 
 awaiting his father, who always took a walk with his 
 managing-man before breakfast. Every one breakfasted 
 at a different hour in the Eed House, and the Squu*© 
 was always the latest, giving a long chance to a rather 
 feeble morning appetite before he tried it. The table 
 had been spread with substantial eatables nearly two 
 hours before he presented himself — a tall, stout man of 
 sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and rather hard 
 glance seemed contradicted by the slack and feeble 
 mouth. His person showed marks of habitual neglect, 
 his dress was slovenly ; and yet there was something in 
 the presence of the old Squire distinguishable from that 
 of the ordinary farmers in the parish, who were perhaps 
 every whit as refined as he, but, having slouched their 
 way through life with a consciousness of being in the 
 vicinity of their * 'betters," wanted that self-possession 
 and authoritativeness of voice and carriage which 
 belonged to a man who thought of superiors as remote 
 existences with whom he had personally little more to 
 do than with America or the stars. The Squire had 
 been used to parish homage all his life, used to the pre- 
 supposition that his family, his tankards, and every- 
 thing that was his, were the oldest and best; and as he 
 
 137 
 
128 SILAS MARNER 
 
 never associated with any gentry higher than himself, 
 his opinion was not disturbed by comparison. 
 
 He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and 
 said, "What, sir! haven't you had your breakfast yet?" 
 but there was no pleasant morning greeting between 
 them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because 
 the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
 homes as the Red House. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Godfrey, "I've had my breakfast, 
 but I was waiting to speak to you." 
 
 "Ah! well," said the Squire, tlirowing himself indif- 
 ferently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous 
 coughing fashion, which was felt in Raveloe to be a sort 
 of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of beef, 
 and held it up before the deer-hound that had come in 
 with him. "Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You 
 youngsters' business is your own pleasure, mostly. 
 There's no hurry about it for anybody but yourselves." 
 
 The Squire's life was quite as idle as his sons', but it 
 was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries 
 in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of 
 folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a 
 state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey 
 waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been 
 brought and the door closed — an interval during which 
 Fleet, the deer-hound, had consumed enough bits of 
 beef to make a poor man's holiday dinner. 
 
 "There's been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wild- 
 fire," he began; "happened the day before yesterday." 
 
 "What! broke his knees?" said the Squire, after tak- 
 ing a draught of ale. "I thought you knew how to ride 
 better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down in 
 
SILAS MARNER 129 
 
 my life. If I had, I might ha' whistled for another, for 
 my father wasn't quite so ready to unstring ^ as some 
 other fathers I know of. But they must turn over 
 a new leaf — they must. AVhat with mortgages and 
 arrears, I'm as short o' cash as a roadside pauper. And 
 that fool Kimble says the newspaper's talking about 
 peace. Why, the country wouldn't have a leg to stand 
 on. Prices 'ud run down like a jack, and I should 
 never get my arrears, not if I sold all the fellows up. 
 And there's that damned Fowler, I won't put up with 
 him any longer; I've told Winthrop to go to Cox this 
 very day. The lying scoundrel told me he'd be sure to 
 pay me a hundred last month. He takes advantage 
 because he's on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall 
 forget him." 
 
 The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing 
 and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough 
 for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the word 
 again. He felt that his father meant to ward off any 
 request for money on the ground of the misfortune with 
 Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to 
 lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears was likely to 
 produce an attitude of mind the utmost unfavourable 
 for his own disclosure. But he must go on, now he had 
 begun. 
 
 **It's worse than breaking the horse's knees — he's 
 been staked and killed," he said, as soon as his father 
 was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. "But I 
 wasn't thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; 
 
 ^ So ready to untie the strings of his purse. In medieval 
 times the purse was a sort of bag carried hanging from the 
 girdle. 
 
130 SILAS MARNER 
 
 I was only thinking I'd lost the means of paying you 
 with the price of Wildfire, as I'd meant to do. Dunsey 
 took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, 
 and after he'd made a bargain for a hundred and twenty 
 with Bryce, he went after the hounds, and took some 
 fool's leap or other that did for the horse at once. If 
 it hadn't been for that, I should have paid you a hun- 
 dred pounds this morning." 
 
 rhe Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and 
 was staring at his son in amazement, not being suffi- 
 ciently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to what 
 could have caused so strange an inversion of the paternal 
 and filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay 
 him a hundred pounds. 
 
 "The truth is, sir — I'm very sorry — I was quite to 
 blame," said Godfrey. *' Fowler did pay that hundred 
 pounds. He joaid it to me, when I was over there one 
 day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the 
 money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should 
 be able to pay it you before this." 
 
 The Squire was purple with anger before his son had 
 done speaking, and found utterance difficult. *'You 
 let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have you been 
 80 thick with Dunsey that you must collogue ^ with him 
 to embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? 
 I tell you I won't have it. I'll turn the whole pack of 
 you out of the house together, and marry again. I'd 
 have you to remember, sir, my property's got no entail^ 
 
 * Conspire or plot. 
 
 2 An estate was entailed when the law limited the inherit- 
 ance to a particular class of heirs, aSy for example, the eldest 
 sons. 
 
SILAS MARNER 131 
 
 on it; — since my grandfather's time the Casses can do as 
 they like with their land. Remember that, sir. Let 
 Dunsey have the money ! Why should you let Dunsey 
 have the money? There's some lie at the bottom of it." 
 
 * 'There's no lie, sir," said Godfrey. "I wouldn't 
 have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, 
 and I was a fool, and let him have it. But I meant to 
 pay it, whether he did or not. That's the whole story. 
 I never meant to embezzle money, and I'm not the 
 man to do it. You never knew me do a dishonest 
 trick, sir." 
 
 "Where's Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking 
 there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let 
 him give account of what he wanted the money for, and 
 what he's done with it. He shall repent. I'll turn 
 him out. I said I would, and I'll do it. He shan't 
 brave me. Go and fetch him." 
 
 "Dunsey isn't come back, sir." 
 
 "What! did he break his own neck, then?" said the 
 Squire, with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, 
 he could not fulfill his threat. 
 
 "No, he wasn't hurt, I believe, for the horse was 
 found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I dare- 
 say we shall see him again by-and-by. I don't know 
 where he is." 
 
 "And what must you be letting him have my money 
 for? Answer me that," said the Squire, attacking God- 
 frey again, since Dunsey was not within reach. 
 
 "Well, sir, I don't know," said Godfrey, hesitatingly. 
 That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of 
 lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of 
 duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal 
 
132 SILAS MARKER 
 
 falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented 
 motives. 
 
 "You don't know? I tell you what it is, sir. You've 
 been up to some trick, and you've been bribing him not 
 to tell, ' ' said the Squire, with a sudden acuteness which 
 startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at the 
 nearness of his father's guess. The sudden alarm 
 pushed him on to take the next step — a very slight 
 impulse suffices for that on a downward road. 
 
 "Why, sir," he said, trying to speak with careless 
 ease, "it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; it's 
 no matter to anybody else. It's hardly worth while to 
 pry into young men's fooleries: it wouldn't have made 
 any difference to you, sir, if I'd not had the bad luck to 
 lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money." 
 
 "Fooleries! Pshaw! it's time you'd done with fool- 
 eries. And I'd have you know, sir, you must ha' done 
 with 'em," said the Squire, frowning and casting an 
 angry glance at his son. "Your goings-on are not what 
 I shall find money for any longer. There's my grand- 
 father had his stables full o' horses, and kept a good 
 house, too, and in worse times, by what I can make 
 out ; and so might I, if I hadn't four good-for-nothing 
 fellows to hang on me like horse -leeches. I've been too 
 good a father to you all — that's what it is. But I shall 
 pull up, sir." 
 
 Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very pene- 
 trating in his judgments, but he had always had a sense 
 that his father's indulgence had not been kindness, and 
 had had a vague longing for some discipline that would 
 have checked his own errant weakness and helped his 
 better will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, 
 
SILAS MARNER 13^ 
 
 took a deep draught of ale, then turned his chair from 
 the table, and began to speak again. 
 
 "It'll be all the worse for you, you know — ^you'd need 
 try and help me keep things together." 
 
 "Well, sir, I've often offered to take the manage- 
 ment of things, but you know you've taken it ill always,. 
 and seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your, 
 place." 
 
 "I know nothing o' your offering or o' my taking it 
 ill," said the Squire, whose memory consisted in certain 
 strong impressions unmodified by detail; "but I know, 
 one while you seemed to be thinking o' marrying, and I 
 didn't offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some 
 fathers would. I'd as lieve you married Lammeter's 
 daughter as anybody. I suppose, if I'd said you nay, 
 you'd ha' kept on with it; but, for want o' contradic- 
 tion, you've changed your mind. You're a shilly-shally 
 fellow:^ you take after your poor mother. She never 
 had a will of her own ; a woman has no call for one, if 
 she's got a proper man for her husband. But your wife 
 had need have one, for you hardly know your own mind 
 enough to make both your legs walk one way. The lass 
 hasn't said downright she won't have you, has she?" 
 
 "No," said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfort- 
 able; "but I don't think she will." 
 
 "Think! why haven't you the courage to ask her? 
 Do you stick to it, you want to have lier — that's the 
 thing?" 
 
 "There's no other woman I want to marry," said 
 Godfrey, evasively. 
 
 ^ An irresolute person. "Shall I? Shall I?" Continual ques- 
 tioning, indicating indecision. 
 
134 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *'Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that's all, 
 if you haven't the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter 
 isn't likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into my 
 family, I should think. And as for the pretty lass, she 
 wouldn't have her cousin — and there's nobody else, as I 
 see, could ha' stood in your way." 
 
 "I'd rather let it be, please sir, at present," said God- 
 frey in alarm. "I think she's a little offended with me 
 just now, and I should like to speak for myself. A man 
 must manage these things for himself." 
 
 "Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you 
 can't turn over a new leaf. That's what a man must 
 do when he thinks o' marrying." 
 
 "I don't see how I can think of it at present, sir. 
 You wouldn't like to settle me on one of the farms, I 
 suppose, and I don't think she'd come to live in this 
 house with all my brothers. It's a different sort of life 
 to what she's been used to." 
 
 "Not come to live in this house? Don't tell me. 
 You ask her, that's all," said the Squire, with a short, 
 scornful laugh. 
 
 "I'd rather let the thing be, at present, sir," said God- 
 frey. "I hope you won't try to hurry it on by saying 
 anything." 
 
 "I shall do what I choose," said the Squire, "and I 
 shall let you know I'm master ; else you may turn out, 
 and find an estate to drop into somewhere else. Go out 
 and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox's, but wait for me. 
 And tell 'em to get my horse saddled. And stop : look 
 out and get that hack o' Dunsey's sold, and hand me 
 the money, will you? He'll keep no more hacks at my 
 expense. And if you know where he's sneaking — I 
 
SILAS MARNER 135 
 
 daresay you do — you may tell him to spare himself the 
 journey o' coming back home. Let him turn ostler, and 
 keep himself. He shan't hang on me any more." 
 
 *'I don't know where he is; and if I did, it isn't my 
 place to tell him to keep away," said Godfrey, moving 
 towards the door. 
 
 "Confound it, sir, don't stay arguing, but go and 
 order my horse," said the Squire, taking up a pipe. 
 
 Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he 
 were more relieved by the sense that the interview was 
 ended without having made any change in his position, 
 or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still 
 further in prevarication and deceit. What had passed 
 about his proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, 
 lest by some after-dinner words of his father's to Mr. 
 Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrassment 
 of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she 
 seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual 
 refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of 
 fortune, some favorable chance which would save him 
 from unpleasant consequences — perhaps even justify his 
 insincerity by manifesting its prudence. 
 
 In this point of trusting to some throw of fortune's 
 dice, Godfrey can hardly be called old-fashioned. 
 Favourable Chance is the god of all men who follow 
 their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe 
 in. Let even a polished man of these days get into a 
 position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be 
 bent on all the possible issues that may deliver him from 
 the calculable results of that position. Let him live 
 outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work 
 that brings wages, and he will presently find himself 
 
136 SILAS MARNER 
 
 dreaming of a possible benefactor, a possible simpleton 
 who may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible 
 state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcom- 
 ing. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, 
 and he will inevitably anchor himself on the chance, 
 that the thing left undone may turn out not to be of the 
 supposed importance. Let him betray his friend's con- 
 fidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity 
 called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend 
 will never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that 
 he may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which 
 nature never called him, and his religion will infallibly 
 be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe 
 in as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle 
 deprecated in that religion, is the orderly sequence by 
 which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and 
 Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that he 
 could draw much wider conclusions without evidence 
 than could be expected of his neighbours who were not 
 on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not 
 likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an 
 inquiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name 
 unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complex- 
 ion, carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing 
 large rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was 
 too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the descrip- 
 tion applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not 
 know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, 
 and there was no other result concerning the robbery 
 than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused 
 in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass's absence was hardly a sub- 
 ject of remark ; he had once before had a quarrel with 
 his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to 
 return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters 
 unforbidden and swagger as usual. His own family, 
 who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference 
 that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him 
 the old quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when 
 his uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the story of 
 his having killed Wildfire and committed some offence 
 against his father was enough to prevent surprise. To 
 
 137 
 
138 SILAS MARNER 
 
 connect tlie fact of Dunsey's disappearance with that of 
 the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away 
 from the track of every one's thought — even Godfrey's, 
 who had better reason than any one else to know what 
 his brother was capable of. He remembered no mention 
 of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years 
 ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; and, 
 besides, his imagination constantly created an alihi for 
 Dunstan: he saw him continually in some congenial 
 haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire — 
 saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and medi- 
 tating a return home to the old amusement of torment- 
 ing his elder brother. Even if any brain in Raveloe had 
 put the said two facts together, I doubt whether a com- 
 bination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability of 
 a family with a mural monument and venerable tank- 
 ards, would not have been suppressed as of unsound 
 tendency. But Christmas puddings, brawn, ^ and abun- 
 dance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental 
 originality into the channel of nightmare, are great 
 preservatives against a dangerous spontaneity of waking 
 thought. 
 
 When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and 
 elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to 
 waver between the rational explanation founded on the 
 tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery 
 that mocked investigation. The advocates of the tinder - 
 box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle- 
 headed and credulous set, who, because they themselves 
 were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the 
 same blank outlook ; and the ad herents of the inexpli- 
 
 * The salted flesh of a boar. 
 
SILAS MARNER 139 
 
 cable more than hinted that their antagonists were 
 animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn 
 — mere skimming- dishes in point of depth — whose clear- 
 sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing 
 behind a barn-door because they couldn't see through it j 
 so that, though their controversy did not serve to elicit 
 the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true 
 opinions of collateral importance. 
 
 But while poor Silas's loss served thus to brush the 
 slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was 
 feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement 
 about which his neighbours were arguing at their ease. 
 To any one who had observed him before he lost his 
 gold, it might have seemed that so withered and 
 shrunken a life as his could hardly be susceptible of a 
 bruise, could hardly endure any subtraction but such as 
 would put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had 
 been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which 
 fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It 
 had been a clinging life; and though the object round 
 which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, 
 it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence 
 was broken down — the support was snatched away.. 
 Marner's thoughts could no longer move in their old 
 round, and were baffled by a blank like that which 
 meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away 
 on its homeward path. The loom was there, and the 
 weaving, and the giowing pattern in the cloth ; but the 
 bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone ; the 
 prospect of handling and counting was gone: the 
 evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor 
 soul's craving. The thought of the money he would 
 
140 SILAS MARKER 
 
 get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre 
 image was only a fresh reminder of his loss ; and hope 
 was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow, for his 
 imagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from 
 that small beginning. 
 
 He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, 
 he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: it 
 was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to 
 the sudden chasm — to the empty evening time. And 
 all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull 
 fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his 
 head with his hands, and moaned very low — not as one 
 who seeks to be heard. 
 
 And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. 
 The repulsion Marner had always created in his neigh- 
 bours was partly dissipated by the new light in which 
 this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who 
 had more cunning than honest folks could come by, 
 and, what was worse, had not the inclination to use that 
 cunning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that 
 Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was 
 generally spoken of as a "poor mushed creatur;" and 
 that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been 
 referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction to 
 worse company, was now considered mere craziness. 
 
 This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various 
 ways. The odour of Christmas cooking being on the 
 wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black 
 puddings ^ are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families ; 
 and Silas's misfortune had brought him uppermost in 
 the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. 
 
 * Sausages made of blood and suet, and thickened ^vith meaL 
 
SILAS MARNER 141 
 
 Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his 
 money had probably been taken from him because he 
 thought too much of it and never came to church, 
 enforced the doctrine by a present of pigs' pettitoes,^ 
 well calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against 
 the clerical character. Neighbours who had nothing 
 but verbal consolation to give showed a disposition not 
 only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some 
 length when they encountered him in the village,* but 
 also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and get- 
 ting him to repeat all the details on the very spot ; and 
 then they would try to cheer him by saying, *'Well, 
 Master Marner, you're no worse off nor other poor folks, 
 after all ; and if you was to be crippled, the parish 'ud 
 give you a 'lowance." 
 
 I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to com- 
 fort our neighbours with our words is that our goodwill 
 gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass 
 our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes, 
 without giving them a flavour of our own egoism ; but 
 language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a 
 mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness 
 in Raveloe ; but it was often of a beery and bungling 
 sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimen- 
 tary and hypocritical. 
 
 Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly 
 to let Silas know that recent events had given him the 
 advantage of standing more favourably in the opinion of 
 a man whose judgment was not formed lightly, opened 
 the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated 
 himself and adjusted his thumbs — 
 
 ^ Pigs' feet. 
 
142 SILAS MARNER 
 
 **Come, Master Marner, why, you've no call to sit a- 
 moaning. You're a deal better off to ha' lost your 
 money, nor to ha' kep it by foul means. I used to 
 think, when you first come into these parts, as you were 
 no better nor you should be ; you were younger a deal 
 than what yon are now; but you were allays a staring, 
 white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I 
 may say. But there's no knowing: it isn't every queer- 
 looksed thing as Old Harry's had the making of — I mean, 
 speaking o' toads and such; for they're often harmless, 
 and useful against varmin. And it's pretty much the 
 same wi' you, as fur as I can see. Though as to the 
 yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you brought 
 that sort o' knowledge from distant parts, you might ha' 
 been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn't 
 well come by, why, you might ha' made up for it by 
 coming to church reg'lar ; for as for the children as the 
 Wise Woman charmed, I've been at the christening of 
 'em again and again, and they took the water just as 
 well. And that's reasonable; for if Old Harry's a mind 
 to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday, like, who's got any- 
 thing against it? That's my thinking; and I've been 
 clerk o' this parish forty year, and I know, when the 
 parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, 
 there's no cussing o' folks as have a mind to be cured 
 without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And so. 
 Master Marner, as I was saying — for there's windings i' 
 things as they may carry you to the fur end o' the 
 prayer-book afore you get back to 'em — my advice is, as 
 you keep up your eperrits ; for as for thinking you're a 
 deep un, and ha' got more inside you nor 'ull bear day- 
 light, I'm not o' that opinion at all, and so I tell the 
 
SILAS MARNER 145 
 
 neighbours. For, says I, you talk o' Master Marner 
 making out a tale — why, it's nonsense, that is : it 'ud 
 take a cute man to make a tale like that ; and, says I, 
 he looked as scared as a rabbit. " 
 
 During this discursive address ^ Silas had continued 
 motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on 
 his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. 
 Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, 
 paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, 
 but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the 
 old man meant to be good-natured and neighbourly; 
 but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the 
 wretched — he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it 
 was very far off him. 
 
 *'Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say 
 to that?" said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight accent of 
 impatience. 
 
 **0h," said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between 
 his hands, "I thank you — thank you — kindly.'* 
 
 **Ay, ay, to be sure: I thought you would," said Mr. 
 Macey; **and my advice is — have you got a Sunday 
 suit?" 
 
 **No," said Marner. 
 
 **I doubted it was so," said Mr. Macey. *'Now, let 
 me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there's Tookey, 
 he's a poor creatur, but he's got my tailoring business, 
 and some o' my money in it, and he shall make a suit 
 at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can 
 come to church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you've 
 never beared me say *Amen' since you come into these 
 
 * Compare this scene with that between Job and his consola- 
 tory friends. 
 
144 SILAS MARNER 
 
 parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll be 
 poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I 
 mayn't be equil to stand i' the desk at all, come another 
 winter." Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting 
 some sign of emotion in his hearer ; but not observing 
 any, he went on. "And as for the money for the suit 
 o' clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a- week at 
 your weaving. Master Marner, and you're a young man, 
 ,eh, for all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn't ha' 
 been five-and -twenty when you come into these parts, 
 eh?" 
 
 Silas started a little at the change to a questioning 
 tone, and answered mildly, "I don't know; I can't 
 rightly say — it's a long while since." 
 
 After receiving such an answer as this, it is not sur- 
 prising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the even- 
 ing at the Kainbow, that Marner 's head was ''all of a 
 muddle," and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew 
 when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse 
 heathen than many a dog. 
 
 Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey, 
 came to him with a mind highly charged on the same 
 topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright's 
 wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely 
 regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was 
 hardly a person in the parish who would not have held 
 that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would 
 have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, 
 and get an undue advantage over their neighbours — a 
 wish to be better than the "common run," that would 
 have implied a reflection on those who had had god- 
 fathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had 
 
SILAS MARNER 145 
 
 an equal right to the biirying-service. At the same 
 time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were 
 not household servants, or young men, to take the sacra- 
 ment at one of the great festivals : Squire Cass himself 
 took it on Christmas -day ; while those who were held to 
 be '* good-livers" went to church with greater, though 
 still with moderate, frequency. 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop was one of these : she was in all re- 
 spects a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for 
 duties that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless 
 she rose afc half -past four, though this threw a scarcity 
 of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, 
 which it was a constant problem with her to remove. 
 Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes 
 supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits : she 
 was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was to 
 seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, 
 and pasture her mind upon them. She was the person 
 always first thought of in Eaveloe when there was illness 
 or death in the family, when leeches were to be applied, 
 or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly 
 nurse. She was a "comfortable woman" — good-look- 
 ing, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly 
 screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with a 
 doctor or the clergyman present. But she was never 
 whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was 
 simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, 
 almost imperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who is 
 not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Win- 
 throp, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along 
 so well with Dolly; but she took her husband's jokes 
 and joviality as patiently as everything else, considering 
 
146 SILAS MARNER 
 
 that *'men ivould be so," and viewing the stronger sex 
 in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to 
 make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey- 
 cocks. 
 
 This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have 
 her mind drawn strongly towards Silas Marner, now 
 that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one 
 Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, 
 and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some 
 small lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed in 
 Eaveloe. Aaron, an apple- cheeked youngster of seven, 
 with a clean starched frill which looked like a plate for 
 the apples, needed all his adventurous curiosity to 
 embolden him against the possibility that the big-eyed 
 weaver might do him some bodily injury; and his 
 dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the 
 Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the 
 loom. 
 
 ''Ah, it is as I thought,'* said Mrs. Winthrop, 
 sadly. 
 
 They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them ; 
 but when he did come to the door he showed no impa- 
 tience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had 
 been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart 
 had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside ; but 
 now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. 
 Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, 
 Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half -de- 
 spairing one, that if any help came to him it must come 
 from without ; and there was a slight stirring of expecta- 
 tion at the sight of his fellow- men, a faint consciousness 
 of dependence on their goodwill. He opened the door 
 
SILAS MARNER 147 
 
 wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her 
 greeting than by moving the arm-chair a few inches as a 
 sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as 
 she was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her 
 lard-cakes, and said in her gi-avest way — 
 
 "I'd a baking yisterday. Master Marner, and the lard- 
 cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' asked 
 you to accept some, if you'd thouglit well. I don't eat 
 such things myself, for a bit o' bread's what I like from 
 one year's end to the other; but men's stomichs ard 
 made so comical, they want a change — they do, I know, 
 God help 'em." 
 
 Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, 
 who thanked her kindly and looked very close at them, 
 absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he 
 took into his hand — eyed all the while by the wondering 
 bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an out- 
 work of his mother's chair, and was peeping from 
 behind it. 
 
 "There's letters pricked on 'em," said Dolly. "I 
 can't read 'em myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. 
 Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but 
 they've a good meaning, for they're the same as is on 
 the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my 
 dear?" 
 
 Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. 
 
 "Oh go, that's naughty," said his mother, mildly. 
 "Well, whativer the letters are, they've a good meaning; 
 and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever 
 since he was a little un, and his mother used to put it 
 on the cakes, and I've allays put it on too; for if there's 
 any good, we've need of it i' this world." 
 
148 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *'It's I. H. S.," ^ said Silas, at which proof of learning 
 Aaron peeped round the chair again. 
 
 "Well, to be snre, you can read 'em off," said Dolly. 
 "Ben's read 'em to me many and many a time, but they 
 slip out o' my mind again; the more's the pity, for 
 they're good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church ; 
 and so I prick 'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, 
 though sometimes they won't hold, because o' the rising 
 — for, as I said, if there's any good to be got we've need 
 of it i' this world — that we have; and I hope they'll 
 bring good to you, Master Marner, for it's wi' that will 
 I brought you the cakes ; and you see the letters have 
 held better nor common." 
 
 Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but 
 there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire 
 to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. 
 He said, with more feeling than before — "Thank you — 
 thank you kindly." But he laid down the cakes and 
 seated himself absently — drearily unconscious of any 
 distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, 
 or even Dolly's kindness, could tend for him. 
 
 "Ah, if there's good anywhere, we've need of it," 
 repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a serviceable 
 phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. 
 "But you didn't hear the church-bells this morning. 
 Master Marner? I doubt you didn't know it was Sun- 
 day. Living so lone here, you lose your count, I dare- 
 
 ^ The first three letters of the Greek word for Jesus. The 
 letters are regarded as the symbols of Christianity, and are 
 commonly but mistakenly supposed to stand either for Jesus 
 Hominum Salvator or In hoc signo, the latter phrase being 
 the legend under the miraculous cross seen by the Emperor 
 Constantine. 
 
SILAS MARNER 149 
 
 say; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can't 
 hear the bells, more partic'lar now the frost kills the 
 sound." 
 
 *'Yes, I did; I heard 'em," said Silas, to whom Sun- 
 day bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part 
 of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern 
 Yard. 
 
 *'Dear heart!" said Dolly, pausing before she spoke 
 again. "But what a pity it is you should work of a 
 Sunday, and not clean yourself — if you didnH go to 
 church; for if you'd a roasting bit, it might be as you 
 couldn't leave it, being a lone man. But there's the 
 bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a 
 twopence on the oven now and then — not every week, in 
 course — I shouldn't like to do that myself — ^you might 
 carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but right 
 to have a bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and not to 
 make it as you can't know your dinner from Saturday. 
 But now, upo' Christmas -day, this blessed Christmas as 
 is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the 
 bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the 
 yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen', 
 you'd be a deal the better, and you'd know which end 
 you stood on, and you could put your trust i' Them 
 as knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what 
 it lies on us all to do." 
 
 Dolly's exhortation, which was an unusually long 
 effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing per- 
 suasive tone with which she would have tried to prevail 
 on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel 
 for which he had no appetite. Silas had never before 
 been closely urged on the point of his absence from 
 
150 SILAS MARNER 
 
 church, which had only heen thought of as a part of his 
 general queerness ; and he was too direct and simple to 
 evade Dolly's appeal. 
 
 *'Nay, nay," he said, **I know nothing o' church. 
 I've never heen to church." 
 
 "No!" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. 
 Then hethinking herself of Silas's advent from an 
 unknown country, she said, '* Could it ha' been as 
 they'd no church where you was born?" 
 
 "Ohyes," said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual 
 posture of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. 
 *' There was churches — a many — it was a big town. 
 But I knew nothing of 'em — I went to chapel." ^ 
 
 Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she 
 was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest "chapel" 
 might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little 
 thought, she said — 
 
 "Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn over 
 a new leaf, and if you've niver had no church, there's 
 no telling the good it'll do you. For I feels so set up 
 and comfortable as niver was, when I've been and heard 
 the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o' 
 God, as Mr. Macey gives out — and Mr. Crackenthorp 
 saying good words, and more partic'hir on Sacramen' 
 Day; and if a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I can put up 
 wi' it, for I've looked for help i' the right quarter, and 
 gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up 
 to at the last; and if we'n done our part, it is'nt to 
 
 ^ In England the main divisions among the Protestants are the 
 Conformists, or Established church, and the Non- conformists, 
 or Dissenters. The places of worship of the latter are called 
 chapels, as distinguished from the churches of the former. 
 
SILAS MARNSR 151 
 
 be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be worse nor we 
 are, and come short o' Their'n." 
 
 Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Raveloe theology 
 fell rather unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there was no 
 word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had 
 known as religion, and his comprehension was quite 
 baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of 
 Dolly's, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous 
 familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined to 
 assent to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully under- 
 stood — her recommendation that he should go to church. 
 Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the 
 brief questions and answers necessary for the transaction 
 of his simple business, that words did not easily come to 
 him without the urgency of a distinct purpose. 
 
 But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weav- 
 er's awful presence, had advanced to his mother's side, 
 and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, tried 
 to return Dolly's signs of goodwill by offering the lad a 
 bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed 
 his head against his mother's shoulder, but still thought 
 the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out 
 for it. 
 
 "Oh, for shame, Aaron," said his mother, taking him 
 on her lap, however; "why, you don't want cake again 
 yet awhile. He's Vv^onderful hearty," she went on, with 
 a little sigh — "that he is, God knows. He's my young- 
 est, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father 
 must allays hev him in our sight — that we must." 
 
 She stroked Aaron's brown head, and thought it must 
 do Master Mai-ner good to see such a "pictur of a child. " 
 But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, saw the 
 
152 SILAS MARNER 
 
 neat -featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with two 
 dark spots in it. 
 
 **And he's got a voice like a bird — you wouldn't 
 think," Dolly went on; "he can sing a Christmas carril 
 as his father's taught him; and I take it for a token as 
 he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so 
 quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to 
 Master Marner, come." 
 
 Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his 
 mother's shoulder. 
 
 *'0h, that's naughty," said Dolly, gently. "Stan' 
 up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake 
 till you've done." 
 
 Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even 
 to an ogre, under protecting circumstances ; and after a 
 few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing 
 the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping 
 between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked 
 anxious for the "carril," he at length allowed his head 
 to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the table, 
 which let him appear above it only as far as his broad 
 frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled 
 with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a 
 melody that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer — 
 
 'God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
 
 Let nothing you dismay, 
 For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
 
 Was bom on Christmas-day." 
 
 Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner 
 in some confidence that this strain would help to allure 
 him to church. 
 
 "That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had 
 
SILAS MARNER 153 
 
 ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. 
 *' There's no other music equil to the Christmas music — 
 * Hark the erol angils sing.' And you may judge what 
 it is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and 
 the voices, as you can't help thinking you've got to a 
 better place a'ready — for I wouldn't speak ill o' this 
 world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best — but 
 what wi' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad 
 illnesses, and the hard dying, as I've seen times and 
 times, one's thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings 
 pretty, don't he. Master Marner?" 
 
 *'Yes," said Silas, absently, **very pretty." 
 
 The Christmas carol, with its hammer -like rhythm, had 
 fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, 
 and could have none of the effect Dolly contemplated. 
 But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and the 
 only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a 
 bit more cake. 
 
 "Oh no, thank you. Master Marner," said Dolly, 
 holding down Aaron's willing hands. "We must be 
 going home now. And so I wish you good-bye. Master 
 Marner ; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, 
 as you can't fend^ for yourself, I'll come and clean up 
 for you, and get you a bit o' victual, and willing. But 
 I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, 
 for it's bad for soul and body — and the money as comes 
 i' that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if 
 it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the white 
 frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, 
 Master Marner, for I wish you well — I do. Make your 
 bow, Aai'on." 
 
 ^ Provide for. 
 
154 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Silas said "Good-bye, and thank you kindly," as lie 
 opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling 
 relieved when she was gone — relieved that lie might 
 weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of 
 life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer 
 him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which 
 his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of 
 human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet 
 been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivu- 
 let, with only this difference, that its little groove of 
 sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against 
 dark obstruction. 
 
 And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of 
 Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christ- 
 mas-day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of 
 heart, though the meat had come to him as a neigh- 
 bourly present. In the morning he looked out on the 
 black frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of 
 grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the 
 bitter wind ; but towards evening the snov/ began to fall, 
 and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shut- 
 ting him close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in 
 his robbed home through the livelong evening, not car- 
 ing to close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his 
 head between his hands and moaning, till the cold 
 grasped him and told him that his fire was grey. 
 
 Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the 
 same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow with 
 tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. Even 
 to himself that past experience had become dim. 
 
 But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the 
 church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, 
 
SILAS MARNER 155 
 
 with red faces among the abundant dark-gi'een boughs 
 — faces prepaied for a longer service than usual by an 
 odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, 
 the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas — 
 even the Athanasian Creed, which was discriminated 
 from the others only as being longer and of exceptional 
 virtue, since it was only read on rare occasions — brought 
 a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could 
 as little have found words as the children, that some- 
 thing great and mysterious liad been done for them in 
 heaven above and in earth below, which they were appro- 
 priating by their presence. And then the red faces 
 made their way through the black biting frost to their 
 own homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the 
 day to eat, di'ink, and be merry, and using that 
 Christian freedom without diffidence. 
 
 At Squire Cass's family party that day nobody men- 
 tioned Dunstan — nobody was sorry for his absence, or 
 feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, 
 uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual 
 Christmas talk was carried tlu-ough without any omis- 
 sions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble's experience 
 when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, 
 together with striking professional anecdotes then 
 gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt 
 Kimble's annual failure to follow L-uit, and uncle 
 Kimble's irascibility concerning the odd trick which 
 was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his 
 side, without a general visitation of tricks to see that 
 they were formed on sound principles : the whole being 
 accompanied by a strong steaming odour of spirits-and- 
 water. 
 
156 SILAS MARNER 
 
 But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly 
 family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant cele- 
 bration of the season at the Red House. It was the 
 great dance on New Year's Eve that made the glory of 
 Squire Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers', time out 
 of mind. This was the occasion when all the society of 
 Eaveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances sepa- 
 rated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances 
 separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway 
 calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent conde- 
 scension, counted on meeting and on comporting them- 
 selves with mutual appropriateness. This was the occasion 
 on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their band- 
 boxes before them, supplied with more than their even- 
 ing costume ; for the feast was not to end with a single 
 evening, like a paltry town entertainment, where the 
 whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and 
 bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as 
 if for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to 
 be laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might natur- 
 ally be expected in a family that had killed its own geese 
 for many generations. 
 
 Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year's 
 Eve with a foolish reckless longing, that made him half 
 deaf to his importunate companion. Anxiety. 
 
 "Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a 
 great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to 
 silence?" said Anxiety. 
 
 "Oh, he won't come home before New Year's Eve, 
 perhaps," said Godfrey; "and I shall sit by Nancy 
 then, and dance with her, and get a kind look from her 
 in spite of herself." 
 
SILAS MARNER 157 
 
 *'But money is wanted in anothei' quarter," said 
 Anxiety in a louder voice, ''and how will you get it 
 without selling your mother's diamond pin? And if you 
 don't get it . . . ?" 
 
 *'Well, but something may happen to make things 
 easier. At any rate, there's one pleasure for me close 
 at hand: Nancy is coming." 
 
 *'Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters 
 to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her — 
 and to give your reasons?" 
 
 *'Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can see 
 Nancy's eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her 
 hand in mine already." 
 
 But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas 
 company ; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much 
 drinking. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Some women, I grant, would not appear to advantage 
 seated on a pillion, and attired in a di-ab Joseph^ and a 
 drab beaver bonnet, with a crown resembling a small 
 stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman's great- 
 coat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only 
 allow of miniature capes, is not well adapted to conceal 
 deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a colour that will 
 throw sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It was all the 
 greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter's beauty that 
 she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, 
 seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she 
 held one arm round him, and looked down, with open- 
 eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered pools and 
 puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of mud 
 under the stamp of Dobbin's foot. A painter would, 
 perhaps, have preferred her in those moments when she 
 was free from self -consciousness ; but certainly the 
 bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of contrast 
 with the surrounding drab when she arrived at the door 
 of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to 
 lift her from the pillion. She wished her sister Pris- 
 cilla had come up at the same time behind the servant, 
 for then she would have contrived that Mr. Godfrey 
 should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the mean- 
 
 ^ A woman's riding habit, buttoned all the way down the 
 front. 
 
 158 
 
SILAS MARNER 159 
 
 time, she would have persuaded her father to go round 
 to the horse-block instead of alighting at the door -steps. 
 It was very painful, when you had made it quite clear to 
 a young man that you were determined not to marry 
 him, however much he might wish it, that he would 
 still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, 
 why didn't he always show the same attentions, if he 
 meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as Mr. 
 Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he didn't 
 want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for 
 weeks and Aveelis, and then, all on a sudden, almost 
 making love again? Moreover, it was quite plain he 
 had no real love for her, else he would not let people 
 have that to say of him which they did say. Did he sup- 
 pose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any 
 man, squire or no squire, who led a bad life? That was 
 not what she had been used to see in her own father, 
 who was the soberest and best man in that country-side, 
 only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were 
 not done to the minute. 
 
 All these thoughts rushed through Miss fancy's 
 mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments 
 between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at 
 the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the 
 Squire came out too and gave ;i loud greeting to her 
 father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise she 
 seemed to find concealment for her confusion and neg- 
 lect of any suitably formal behaviour, v/hile she was 
 being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which 
 seemed to find her ridiculously small and light. And 
 there was the best reason for hastening into the house at 
 once, . since the snow was beginning to fall again, 
 
160 SILAS MARNER 
 
 threatening an unpleasant journey for sncli guests as 
 were still on the road. These were a small minority ; 
 for already the afternoon was beginning to decline, and 
 there would not be too much time for the ladies who 
 came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness 
 for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the 
 dance. 
 
 There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss 
 Nancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle 
 preluding in the kitchen; but the Lammeters were 
 guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so 
 much that it had been watched for from the windows, 
 for Mrs. Kimble, who did the honours at the Eed House 
 on these great occasions, came forward to meet Miss 
 Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up-stairs. Mrs. 
 Kimble was the Squire's sister, as well as the doctor's 
 wife — a double dignity, with which her diameter was in 
 direct proportion; so that, a journey up-stairs being 
 rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy's 
 request to be allowed to find her way alone to the Blue 
 Room, where the Miss Lammeters' bandboxes had been 
 deposited on their arrival in the morning. 
 
 There was hardly a bedroom in the house where femi- 
 nine compliments were not passing and feminine toilettes 
 going forward, in various stages, in space made scanty 
 by extra beds spread upon the floor ; and Miss Nancy, as 
 she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little for- 
 mal curtsy to a group of six. On the one hand, there 
 were ladies no less important than the two Miss Gunns, 
 the wine merchant's daughters from Lytherly, dressed 
 in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the 
 shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the 
 
SILAS MARNER 161 
 
 Old Pastures) with a shyness not unsustained by inward 
 criticism. Partly, Miss Ladbrook felt that her own 
 skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, 
 and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not 
 show that judgment which she herself would show if she 
 were in their place, by stopping a little on this side of 
 the fashion. On the other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook wafi. 
 standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in her 
 hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and saying, "After 
 you, ma'am," to another lady in similar circumstances,, 
 who had politely offered the precedence at the looking- 
 glass. 
 
 But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than 
 an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin 
 kerchief, and mob-cap round her curls of smooth grey 
 hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow 
 satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbours. She 
 approached Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, 
 with a slow, treble suavity — 
 
 ** Niece, I hope I see you well in health." Miss 
 Nancy kissed her aunt's cheek dutifully, and answered, 
 with the same sort of amiable primness, "Quite well, I 
 thank you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same." 
 
 "Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. 
 And how is my brother-in law?" 
 
 These dutiful questions and answers were continued 
 until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters 
 were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, also 
 that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, and 
 that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was unpleas- 
 ant, though a Joseph was a great protection. Then 
 Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt's visitors, 
 
162 SILAS MARNER 
 
 the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a mother 
 known to their mother, though now for the first time 
 induced to make a journey into these parts ; and these 
 ladies were so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely 
 face and figure in an out-of-the-way country place, that 
 they began to feel some curiosity about the dress she 
 would put on when she took off her Joseph. Miss 
 Nancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the 
 propriety and moderation conspicuous in her manners, 
 remarked to herself that the Miss Gunns were rather 
 hard featured than otherwise, and that such yery low 
 dresses as they wore might have been attributed to 
 vanity if their shoulders had been pretty, but that, 
 being as they were, it was not reasonable to suppose that 
 they showed their necks from a love of display, but 
 rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense 
 and modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened her 
 box, that this must be her aunt Osgood's opinion, for 
 Miss Nancy's mind resembled her aunt's to a degree 
 that everybody said was surprising, considering the kin- 
 ship was on Mr. Osgood's side; and though you might 
 not have supposed it from the formality of their greet- 
 ing, there was a devoted attachment and mutual admi- 
 ration between aunt and niece. Even Miss Nancy's 
 refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground 
 solely that he was her cousin), though it had grieved her 
 aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the preference 
 which had determined her to leave Nancy several of her 
 hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert's future wife be whom 
 she might. 
 
 Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Misa 
 Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood's inclina- 
 
SILAS MARNER 16J5 
 
 tion to remain with her niece gave them also a reason for 
 staying to see the rustic beauty's toilette. And it was 
 really a pleasure — from the first opening of the band- 
 box, where everything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, 
 to the clasping of the small coral necklace that fitted 
 closely round her little white neck. Everything belong- 
 ing to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and nattiness : 
 not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a 
 bit of her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling 
 its profession; the very pins on her pincushion were 
 stuck in after a pattern from which she was careful to 
 allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it gave 
 the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body 
 of a little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was 
 cropped behind like a boy's, and was dressed in front in 
 a number of fiat rings, that lay quite away from her 
 face ; but there was no sort of coiffure that could make 
 Miss Nancy's cheek and neck look otherwise than 
 pretty ; and when at last she stood complete in her silvery 
 twilled silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and 
 coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could see nothing to 
 criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of 
 butter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser 
 work. But Miss Nancy was not ashamed of that, for 
 while she was dressing she narrated to her aunt how she 
 and Priscilla had packed their boxes yesterday, because 
 this morning was baking morning, and since they wore 
 leaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of 
 meat-pies for the kitchen; and as she concluded this 
 judicious remark, she turned to the Miss Gunns that 
 she might not commit the rudeness of not including 
 them in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled 
 
164 SILAS MARNER 
 
 stiffly, and thought what a pity it was that these rich 
 country people, who could afford to huy such good 
 clothes (really Miss Nancy's lace and silk were very 
 costly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and 
 vulgarity. She actually said "mate" for "meat," 
 "'appen" for "perhaps," and "oss" for "horse," 
 which to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, 
 who habitually said 'orse, even in domestic privacy, and 
 only said 'appen on the right occasions, was necessarily 
 shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any 
 school higher than Dame Tedman's; her acquaintance 
 with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes 
 she had worked in her large sampler under the lamb and 
 the shepherdess ; and in order to balance an account, 
 she was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing 
 visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a visible 
 metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid in these 
 days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy ; yet 
 she had the essential attributes of a lady — high veracity, 
 delicate honour in her dealings, deference to others, and 
 refined personal habits ; — and lest these should not suffice 
 to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings can 
 at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly 
 proud and exacting, and as constant in her affection 
 towards a baseless opinion as towards an erring 
 lover. 
 
 The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown 
 rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, 
 was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful -look- 
 ing lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold and 
 damp. After the first questions and greetings, she 
 turned to Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot — 
 
SILAS MARNER 165 
 
 then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view 
 was equally faultless. 
 
 "What do you think o' these gowns, aunt Osgood?" 
 said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. 
 
 *'Very handsome indeed, niece," said Mrs. Osgood, 
 with a slight increase of formality. She always thought 
 niece Priscilla too rough. 
 
 "I'm obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, 
 for all I'm five years older, and it makes me look yallow; 
 for she never will have anything without I have mine 
 just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. 
 And I tell her, folks 'ull think it's my weakness makes 
 me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty 
 in. For I am ugly — there's no denying that ; I feature 
 my father's family. But, law! I don't mind, do you?" 
 Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in 
 too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to 
 notice that her candour was not appreciated. "The 
 pretty uns do for fly-catchers — they keep the men off us. 
 I've no opinion o' the men. Miss Gunn — I don't know 
 what yoio have. And as for fretting and stewing about 
 what tlieifW think of you from morning till night, and 
 making your life uneasy about what they're doing when 
 they're out o' your sight — as I tell Nancy, it's a folly 
 no woman need be guilty of, if she's got a good father 
 and a good home ; let her leave it to them as have got no 
 fortin, and can't help themselves. As I say, Mr. Have- 
 your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I'd 
 ever promise to obey. I know it isn't pleasant, when 
 you've been used to living in a big way, and managing 
 hogsheads and all that, to go and put your nose in by 
 somebody else's fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a 
 
166 SILAS MARNER 
 
 scrag or a knuckle;^ but, thank God! my father's a 
 sober man and likely to live; and if you've got a man by 
 the chimney-corner, it doesn't matter if he's childish — 
 the business needn't be broke up." 
 
 The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over 
 
 her head without injury to her smooth curls, obliged 
 
 ^Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and 
 
 Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and 
 
 saying— 
 
 **Well, niece, you'll follow us. The Miss Gunns will 
 like to go down." 
 
 '* Sister," said Nancy, when they were alone, "you've 
 offended the Miss Gunns, I'm sure." 
 
 "What have I done, child?" said Priscilla, in some 
 alarm. 
 
 "Why, you asked them if they minded about being 
 ugly — ^you're so very blunt. " 
 
 "Law, did I? Well, it popped out: it's a mercy I 
 said no more, for I'm a bad un to live with folks when 
 they don't like the truth. But as for being ugly, look 
 at me, child, in this silver-coloured silk — I told you 
 how it 'ud be — I look as yallow as a daffodil. Anybody 
 'ud say you wanted to make a mawkin^ of me." 
 
 "No, Priscy, don't say so. I begged and prayed of 
 you not to let us have this silk if you'd like another 
 better. I was willing to have your choice, you know I 
 was," said Nancy, in anxious self -vindication. 
 
 "Nonsense, child! you know you'd set your heart on 
 this; and reason good, for you're the colour o' cream. 
 
 ^ A bony piece of meat or a knee joint. 
 ' Maud-kin, the diminutive of Maud : at first a kitchen maid, 
 then a scarecrow. 
 
SILAS MAKNER 167 
 
 It 'ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit my 
 skin. What I find fault with, is that notion o' yours as 
 I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you 
 like with me — you always did, from when first you 
 begun to walk. If you wanted to go the field's length, 
 the field's length you'd go; and there was no whipping 
 you, for you looked as prim and innicent a& a daisy all 
 the while." 
 
 "Priscy," said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral 
 necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla's neck, 
 which was very far from being like her own, **I'm sure 
 I'm willing to give way as far as is right, but who 
 shouldn't dress alike if it isn't sisters? Would you have 
 us go about looking as if we were no kin to one another 
 — us that have got no mother and not another sister in 
 the world? I'd do what was right, if I dressed in a 
 gown dyed with cheese-colouring; and I'd rather you'd 
 choose, and let me wear what pleases you." 
 
 ''There you go again! You'd come round to the 
 same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till 
 Saturday morning. It'll be fine fun to see how you'll 
 master your husband and never raise your voice above 
 the singing o' the kettle all the while. I like to see the 
 men mastered!" 
 
 **Don't talk so, Priscy," said Nancy, blushing. 
 "You know I don't mean ever to be married." 
 
 **0h, you never mean a fiddlestick's end!" said 
 Priacilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed 
 her bandbox. ''Who shall / have to work for when 
 father's gone, if you are to go and take notions in your 
 head and be an old maid, because some folks are no 
 better than they should be? I haven't a bit o' patience 
 
168 SILAS MARNER 
 
 with you — sitting on an addled egg for ever, as if there 
 was never a fresh un in the world. One old maid's 
 enough out o' two sisters ; and I shall do credit to a 
 single life, for God A 'mighty meant me for it. Come, 
 we can go down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can be 
 — there's nothing awanting to frighten the crows, now 
 I've got my ear-droppers in." 
 
 As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large 
 parlour together, any one who did not know the chai*- 
 acter of both might certainly have supposed that the 
 reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured 
 Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty sister's, 
 was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the 
 malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off her 
 own rare beauty. But the good-natured self -forgetful 
 cheeriness and common-sense of Priscilla would soon 
 have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest calm 
 of Nancy's speech and manners told clearly of a mind 
 free from all disavowed devices. 
 
 Places of honour had been kept for the Miss Lam- 
 meters near the head of the principal tea-table in the 
 wainscoted parlour, now looking fresh and pleasant with 
 handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the 
 abundant growths of the old garden ; and Nancy felt an 
 inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could pre- 
 vent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead 
 her to a seat between himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, 
 while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between 
 her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some 
 difference to Nancy that the lover she had given up was 
 the young man of quite the highest consequence in the 
 parish — at home in a venerable and unique parlour, 
 
SILAS MARNER 169 
 
 which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, 
 a parlour where she might one day have been mistress, 
 with the consciousness that she was spoken of as 
 *' Madam Cass," the Squire's wife. These circum- 
 stances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes, and 
 deepened the emphasis with which she declared to her- 
 self that not the most'dazzling rank should induce her to 
 marry a man whose conduct showed him careless of his 
 character, but that, **love once, love always," was the 
 motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should 
 ever have any right over her which would be a call on 
 her to destroy the dried flowers that she treasured, and 
 always would treasure, for Godfrey Cass's sake. And 
 Nancy was capable of keeping her word to herself under 
 very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush 
 betrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves 
 upon her as she accepted the seat next to Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp ; for she was so instinctively neat and adroit in all 
 her actions, and her pretty lips met each other with such 
 quiet firmness, that it would have been difficult for her 
 to appear agitated. 
 
 It was not the Rector's practice to let a charming 
 blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He was 
 not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry- 
 eyed, small-featured, grey-haired man, with his chin 
 propped by an ample many- creased white neckcloth 
 which seemed to predominate over every other point in 
 his person, and somehow to impress its peculiar char- 
 acter on his remarks; so that to have considered his 
 amenities apart from his cravat would have been a 
 severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. 
 
 **Ha, Miss Nancy," he said, turning his head within 
 
170 SILAS MARNER 
 
 his cravat and smiling down pleasantly upon her, "when 
 anybody pretends this has been a severe winter, I shall 
 tell them I saw the roses blooming on New Year's Eve 
 — eh, Godfrey, what do you say?" 
 
 Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy 
 very markedly ; for though these complimentary person- 
 alities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fashioned 
 Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness of its own 
 which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But 
 the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey's showinr: 
 himself a dull spark in this way. By this advanced 
 hour of the day, the Squire was always in higher spirits 
 than we have seen him in at the breakfast-table, and 
 felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary duty of 
 being noisily jovial and patronising: the large silver 
 snuff-box was in active service and was offered without 
 fail to all neighbours from time to time, however often 
 they might have declined the favour. At present, the 
 Squire liad only given an express welcome to the heads 
 of families as they appeared; but always as the evening 
 deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he 
 had tapped the youngest guests on the back and shown 
 a peculiar fondness for theh presence, in the full belief 
 that they must feel their lives made happy by their 
 belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man 
 as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. 
 Even in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was nat- 
 ural that he should wish to supply his son's deficiencies 
 by looking and speaking for him. 
 
 "Ay, ay," he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. 
 Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and 
 waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, "us old 
 
SILAS MARNER 171 
 
 fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see 
 the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It's true, 
 most things are gone back'ard in these last thirty years 
 — the country's going down since the old king fell ill. 
 But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think 
 the lasses keep up their quality ; — ding me if I remem- 
 ber a sample to match her, not when I w^as a fine young 
 fellow, and thought a deal about my pigtail. No 
 offence to you, madam," he added, bending to Mrs. 
 Crackenthorp, who sat by him; "I didn't know you 
 when you were as young as Miss Nancy here." 
 
 Mrs. Crackenthorp — a small blinking woman, who 
 fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold 
 chain, turning her head about and making subdued 
 noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its 
 nose and soliloquises in all company indiscriminately — 
 now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, 
 *'0h no — no offence." 
 
 This emphatic compliment of the Squire's to Nancy 
 was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic 
 significance; and her father gave a slight additional 
 erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at her 
 with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior 
 was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming 
 elated at the notion of a match between his family and 
 the Squire's : he was gratified by any honour paid to his 
 daughter ; but he must see an alteration in several ways 
 before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but 
 healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked 
 as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong 
 contrast, not only with the Squire's, but with the 
 appearance of the Eaveloe farmers generally — in accord- 
 
172 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ance with a favourite saying of his own, that "breed was 
 stronger than pasture." 
 
 **Miss Nancy's wonderful like what her mother was, 
 though; isn't she, Kimble?" said the stout lady of that 
 name, looking round for her husband. 
 
 But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days 
 enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being a 
 thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his 
 hands in his pockets, making himself agi-eeable to his 
 feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being 
 welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right — 
 not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for 
 practice in strange neighbourhoods, and spend all their 
 income in starving their one horse, but a man of sub- 
 stance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of 
 his patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had 
 been a Kimble; Kimble was inherently a doctor's name; 
 and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melancholy 
 fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his 
 practice might one day be handed over to a successor 
 with the incongi'uous name of Taylor or Johnson. But 
 in that case the wiser people in Kaveloe would employ 
 Dr. Blick of Flitton — as less unnatural. '*Did you 
 speak to me, my dear?" said the authentic doctor, com- 
 ing quickly to his wife's side; but, as if foreseeing that 
 she would be too much out of breath to repeat her re- 
 mark, he went on immediately — "Ha, Miss Priscilla, 
 the sight of you revives the taste of that super-excellent 
 pork-pie. I hope the batch isn't near an end." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, it is, doctor," said Priscilla; "but I'll 
 answer for it the next shall be as gpod. My pork-pies 
 don't turn out well by chance." 
 
SILAS MARNER 173 
 
 *'Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble! — because 
 folks forget to take your physic, eh?" said the Squire, 
 who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal church- 
 men regard the church and the clergy — tasting a joke 
 against them when he was in health, but impatiently 
 eager for their aid when anything was the matter with 
 him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a 
 triumphant laugh. 
 
 **Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has," 
 said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a 
 lady .rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage 
 over him. **She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over 
 her talk — that's the reason why she never puts too much 
 into her pies. There's my wife, now, she never has an 
 answer at her tongue's end; but if I offend her, she's 
 sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the next 
 day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. 
 That's an awful tit-for-tat." Here the vivacious doctor 
 made a pathetic grimace. 
 
 **Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kinible, 
 laughing above her double chin with much good- 
 humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked 
 and nodded, and amiably intended to smile, but 
 the intention lost itself in small twitchings and 
 noises. 
 
 **I suppose that's the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in 
 your profession, Kimble, if you've a grudge against a 
 patient," said the rector. 
 
 * 'Never do have a grudge against our patients," said 
 Mr. Kimble, **except when they leave us: and then, 
 you see, we haven't the chance of prescribing for 'em. 
 Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skipping to 
 
174 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Nancy's side, "you won't forget your promise? You're 
 to save a dance for me, you know." 
 
 **Come, come, Kimble, don't you be too for'ard," said 
 the Squire. **Give the young uns fair-play. There's 
 my son Godfrey '11 be wanting to have a round with you 
 if you run off with Miss Nancy. He's bespoke her for 
 the first dance, I'll be bound. Eh, sir ! what do you 
 Bay?" he continued, throwing himself backward, and 
 looking at Godfrey. * 'Haven't you asked Miss Nancy 
 to open the dance with you?" 
 
 Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant 
 insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it 
 would end by the time his father had set his usual 
 hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, 
 saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with 
 as little awkwardness as possible — 
 
 **No; I've not asked her yet, but I hope she'll con- 
 sent — if somebody else hasn't been before me." 
 
 '*No, I've not engaged myself," said Nancy, quietly, 
 though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any 
 hopes on her consenting to dance with bim, he would 
 soon be undeceived ; but there was no need for her to be 
 uncivil.) 
 
 "Then I hope you've no objections to dancing with 
 me," said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that 
 there was anything uncomfortable in this arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 **No, no objections," said Nancy, in a cold tone. 
 
 **Ah, well, you're a lucky fellow, Godfrey," said 
 uncle Kimble; "bnt you're my godson, so I won't stand 
 in your way. Else I'm not so very old, eh, my dear ? " 
 he went on, skipping to his wife's side again. "You 
 
SILAS MARNER 175 
 
 wouldn't mind my having a second after you were gone 
 — not if I cried a good deal first?" 
 
 "Come, come, take a cup o' tea and stop your tongue^ 
 do," said good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some 
 pride in a husband who must be regarded as so clever 
 and amusing by the company generally. If he had only 
 not been irritable at cards ! 
 
 While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening 
 the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching 
 within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, 
 made the young people look at each other with sympa- 
 thetic impatience for the end of the meal. 
 
 "Why, there's Solomon in the hall," said the Squire, 
 "and playing my fav 'rite tune, /believe — 'The flaxen- 
 headed ploughboy' — he's for giving us a hint as we 
 aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob," he 
 called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the 
 other end of the room, "open the door, and tell Solomon 
 to come in. He shall give us a tune here." 
 
 Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling aa he 
 walked, for he would on no account break off in the 
 middle of a tune. 
 
 "Here, Solomon," said the Squire, with loud 
 patronage. "Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it 
 was 'The flaxen-headed ploughboy': there's no finer 
 tune." 
 
 Solomon Macey, a small hale old man, with an abun- 
 dant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his 
 shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing 
 reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he 
 respected the company though he respected the key-note 
 more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered 
 
176 SILAS MARNER 
 
 his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the Rector, 
 and said, "I hope I see your honour and your reverence 
 well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy 
 New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lam- 
 meter, sir ; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, 
 and the young lasses." 
 
 As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all 
 directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due 
 respect. But thereupon he immediately began to pre- 
 lude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be 
 taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. 
 
 **Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye," said Mr. Lammeter 
 when the fiddle paused again. *' That's 'Over the hills 
 and far away,' that is. My father used to say to me, 
 whenever we heard that tune, 'Ah, lad, / come from 
 over the hills and far away.' There's a many tunes I 
 don't make head or tail of ; but that speaks to me like 
 the blackbird's whistle. I suppose it's the name: 
 there's a deal in the name of a tune." 
 
 But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, 
 and presently broke with much spirit into "Sir Roger 
 de Coverley, " at which there was a sound of chairs 
 pushed back, and laughing voices. 
 
 "Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means," 
 said the Squire, rising. "It's time to begin the 
 dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we'll all follow 
 you." 
 
 So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and 
 playing vigorously, marched forward at the head of the 
 gay procession into the White Parlour, where the mistle- 
 toe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles 
 made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the 
 
SILAS MARNER 177 
 
 berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned 
 oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wain- 
 scot. A quaint procession! Old Solomon, in his seedy 
 clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that 
 decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle — lur- 
 ing discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. 
 Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose perpendic- 
 ular feather was on a level with the Squire's shoulder — 
 luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short 
 waists and skirts blameless of front-folds — ^luring burly 
 fathers in large variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, 
 for the most part shy and sheepish, in short nether gar- 
 ments and very long coat-tails. 
 
 Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged vil- 
 lagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great 
 occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near 
 t*he door ; and great was the admiration and satisfaction 
 in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves 
 for the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Cracken- 
 thorp, joining hands with the Rector and Mrs. Osgood. 
 That was as it should be — that was what everybody had 
 been used to — and the charter of Eaveloe seemed to be 
 renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an 
 unbecoming levity for the old and middle-aged people 
 to dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather 
 as part of their social duties. For what were these if 
 not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging 
 visits and poultry with due frequency, paying each other 
 old-established compliments in sound traditional phrases, 
 passing well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to 
 eat and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating 
 and drinking too much in your neighbour's house to 
 
178 SILAS MARNER 
 
 show that you liked your cheer? And the parson 
 naturally set an example in these social duties. For it 
 would not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, 
 without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman 
 should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead 
 of a reasonably faulty man whose exclusive authority to 
 read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury 
 you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you the 
 ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind ;* on 
 which last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, 
 but not to the extent of irreligion — not of deeper sig- 
 nificance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by 
 no means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, 
 but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might 
 be read forthwith. 
 
 There was no reason, then, why the rector's dancing 
 should not be received as part of the fitness of things 
 quite as much as the Squire's, or why, on the other 
 hand, Mr. Macey's official respect should restrain him 
 from subjecting the parson's performance to that 
 criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness 
 must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible 
 fellow-men. 
 
 *'The Squire's pretty springe,* considering his 
 weight," said Mr. Macey, *'and he stamps uncommon 
 well. But Mr. Lammeter beats 'em all for shapes : you 
 see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn't so 
 cushiony as most o' the oldish gentlefolks — they run fat 
 in general; and lie's got a fine leg. The parson's 
 nimble enough, but he hasn't got much of a leg: it's a 
 
 ^ To receive in merchandise the tenth due the church. 
 ^ A provincialism for "active." 
 
SILAS MARNER 179 
 
 bit too thick down'ard, and his knees might be a bit 
 nearer wi'oiit damage; but he might do worse, he might 
 do worse. Though he hasn't that grand way o' waving 
 his hand as the Squire has." 
 
 **Talk o' nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood," said Ben 
 Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between his 
 knees. "She trips along with her little steps, so as 
 nobody can see how she goes — it's like as if she had 
 little wheels to her feet. She doesn't look a day older 
 nor last year: she's the finest-made woman as is, let the 
 next be where she will." 
 
 **I don't heed how the women are made," said Mr. 
 Macey, with some contempt. **They wear nayther coat 
 nor breeches : you can't make much out o' their shapes. *' 
 
 *'Fayder," said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating 
 out the tune, *'how does that big cock's -feather stick in 
 Mrs. Crack enthorp's yead? Is there a little hole for it, 
 like in my shuttle-cock?" 
 
 '*Hush, lad, hush; that's the way the ladies dress 
 theirselves, that is," said the father, adding, however, 
 in an under-tone to Mr. Macey, *'It does make her 
 look funny, though — partly like a short-necked bottle 
 wi' a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there's the young 
 Squire leading off now, wi' Miss Nancy for partners! 
 There's a lass for you! — ^like a pink-and-white posy — 
 there's nobody 'ud think as anybody could be so pritty. 
 I shouldn't wonder if she's Madam Cass some day, arter 
 all — and nobody more rightfuller, for they'd make a fine 
 match. You can find nothing against Master Godfrey's 
 shapes, Macey, /'ll bet a penny." 
 
 Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head 
 further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a 
 
180 SILAS MARNER 
 
 presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the 
 dance. At last he summed up his opinion. 
 
 ** Pretty well down-ard, but a bit too round i' the 
 shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets from 
 the Flitton tailor, they're a poor cut to pay double 
 money for." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks," said 
 Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. "When I've 
 got a pot o' good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my 
 inside good, i'stead o' smelling and staring at it to see if 
 I can't find faut wi' the brewing. I should like you to 
 pick me out a finer -limbed young fellow nor Master 
 Godfrey — one as 'ud knock you down easier, or 's more 
 pleasanter looksed when he's piert and merry." 
 
 "Tchuh!" said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased 
 severity, "he isn't come to his right color yet: he's 
 partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he's got a 
 soft place in his head, else why should he be turned 
 round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody's seen 
 o' late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was 
 the talk o' the country? And one while he was allays 
 after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a 
 smell o' hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn't my 
 way when /went a-coorting." 
 
 "Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off like, and your 
 lass didn't," said Ben. 
 
 "I should say she didn't," said Mr. Macey, signifi- 
 cantly. "Before I said 'sniff,' I took care to know as 
 she'd say 'snaff,' and pretty quick too. I wasn't a- 
 going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it 
 to again, wi' nothing to swaller." 
 
 "Well, I think Miss Nancy's a-coming round again," 
 
SILAS MARNER 181 
 
 said Ben, "for Master Godfrey doesn't look so doAvn- 
 hearted to-night. And I see lie's for taking her away to 
 sit down, now they're at the end o' the dance: that 
 looks like sweethearting, that does." 
 
 The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the 
 dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close 
 press of couples a slight accident had happened to 
 Nancy's dress, which, while it was short enough to show 
 her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be 
 caught under the stately stamp of the Squire's foot, so 
 as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and cause much 
 sisterly agitation in Priscilla's mind, as well as serious 
 concern in Nancy's. One's thoughts may be much 
 occupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be 
 insensible to a disorder in the general framework of 
 things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty in 
 the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, 
 with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till 
 Priscilla could come to her ; for the sisters had already 
 exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed glance full 
 of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have 
 prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of 
 sitting apart with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling 
 so happy and oblivious under the long charm of the 
 country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold on 
 the strength of her confusion, and was capable of lead- 
 ing her straight away, without leave asked, into the 
 adjoining small parlour, where the card-tables were 
 set. 
 
 *'0 no, thank you," said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she 
 perceived where he was going, "not in there. I'll wait 
 here till Priscilla's ready to come to me. I'm sorry to 
 
182 SILAS MARNER 
 
 bring you out of the dance and make myself trouble- 
 some." 
 
 "Why, you'll be more comfortable here by yourself," 
 said the artful Godfrey: "I'll leave you here till your 
 sister can come." He spoke in an indifferent tone. 
 
 That was an agreeable proposition, and just what 
 Nancy desired; why, then, was she a little hurt that 
 Mr. Godfrey should make it? They entered, and she 
 seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, 
 as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she 
 could choose. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," she said immediately. "I needn't 
 give you any more trouble. I'm sorry you've had such 
 an unlucky partner." 
 
 "That's very ill-natured of you," said Godfrey, stand- 
 ing by her without any sign of intended departure, "to 
 be sorry you've danced with me." 
 
 "Oh no, sir, I don't mean to say what's ill-natured at 
 all," said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. 
 "When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one dance 
 can matter but very little." 
 
 "You know that isn't true. You know one dance 
 with you matters more to me than all the other pleasures 
 in the world. ' ' 
 
 It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said any- 
 thing so direct as that, and Nancy was startled. But 
 her instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show of 
 emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw a 
 little more decision into her voice, as she said — 
 
 "No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that's not known to me, 
 and I have very good reasons for thinking different. 
 But if it's true, I don't wish to hear it." 
 
SILAS MARXER 183 
 
 *' Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy — never 
 think well of me, let what would happen — would you 
 never think the present made amends for the past? 
 Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything 
 you didn't like?" 
 
 Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportu- 
 nity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him beside 
 himself ; but blind feeling had got the mastery of his 
 tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the possi- 
 bility Godfrey's words suggested, but this very pressure 
 of emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong 
 for her roused all her power of self-command. 
 
 **I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, 
 Mr. Godfrey," she answered, with the slightest discern- 
 ible difference of tone, "but it 'ud be better if no change 
 was wanted." 
 
 "You're very hard-hearted, Naucy," said Godfrey, 
 pettishly, "You might encourage me to be a better 
 fellow. I'm very miserable — but you've no feeling." 
 
 "I think those have the least feeling that act wrong 
 to begin with," said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite 
 of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, 
 and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel 
 with him ; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. 
 But she was not indifferent to him yet. 
 
 The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, 
 "Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown," cut 
 off Godfrey's hopes of a quarrel. 
 
 "I suppose I must go now," he said to Priscilla. 
 
 "It's no matter to me whether you go or stay," said 
 that frank lady, searching for something in her pocket, 
 with a preoccupied brow. 
 
184 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *'Do you want me to go?" said Godfrey, looking at 
 Nancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla's order. 
 
 "As you like," said Nancy, trying to recover all her 
 former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem 
 of her gown. 
 
 "Then I like to stay," said Godfrey, with a reckless 
 determination to get as much of this joy as he could 
 to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forget- 
 fulness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly 
 losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other 
 moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irrita- 
 tion with the very sunshine, Godfrey's wife was walking 
 with slow uncertain steps through the snow-covered 
 Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. 
 
 This journey on New Year's Eve was a premeditated 
 act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever 
 since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would 
 sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There 
 would be a great party at the Red House on New Year's 
 Eve, she knew: her husband would be smiling and 
 smiled upon, hiding her existence in the darkest corner 
 of his heart. But she would mar his pleasure: she 
 would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once 
 as handsome as the best, with her little child that had 
 its father's hair and eyes, and disclose herself to the 
 Squire as his eldest son's wife. It is seldom that the 
 miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong 
 inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew 
 that the cause of her dingy rags was not her husband's 
 neglect, but the demon Opium to whom she was 
 enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering mother's 
 tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. 
 She knew this well; and yet, in the moments of 
 
 185 
 
188 SILAS MARNER 
 
 wretched unbenumbed consciousness, the sense of 
 her want and degradation transformed itself continually 
 into bitterness towards Godfrey. He was \roll off ; and 
 if she had her rights she would be well off too. The 
 belief that he repented his marriage, and suffered from 
 it, only aggravated her vindictiveness. Just and self- 
 reproving thoughts do not come to us too thickly, even 
 in the purest air and with the best lessons of heaven and 
 earth; how should those white-winged delicate messen- 
 gers make their way to Molly's poisoned chamber, 
 inhabited by no higher memories than those of a bar- 
 maid's paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen's jokes? 
 She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on 
 the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that if 
 she waited under a warm shed the snow would cease to 
 fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and now 
 that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden rug- 
 gedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a vin- 
 dictive purpose could not keep her spirit from failing. 
 It was seven o'clock, and by this time she was not very 
 far from Kaveloe, but she was not familiar enough with 
 those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to 
 her journey's end. She needed comfort, and she knew 
 but one comforter — the familiar demon in her bosom ; 
 but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black 
 remnant, before she raised it to her lips. In that mo- 
 ment the mother's love pleaded for painful consciousness 
 rather than oblivion — pleaded to be left in aching weari- 
 ness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed 
 80 that they could not feel the dear burden. In another 
 moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not 
 the black remnant — it was an empty phial. And she 
 
SILAS MARNER 187 
 
 walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which 
 there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled 
 star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snow- 
 ing had ceased. But she walked always more and more 
 drowsily, and clutched more and more automatically the 
 sleeping child at her bosom. 
 
 Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and 
 weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing but 
 a supreme immediate longing that curtained off all 
 futurity — the longing to lie down and sleep. She had 
 arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer 
 checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, 
 unable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the 
 wide whiteness around her, and the growing starlight. 
 She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy 
 pillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She 
 did not feel that the bed was cold, and did not heed 
 whether the child would wake and cry for her. But 
 her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive clutch ; 
 and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had 
 been rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. 
 
 But the complete torpor came at last : the fingers lost 
 their tension, the arms unbent ; then the little head fell 
 away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on 
 the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry 
 of "mammy," and an effort to regain the pillowing arm 
 and bosom; but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow 
 seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as 
 the child rolled downward on its mother's knees, all wet 
 with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing 
 light on the white ground, and, with the ready transi- 
 tion of infancv. it was immediately absorbed in watching 
 
188 SILAS MARNER 
 
 the bright living thing running towards it, yet never 
 arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; 
 and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and 
 held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the 
 gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the 
 head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came 
 from. It came from a very bright place ; and the little 
 one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the 
 old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind 
 it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back — 
 toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner's cottage, 
 and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a 
 bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly 
 warmed the old sack (Silas's greatcoat) spread out on 
 the bricks to dry. The little one, accustomed to be left 
 to itself for long hours without notice from its mother, 
 squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands 
 towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and 
 making many inai'ticulate communications to the cheer- 
 ful fire, like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find 
 itself comfortable. But presently the warmth had a 
 lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on 
 the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their 
 delicate half -transparent lids. 
 
 But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor 
 had come to his heai'th? He was in the cottage, but he 
 did not see the child. During the last few weeks, since 
 he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of 
 opening his door and looking out from time to time, as 
 if he thought that his money might be somehow coming 
 back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might 
 be mysteriously on the road, and be caught by the lis- 
 
SILAS MARNER 189 
 
 tening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at night, 
 when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into 
 this repetition of an act for which he could have assigned 
 no definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood 
 except by those who have undergone a bewildering sepa- 
 ration from a supremely loved object. In the evening 
 twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, 
 Silas looked out on that narrow prospect round the 
 Stone-pits, listening and gazing, not with hope, but with 
 mere yearning and unrest. 
 
 This morning he had been told by some of his neigh- 
 bours that it was New Year's Eve, and that he must sit 
 up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, 
 because that was good luck, and might bring his money 
 back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of 
 jesting with the half -crazy oddities of a miser, but it 
 had perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than 
 usually excited state. Since the on-coming of twilight 
 he had opened his door again and again, though only to 
 shut it immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the 
 falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow 
 had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. 
 He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while — there 
 was really something on the road coming towards him 
 then, but he caught no sign of it ; and the stillness and 
 the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his solitude, 
 and touched his yearning with the chill of despair. He 
 went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of 
 the door to close it — but he did not close it : he was 
 arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the 
 invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven 
 image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his 
 
190 SILAS MARNER 
 
 door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that 
 might enter there. 
 
 When Mai'ner's sensibility returned, he continued the 
 action which had been arrested, and closed his door, 
 unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of 
 any intermediate change, except that the light had 
 grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He 
 thought he had been too long standing at the door and 
 looking out. Turning towards the hearth, where the 
 two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a red 
 uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside 
 chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, 
 to his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold on 
 the floor in front of the hearth. Gold! — his own gold — 
 brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been 
 taken away ! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, 
 and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his 
 hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of 
 gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his agitated 
 gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched forth 
 his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar 
 resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm 
 curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and 
 bent his head low to examine the marvel : it was a sleep- 
 ing child — a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all 
 over its head. Could this be his little sister come back 
 to him in a dream — his little sister whom he had carried 
 about in his arms for a year before she died, when he 
 was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was 
 the first thought that darted across Silas's blank wonder- 
 ment. Was it a dream? He rose to his feet again, 
 pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried 
 
SILAS MARNER 191 
 
 leaTes and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame did not 
 disperse the vision — it only lit up more distinctly the 
 little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. 
 It was very much like his little sister. Silas sank into 
 his chair powerless, under the double presence of an 
 inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. 
 How and when had the child come in without his knowl- 
 edge? He had never been beyond the door. But along 
 with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there 
 was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading 
 to Lantern Yard — and within that vision another, of the 
 thoughts which had been present with him in those far- 
 off scenes. The thoughts were strange to him now, like 
 old friendships impossible to revive ; and yet he had a 
 dreamy feeling that this child was somehow a message 
 come to him from that far-off life: it stirred fibres 
 that had never been moved in Eaveloe — old quiver- 
 ings of tenderness — old impressions of awe at the 
 presentiment of some Power presiding over his life; 
 for his imagination had not yet extricated itself from 
 the sense of mystery in the child's sudden presence, 
 and had formed no conjectures of ordinary natural 
 means by which the event could have been brought 
 about. 
 
 But there was a cry on the hearth: the child hac^ 
 awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It 
 clung round his neck, and bm-st louder and louder into 
 that mingling of inarticulate cries with "mammy" by 
 which little children express the bewilderment of wak- 
 ing. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously 
 uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he bethought 
 himself that some of his porridge, which had got cool by 
 
192 SILAS MARNER 
 
 the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it were 
 only warmed up a little. 
 
 He had plenty to do through the next hour. The 
 porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an 
 old store which he had refrained from using for himself, 
 stopped the cries of the little one, and made her lift her 
 blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the 
 spoon into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his 
 knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty stag- 
 ger that made Silas jump up and follow her lest she 
 should fall against anything that would hurt her. But 
 she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and 
 began to pull at her boots, looking up at him with a cry- 
 ing face as if the boots hurt her. He took her on his 
 knee again, but it was some time before it occurred to 
 Silas's dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the 
 grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them 
 off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied 
 with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, 
 with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too. But 
 the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the 
 child had been walking on the snow, and this roused 
 him from his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by 
 which it could have entered or been brought into his 
 house. Under the prompting of this new idea, and 
 without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child 
 in his arms, and went to the door. As soon as he had 
 opened it, there was the cry of "mammy" again, which 
 Silas had not heard since the child's first hungry wak- 
 ing. Bending forward, he could just discern the marks 
 made by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he fol- 
 lowed their track to the furze bushes. * 'Mammy!" the 
 
SILAS MARNER 193 
 
 little one cried again and again, stretching itself forward 
 so as almost to escape from Silas's arms, before he him- 
 self was aware that there was something more than the 
 bush before him — that there was a human body, with 
 the head sunk low in the furze, and half -covered with 
 the shaken snow. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 It was after the early supper- time at the Red House, 
 and the entertainment was in that stage when bashful- 
 ness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, 
 conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length 
 be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the 
 Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and 
 patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at the whist- 
 table — a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, 
 being always volatile in sober business hours, became 
 intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before 
 his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned 
 up a mean trump -card with an air of inexpressible dis- 
 gust, as if in a world where such things could happen 
 one might as well enter on a course of reckless profli- 
 gacy. When the evening had advanced to this pitch of 
 freedom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, 
 the heavy duties of supper being well over, to get their 
 share of amusement by coming to look on at the danc- 
 ing ; so that the back regions of the house were left in 
 solitude. 
 
 There were two doors by which the White Parlour 
 was entered from the hall, and they were both standing 
 open for the sake of au' ; but the lower one was crowded 
 with the servants and villagers, and only the upper door- 
 way was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, 
 and his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he 
 
 J94 
 
SILAS MARNER 195 
 
 repeatedly declared to be just like himself in his young 
 days in a tone that implied this to be the very highest 
 stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who 
 had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far 
 from the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way 
 off, not to admire his brother's dancing, but to keep 
 sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her 
 father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid 
 suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire's fatherly 
 jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy 
 Lammeter's beauty, which were likely to become more 
 and more explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing 
 with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and 
 in the meanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances- 
 at her quite unobserved. 
 
 But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of 
 those long glances, they encountered an object as stai • 
 tling to him at that moment as if it had been an appa 
 rition from the dead. It tvas an apparition from that 
 hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the 
 goodly ornamented fa<jade that meets the sunlight and 
 the gaze of respectable admhers. It was his own child 
 carried in Silas Marner's arms. That was his instantane- 
 ous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had 
 not seen the child for months past ; and when the hope 
 was rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. 
 Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced 
 to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. God- 
 frey joined them immediately, unable to rest without 
 hearing every word — trying to control himself, but con- 
 scious that if any one noticed him, they must see that 
 he was white-lipped and trembling. 
 
196 SILAS MARNER 
 
 But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on 
 Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and asked 
 angrily, "How's this? — wfiat's this? — what do you do 
 coming in here in this way?" 
 
 "I'm come for the doctor — I want the doctor," 
 Silas had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Marner?" said the rector. 
 "The doctor's here; but say quietly what you want 
 him for." 
 
 "It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half- 
 breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I 
 think — dead in the snow at the Stone-pits — not far 
 from my door." 
 
 Godfrey felt a great throb : there was one terror in 
 his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman 
 might not be dead. That was an evil terror — an ugly 
 inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey's 
 kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from 
 evil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on 
 duplicity. 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out 
 into the hall there. I'll fetch the doctor to you. 
 Found a woman in the snow — and thinks she's dead," 
 he added, speaking low, to the squire. "Better say as 
 little about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. 
 Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and 
 hunger. I'll go and fetch Kimble. " 
 
 By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, 
 curious to know what could have brought the solitary 
 linen -weaver there under such strange circumstances, 
 and interested in the pretty child, who, half alarmed 
 
SILAS MARNER 197 
 
 and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous 
 company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up 
 her head again and looked round placably, until a touch 
 or a coaxing word brought back the frown, and made 
 her bury her face with new determination. 
 
 "What child is it?" said several ladies at once, and, 
 among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. 
 
 *'I don't know — some poor woman's who has been 
 found in the snow, I believe," was the answer Godfrey 
 wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (*' After all, 
 am I certain?" he hastened to add, in anticipation of 
 his own conscience.) 
 
 *'Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, 
 Master Marner," said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, 
 hesitating, however, to take those dingy clothes into 
 contact with her own ornamented satin boddice. *'I'll 
 tell one o' the girls to fetch it." 
 
 **No — no — I can't part with it,^ I can't let it go," 
 said Silas, abruptly. ''It's come to me — I've a right 
 to keep it." 
 
 The proposition to take the child from him had come 
 to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered 
 under a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a 
 revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no dis- 
 tinct intention about the child. 
 
 "Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kimble, in 
 mild surprise, to her neighbour. 
 
 "Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside," 
 said Mr. Kimble, coming from the card-room, in some 
 bitterness at the interruption, but drilled by the long 
 
 ' Note how eagerly the empty soul of Silas clings to an 
 object of affection. 
 
198 SILAS MARNER 
 
 habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant 
 calls, even when he was hardly sober. 
 
 ''It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kim- 
 ble?'"' said the Squire. "He might ha' gone for 
 your young fellow — ^the 'prentice, there — what's his 
 name?" 
 
 "Might? ay — what's the use of talking about 
 might?" growled uncle Kimble, hastening out with 
 Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and God- 
 frey. "Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? 
 And stay, let somebody run to Winthrop's and fetch 
 Dolly — she's the best woman to get. Ben was here 
 himself before supper; is he gone?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; "but I couldn't 
 stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for 
 the doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire's. 
 And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to be 
 seen at the back o' the house, and so I went in to 
 where the company was." 
 
 The child, no longer distracted by the bright light 
 and the smiling women's faces, began to cry and call 
 for "mammy," though always clinging to Marner, who 
 had apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey 
 had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if 
 some fibre were drawn tight within him. 
 
 "I'll go," he said, hastily, eager for some movement; 
 "I'll go and fetch the woman — Mrs. Winthrop." 
 
 "0, pooh — send somebody else," said uncle Kimble, 
 hurrying away with Marner. 
 
 "You'll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble," 
 said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of 
 hearing. 
 
SILAS MARNER 199 
 
 Godfrey, too, had disappeared : he was gone to snatch 
 his hat and coat, having just reflection enough to 
 remember that he must not look like a madman; but he 
 rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding 
 his thin shoes. 
 
 In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the 
 Stone-pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeling 
 that she was entirely in her place in encountering cold 
 and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
 at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a 
 like impulse. 
 
 "You'd a deal better go back, sir,'' said Dolly, with 
 respectful compassion. *' You've no call to catch cold ; 
 and I'd ask you if you'd be so good as tell my hus- 
 band to come, on your way back — he's at the Rainbow, 
 I doubt — if you found him anyway sober enough to be 
 o' use. Or else, there's ^Irs. Snell 'ud happen send the 
 boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be things 
 wanted from the doctor's." 
 
 *'No, I'll stay, now I'm once out — I'll stay outside 
 here," said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner's 
 cottage. "You can come and tell me if I can do any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," 
 said Dolly, going to the door. 
 
 Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a 
 twinge of self-reproach at this undeserved praise. He 
 walked up and down, unconscious that he was plunging 
 ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
 trembling suspense about what was going on in the cot- 
 tage, and the effect of each alternative on his future lot. 
 ^0, not quite unconscious of everything else. Deeper 
 
200 SILAS MARNER 
 
 down, and half-smothered by passionate desire and 
 dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting 
 on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the conse- 
 quences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil 
 the claims of the helpless child. But he had not moral 
 courage enough to contemplate that active renunciation 
 of Nancy as possible for him : he had only conscience 
 and heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under 
 the weakness that forbade the renunciation. And at 
 this moment his mind leaped away from all restraint 
 toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his 
 long bondage. 
 
 *'Is she dead?" said the voice that predominated over 
 every other within him. "If she is, I may marry 
 Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in future, and 
 have no secrets, and the child — shall be taken care of 
 somehow." But across that vision came the other 
 possibility — *'She may live, and then it's all up with 
 me." 
 
 Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door 
 of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He 
 went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress 
 the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to 
 hear. 
 
 "I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, 
 speaking first. 
 
 "Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why 
 didn't you send one of the men? There's nothing to be 
 done. She's dead — has been dead for hours, I should 
 say." 
 
 "What sort of woman is she?" said Godfrey, feeling 
 the blood rush to his face. 
 
SILAS MARNER 201 
 
 ''A young woman, but emaciated, with long black 
 hair. Some vagrant — quite in rags. She's got a wed- 
 ding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away to 
 the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.'' 
 
 **I want to look at her," said Godfrey. *'I think I 
 saw such a woman yesterday. I'll overtake you in a 
 minute or two." 
 
 Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the 
 cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face on 
 the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care ; 
 but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated 
 wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line 
 in the worn face was present to him when he told the 
 full story of this night. 
 
 He turned immediately towards the hearth, where 
 Silas Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly 
 quiet now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet por- 
 ridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which 
 makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, 
 feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such 
 as we feel before some quiet majesty or beauty in the 
 earth or sky — before a steady glowing planet, or a full- 
 flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent 
 pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at God- 
 frey's without any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the 
 child could make no visible audible claim on its father ; 
 and the father felt a strange mixture of feelings, a con- 
 flict of regret and joy, that the pulse of that little heart 
 had no response for the half-jealous yearning in his 
 own, when the blue eyes turned away from him slowly, 
 and fixed themselves on the weaver's queer face, which 
 was bent low down to look at them, while the small 
 
202 SILAS ]JIARNER 
 
 hand began to pull Marner's withered cheek with loving 
 disfiguration. 
 
 ** You'll take the child to the parish to-morrow?" 
 asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he couldc 
 ' "Who says so?" said Marner, sharply. "Will they 
 make me take her?" 
 
 *'Why, you wouldn't like to keep her, should you — an 
 old bachelor like you?" 
 
 "Till anybody shows they've a right to take her 
 away from me," said Marner. "The mother's dead, 
 and I reckon it's got no father: it's a lone thing — and 
 I'm a lone thing. My money's gone, I don't know 
 where — and this is come from I don't know where. I 
 know nothing — I'm partly mazed." 
 
 "Poor little thing!" said Godfrey. "Let me give 
 something towards finding it clothes." 
 
 He had put his hand in his pocket and found half- 
 a-guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried 
 out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. 
 
 "Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, 
 as he came up. "It's a pretty little child: the old fel- 
 low seems to want to keep it; that's strange for a miser 
 like him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out : the 
 parish isn't likely to quarrel with him for the right to 
 keep the child." 
 
 "No; but Pve seen the time when I might have 
 quarrelled with him for it myself. It's too late now, 
 though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt's too 
 fat to overtake it : she could only sit and grunt like an 
 alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to 
 come oat in your dancing shoes and stockings in this 
 way — and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at 
 
SILAS MARNER 203 
 
 your own house ! What do you mean by such freaks, 
 young fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you 
 want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?" 
 
 "0, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I 
 was tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that 
 bother about the hornpipes. And I'd got to dance with 
 the other Miss Gunn," said Godfrey, glad of the subter- 
 fuge his uncle had suggested to him. 
 
 The prevarication and white lies which a mind that 
 keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a 
 great artist under the false touches that no eye detects 
 but his own, ai'e worn as lightly as mere trimmings 
 when once the actions have become a lie. 
 
 Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry 
 feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of 
 relief and gladness that was too strong for painful 
 thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture 
 now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest 
 things to Nancy Lammeter — to promise her and him- 
 self that he would always be just what she would desire 
 to see him? There was no danger that his dead wife 
 would be recognised: those were not days of active 
 inquiry and wide report ; and as for the registry of their 
 marriage, that was a long way off, buried in unturned 
 pages, away from every one's interest but his own. 
 Dunsey might betray him if he came back ; but Dansey 
 might be won to silence. 
 
 And when events turn out so much better for a man 
 than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that 
 his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than 
 it might otherwise have appeared? When we are treated 
 well, we naturally begin to think that we are not alto- 
 
204 SILAS MARNER 
 
 gether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should 
 treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. 
 Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the 
 past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happi- 
 ness? — nay, hers? for he felt some confidence that she 
 loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was 
 cared for : he would never forsake it ; he would do every- 
 thing but own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy in 
 life without being owned by its father, seeing that 
 nobody could tell how things would turn out, and that 
 — is there any other reason wanted? — well, then, that 
 the father would be much happier without owning the 
 child. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Theee was a pauper's burial that week in Raveloe, 
 and up Kencli Yard at Batherley it was known that the 
 dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had lately 
 come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was 
 all the express note taken that Molly had disappeared 
 from the eyes of men. But the unwept death which, to 
 the general lot, seemed as trivial as the summer-shed 
 leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain 
 human lives that we know of, shaping their joys and 
 sorrows even to the end. 
 
 Silas Marner's determination to keep the *' tramp's 
 child" was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated 
 talk in the village than the robbery of his money. That 
 softening of feeling towards him which dated from his 
 misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a 
 rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was 
 now accompanied with a more active sympathy, espe- 
 cially amongst the women. Notable mothers, who knew 
 what it was to keep children "whole and sweet;" lazy 
 mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted in 
 folding their arms and scratching their elbows by the 
 mischievous propensities of children just firm on their 
 legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone 
 man would manage with a two-year-old child on his 
 hands, and were equally ready with their suggestions : 
 the notable chiefly telling him what he had better do, 
 
 205 
 
206 SILAS MARNER 
 
 and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he 
 •would never be able to do. 
 
 Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the 
 one whose neighbourly offices were the most acceptable 
 to Marner, for they were rendered without any show of 
 bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the half- 
 guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her 
 what he should do about getting some clothes for the 
 child. 
 
 *'Eh, Master Marner," said Dolly, ^'there's no call to 
 buy, no more nor a pair o' shoes ; for I've got the little 
 petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it's ill 
 spending the money on them baby-clothes, for the child 
 'nil grow like grass i' May, bless it — that it will." 
 
 And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and dis- 
 played to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their 
 due order of succession, most of them patched and 
 darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This 
 was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and 
 water, from which baby came out in new beauty, and sat 
 on Dolly's knee, handling her toes and chuckling and 
 patting her palms together with an air of having made 
 several discoveries about herself, which she communi- 
 cated by alternate sounds of *'gug-gug-gug," and 
 ''mammy." The "mammy" was not a cry of need or 
 uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without 
 expecting either tender sound or touch to follow. 
 
 "Anybody 'ud think the angils in heaven couldn't be 
 prettier," said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kiss- 
 ing them. "And to think of its being covered wi' them 
 dirty rags — and the poor mother — ^f roze to death ; but 
 there's Them as took care of it, and brought it to your 
 
SILAS MARNER 207 
 
 door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it 
 walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little 
 starved robin. Didn't yon say the door was open?" 
 
 *'Yes," said Silas, meditatively. "Yes — the door 
 was open. The money's gone I don't know where, and 
 this is come from I don't know where." 
 
 He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness 
 of the child's entrance, slu-inking from questions which 
 might lead to the fact he himself suspected — namely, 
 that he had been in one of his trances. 
 
 *'Ah," said Dolly, with soothing gravity, "it's like 
 the night and morning, and the sleeping and the wak- 
 ing, and the rain and the harvest — one goes and the 
 other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. 
 We may strive and scrat and fend, but it's little we can 
 do arter all — the big things come and go wi' no striv- 
 ing o' our'n — they do, that they do; and I think you're 
 in the right on it to keep the little un. Master Marner, 
 seeing as it's been sent to you, though there's folks as 
 thinks different. You'll happen be a bit moithered 
 with it while it's so little; but I'll come, and welcome, 
 and see to it for you: I've a bit o' time to spare most 
 days, for when one gets up betimes i' the morning, the 
 clock seems to stan' still tow'rt ten, afore it's time to go 
 about the victual. So, as I say, I'll come and see to the 
 child for you, and welcome." 
 
 "Thank yon . . . kindly," said Silas, hesitating 
 a little. "I'll be glad if you'll tell me things. But," 
 he added, uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with 
 some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward 
 against Dolly's arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a 
 distance — "But I want to do things for it myself, else it 
 
208 SILAS MARNER 
 
 may get fond o' somebody else, and not fond o' me. 
 I've been used to fending for myself in the house — I can 
 learn, I can learn." 
 
 *'Eli, to be sure," said Dolly, gently. "I've seen 
 men as are wonderful handy wi' children. The men are 
 awk'ard and contrairy mostly, God help 'em — but when 
 the drink's out of 'em, they aren't unsensible, though 
 they're bad for leeching and bandaging — so fiery and 
 unpatient. You see this goes first, next the skin," pro- 
 ceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting it 
 on. 
 
 **Yes," said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very 
 close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; 
 whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small 
 arms, and put her lips against his face with purring 
 noises. 
 
 "See there," said Dolly, with a woman's tender tact, 
 "she's fondest o' you. She wants to go o' your lap, I'll 
 be bound. Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you 
 can put the things on, and then you can say as you've 
 done for her from the first of her coming to you." 
 
 Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emo- 
 tion mysterious to himself, at something unknown 
 dawning on his life. Thought and feeling were so con- 
 fused within him, that if he had tried to give them 
 utterance, he could only have said that the child was 
 come instead of the gold — that the gold had turned into 
 the child. He took the garments from Dolly, and put 
 them on under her teaching ; interruiDted, of course, by 
 Baby's gymnastics. 
 
 "There, then! why, you take to it quite easy. Master 
 Marner," said Dolly; "but what shall you do when 
 
SILAS MARNER • 209 
 
 you're forced to sit in your loom? For she'll get busier 
 and mischievouser every day — she will, bless her. It's 
 lucky as you've got that high hearth i'stead of a grate, 
 for that keeps the fire more out of her reach : bat if 
 you've got anything as can be split or broke, or as is fit to 
 cut her fingers off, she'll be at it — and it is but right 
 you should know." 
 
 Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. "I'll 
 tie her to the leg o' the loom," he said at last — *'tie her 
 with a good long strip o' something." 
 
 **Well, mayhap that'll do, as it's a little gell, for 
 they're easier persuaded to sit i' one place nor the lads. 
 I know what the lads are; for I've had four — four I've 
 had, God knows — and if you was to take and tie 'em up, 
 they'd make a fighting and a crying as if you was ring- 
 ing the pigs. But I'll bring you my little chair, and 
 some bits o' red rag and things for her to play wi' ; an' 
 she'll sit and chatter to 'em as if they was alive. Eh, if 
 it wasn't a sin to the lads to wish 'em made different, 
 bless 'em, I should ha' been glad for one of 'em to be a 
 little gell ; and to think as I could ha' taught her to 
 scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything. But 
 I can teach 'em this little un, Master Marner, when she 
 gets old enough." 
 
 '*But she'll be my little un," said Marner, rather 
 hastily. *'She'll be nobody else's." 
 
 **No, to be sure; you'll have a right to her, if you're 
 a father to her, and bring her up according. But,'* 
 added Dolly, coming to a point which she had deter- 
 mined beforehand to touch upon, *'you must bring her 
 up like christened folks's children, and take her to 
 church, and let her learn her catechise, as my little 
 
^10 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Aaron can say off — the 'I believe,' and everything, and 
 *hurt nobody by word or deed,' — as well as if he was 
 the clerk. That's what you must do. Master Marner, if 
 you'd do the right thing by the orphin child." 
 
 Marner 's pale face flushed suddenly under a new 
 anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some 
 definite bearing to Dolly's words for him to think of 
 ■answering her. 
 
 "And it's my belief," she went on, "as the poor little 
 creature has never been christened, and it's nothing but 
 right as the parson should be spoke to ; and if you was 
 noways unwilling, I'd talk to Mr. Macey about it this 
 Tery day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, 
 and you hadn't done your part by it. Master Marner — 
 'noculation, and everything to save it from harm — it 
 'ud be a thorn i' your bed for ever o' this side the grave ; 
 and I can't think as it 'ud be easy lying down for any- 
 "body when they'd got to another world, if they hadn't 
 •done their part by the helpless children as come wi'out 
 their own asking." 
 
 Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time 
 now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own 
 fiimple belief, and was much concerned to know whether 
 her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. 
 He was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly's word "chris- 
 tened" conveyed no distinct meaning to him. He had 
 only heard of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of 
 grown-up men and women. 
 
 "What is it as you mean by 'christened'?" he said at 
 last, timidly. "Won't folks be good to her without it?" 
 
 "Deal-, dear! Master Marner," said Dolly, with 
 gentle distress and compassion. "Had you never no 
 
SILAS MARNER 211 
 
 father uor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and 
 as there's good words and good things to keep us from 
 harm?" 
 
 "Yes," said Silas, in a low voice; "I know a deal 
 about that — used to, used to. But your ways are 
 different: my country was a good way off." He paused 
 a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, '*But 
 I want to do everything as can be done for the child. 
 And whatever's right for it i' this country, and you 
 think 'ull do it good, I'll act according, if you'll tell 
 me." 
 
 "Well, then. Master Mai-ner," said Dolly, inwardly 
 rejoiced, "I'll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson 
 about it ; and you must fix on a name for it, because it 
 must have a name giv' it when it's christened." 
 
 "My mother's name was Hephzibah," said Silas, 
 "and my little sister was named after her." 
 
 "Eh, that's a hard name," said Dolly. "I partly 
 think it isn't a christened name." 
 
 "It's a Bible name," said Silas, old ideas recurring. 
 
 "Then I've no call to speak again' it," said Dolly, 
 rather startled by Silas's knowledge on this head; "but 
 you see I'm no scholard, and I'm slow at catching the 
 words. My husband says I'm allays like as if I waa 
 putting the haft for the handle — that's what he says — • 
 for he's very sharp, God help him. But it was awk'ard 
 calling your little sister by such a hard name, when 
 you'd got nothing big to say, like — wasn't it, Master 
 Marner?" 
 
 "We called her Eppie," said Silas. 
 
 "Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it 
 'ud be a deal handier. And so I'll go now. Master 
 
212 SILAS MARNEK 
 
 Marner, and I'll speak about the christening afore dark; 
 and I wish yoii the best o' luck, and it's my belief as 
 it'll come to you, if you do what's right by the orphin 
 child; — and there's the 'noculation to be seen to; and as 
 to washing its bits o' things, you need look to nobody 
 but me, for I can do 'em wi' one hand when I've got my 
 suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You'll let me 
 bring my Aaron one o' these days, and he'll show her 
 his little cart as his father's made for him, and the 
 black-and-white pup as he's got a-rearing." 
 
 Baby was christened, the rector deciding that a double 
 baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occa- 
 sion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, 
 appeared for the first time within the church, and 
 shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours. 
 He was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or 
 saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith ; 
 if he could at any time in his previous life have done so, 
 it must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to 
 vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of 
 phrases and ideas : and now for long years that feeling 
 had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about the 
 baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had 
 said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, 
 as the weeks gi*ew to months, the child created fresh 
 and fresh links between his life and the lives from 
 which he had hitherto shrunk continually into nar- 
 rower isolation. Unlike the gold which needed noth- 
 ing, and must be worshipped in close-locked solitude — 
 which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to 
 the song of birds, and started to no human tones — 
 Eppie was a creature of endless claims and ever-growing 
 
SILAS MARNER 21? 
 
 desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, 
 and living movements; making trial of everything, with 
 trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all 
 eyes that looked on her. The gold had kept his 
 thoughts in an ever -repeated cu-cle, leading to nothing 
 beyond itself; but Eppie was an object compacted of 
 changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and 
 carried them far away from their old eager pacing 
 towards the same blank limit — carried them away to 
 the new things that would come with the coming years, 
 when Eppie would have learned to understand how her 
 father Silas cared for her; and made him look for 
 images of that time in the ties and charities that bound 
 together the families of his neighbours. The gold had 
 asked that he should sit weaving longer and longer, 
 deafened and blinded more and more to all things 
 except the monotony of his loom and the repetition of 
 his web; but Eppie called him away from his weaving, 
 and made him think all its pauses a holiday, reawaken- 
 ing his senses ^vith her fresh life, even to the old 
 winter-flies that came crawling forth in the early spring 
 sunshine, and warming him into joy because she had joy. 
 And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so 
 that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas 
 might be seen in the sunny mid-day, or in the late after- 
 noon when the shadows were lengthening under the 
 hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry 
 Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers grew, 
 till they reached some favourite bank where he could sit 
 down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers, and 
 make remarks to the winged things that murmured 
 happily above the bright petals, calling "Dad-dad's'* 
 
^14 SILAS MARNER 
 
 attention continually by bringing him the flowers. 
 Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, 
 and Silas learned to please her by making signs of 
 hushed stillness, that they might listen for the note to 
 •come again : so that when it came, she set up her small 
 back and laughed with gurgling triumph. Sitting on 
 the banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once 
 familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their un- 
 changed outline and markings, lay on his palm, there 
 was a sense of crowding remembrances from which he 
 turned away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie's little 
 world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. 
 
 As the child's mind waa gi-owing into knowledge, his 
 mind was growing into memory : as her life unfolded, 
 his soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow prison, was 
 unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 It was an influence which must gather force with 
 «very new year: the tones that stirred Silas's heart grew 
 articulate, and called for more distinct answers ; shapes 
 and sounds grew clearer for Eppie's eyes and ears, and 
 there was more that "Dad-dad" was imperatively 
 required to notice and account for. Also, by the time 
 Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine capacity 
 for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways of being 
 troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for 
 Silas's patience, but for his watchfulness and penetra- 
 tion. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such occasions 
 by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly Winthrop 
 told him that punishment was good for Eppie, and that, 
 as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little in 
 soft and safe places now and then, it was not to be done. 
 
SILAS MARNER 215 
 
 "To be sure, there's another thing you might do, 
 Master Marner," added Dolly, meditatively: "you 
 might shut her up once i' the coal-hole. That was 
 what I did wi' Aaron; for I was that silly wi' the 
 youngest lad, as I could never bear to smack him. Not 
 as I could find i' my heart to let him stay i' the coal- 
 hole more nor a minute, but it was enough to colly ^ him 
 all over, so as he must be new washed and dressed, and 
 it was as good as a rod to him — that was. But I put it 
 upo' your conscience. Master Marner, as there's one of 
 'em you must choose — ayther smacking or the coal-hole 
 — else she'll get so masterful, there'll be no holding 
 her." 
 
 Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this 
 last remark ; but his force of mind failed before the only 
 two penal methods open to him, not only because it was 
 painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled 
 at a moment's contention with her, lest she should love 
 him the less for it. Let even an affectionate Goliath 
 get himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to 
 hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to snap the 
 cord, and which of the two, pray, will be master? It 
 was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, 
 must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morn- 
 ing when circumstances favoured mischief. 
 
 For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of 
 linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he 
 was busy : it made a broad belt round her waist, and was 
 long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed 
 and sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to 
 attempt any dangerous climbing. One bright summer's 
 
 ^ To begrime. 
 
216 SILAS MARNER 
 
 morning Silas had. been more engrossed than usual in 
 "setting up" a new piece of work, an occasion on which 
 his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing 
 to an especial warning of Dolly's, had been kept care- 
 fully out of Eppie's reach ; but the click of them had 
 had a peculiar attraction for her ear, and watching the 
 results of that click, she had derived the philosophic 
 lesson that the same cause would produce the same 
 effect. Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the 
 noise of weaving had begun ; but he had left his scissors 
 on a ledge which Eppie's arm was long enough to 
 reach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her 
 opportunity, she stole quietly from her corner, secured 
 the scissors, and toddled to the bed again, setting up her 
 back as a mode of concealing the fact. She had a dis- 
 tinct intention as to the use of the scissors ; and having 
 cut the linen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in 
 two moments she had run out at the open door where 
 the sunshine was inviting her, while poor Silas believed 
 her to be a better child than usual. It was not until he 
 happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst 
 upon him : Eppie had run out by herself — ^had perhaps 
 fallen into the Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst 
 fear that could have befallen him, rushed out, calling 
 **^ppie!" and ran eagerly about the unenclosed space, 
 exploring the dry cavities into which she might have 
 fallen, and then gazing with questioning dread at the 
 smooth red surface of the water. The cold drops stood 
 on his brow. How long had she been out? There was 
 one hope — that she had crept through the stile and got 
 into the fields, where he habitually took her to stroll. 
 But the grass was high in the meadow, and there was no 
 
SILAS MARNER 217 
 
 descrying her, if she were there, except by a close search 
 that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood's crop. Still, 
 that misdemeanor must be committed ; and poor Silas, 
 after peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the 
 grass, beginning with perturbed vision to see Eppie 
 behind every group of red sorrel, and to see her moving 
 always farther off as he approached. The meadow was 
 searched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next 
 field, looking with dying hope towards a small pond 
 which was now reduced to its summer shallowness, so as 
 to leave a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here, 
 however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own 
 small boot, which she was using as a bucket to convey 
 the water into a deep hoof -mark, while her little naked 
 foot was planted comfortably on a cushion of olive-green 
 mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with 
 alarmed doubt through the opposite hedge. 
 
 Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened 
 child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, over- 
 come with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, 
 could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with 
 half -sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried her 
 home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, 
 that he recollected the need that he should punish 
 Eppie, and "make her remember." The idea that 
 she might run away again and come to harm, gave 
 him unusual resolution, and for the first time he de- 
 termined to try the coal-hole — a small closet near the 
 hearth. 
 
 "Naughty, naughty Eppie," he suddenly began, 
 holding her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy 
 feet and clothes — "naughty to cut with the scissors 
 
218 SILAS MARNER 
 
 and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for 
 being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coal- 
 hole." 
 
 He half -expected that this would be shock enough, 
 and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of 
 that, she began to shake herself on his knee, as if the 
 proposition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he 
 must proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal- 
 hole, and held the door closed, with a trembling sense 
 that he was using a strong measure. For a moment 
 there was silence, but then came a little cry, "Opy, 
 opy!" and Silas let her out again, saying, *'N"ow Eppie 
 'nil never be naughty again, else she must go into the 
 coal-hole — a black naughty place." 
 
 The weaving must stand still a long while this morn- 
 ing, for now Eppie must be washed, and have clean 
 clothes on ; but it was to be hoped that this punishment 
 would have a lasting effect, and save time in future — 
 though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had 
 cried more. 
 
 In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas having 
 turned his back to see what he could do with the linen 
 band, threw it down again, with the reflection that 
 Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest of 
 the morning. He turned round again, and was going 
 to place her in her little chair near the loom, when she 
 peeped out at him with black face and hands again, 
 and said, ''Eppie in de toal-hole!" 
 
 This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook 
 Silas's belief in the efficacy of punishment. "She'd 
 take it all for fun," he observed to Dolly, "if I didn't 
 hurt her, and that I can't do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she 
 
SILAS MARNER 219 
 
 makes me a bit o' trouble, I can bear it. And she's got 
 no tricks but what she'll grow out of." 
 
 '*Well, that's partly true, Master Marner," said 
 Dolly, sympathetically; "and if you can't bring your 
 mind to frighten her off touching things, you must da 
 what you can to keep 'em out of her way. That's what 
 I do wi' the pups as the lads are allays a -rearing. They 
 luill worry and gnaw — worry and gnaw they will, if it 
 was one's Sunday cap as hung anywhere so they could 
 di-ag it. They know no difference, God help 'em : ifs 
 the pushing o' the teeth as sets 'em on, that's what it 
 is." 
 
 So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden 
 of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father Silas. 
 The stone hut was made a soft nest for her, lined with 
 downy patience : and also in the world that lay beyond 
 tlie stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. 
 
 Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his 
 yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him 
 in most of his journeys to the farm-houses, unwilling 
 to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop's, who was always 
 ready to take care of her ; and little curly-headed Eppie, 
 the weaver's child, became an object of interest at 
 several outlying homesteads, as well as in the village. 
 Hitherto he had been treated very much as if he had 
 been a useful gnome or brownie — a queer and unac- 
 countable creature, who must necessmly be looked at 
 with wondering cui'iosity and repulsion, and with whom 
 one would be glad to make all gi'eetings and bargains as 
 brief as possible, but who must be dealt with in a 
 propitiatory way, and occasionally have a present of pork 
 or garden stuff to carry home with him, seeing that 
 
^20 SILAS MARNER 
 
 without him there was no getting the yarn woven. But 
 now Silas met with open smiling faces and cheerful 
 questioning, as a person whose satisfaction and diffi- 
 culties could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a 
 little and talk about the child, and words of interest 
 were always ready for him: "Ah, Master Marner, you'll 
 be lucky if she takes the measles soon and easy!" — or, 
 **Why, there isn't many lone men 'ud ha' been wishing 
 to take up with a little un like that : but I reckon the 
 weaving makes you handier than men as do out-door 
 work — ^you're partly as handy as a woman, for weaving 
 comes next to spinning." Elderly masters and mis- 
 tresses, seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, 
 shook their heads over the difficulties attendant on rear- 
 ing children, felt Eppie's round arms and legs, and pro- 
 nounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas that, if 
 she turned out well (which, however, there was no tell- 
 ing), it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady 
 lass to do for him when he got helpless. Servant 
 maidens were fond of carrying her out to look at the 
 hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries could be 
 shaken down in the orchard ; and the small boys and 
 girls approached her slowly, with cautious movement and 
 steady gaze, like little dogs face to face with one of their 
 own kind, till attraction had reached the point at which 
 the soft lips were put out for a kiss. No child was 
 afraid of approaching Silas when Eppie was near him: 
 there was no repulsion around him now, either for 
 young or old; for the little child had come to link him 
 once more with the whole world. There was love 
 between him and the child that blent them into one, 
 and there was love between the cbi^r] and the world — 
 
SILAS MARNER 221 
 
 from men and women with parental looks and tones, to 
 the red lady- birds and the round pebbles. 
 
 Silas began now to think of Ravel oe life entirely in 
 relation to Eppie : she must have everything that was 
 good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he 
 might come to understand better what this life was, 
 from which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from 
 a strange thing, wherewith he could have no com- 
 munion : as some man who has a precious plant to which 
 he would give a nurturing home in a new soil, thinks of 
 the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in rela- 
 tion to his nursling, and asks industriously for all 
 knowledge that will help him to satisfy the wants of the 
 searching roots, or to guard leaf and bud from invading 
 harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly 
 crushed at the very first by the loss of his long-stored 
 gold: the coins he earned afterwards seemed as 
 irrelevant as stones brought to complete a house sud- 
 denly buried by an earthquake; the sense of bereave- 
 ment was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of 
 satisfaction to arise again at the touch of the newly 
 earned coin. And now something had come to replace 
 his hoard which gave a growing purpose to the earn- 
 ings, dra^ving his hope and joy continually onward 
 beyond the money. 
 
 In old days there were angels who came and took men 
 by the hand and led them away from the city of 
 destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But 
 yet men are led away from threatening destruction: 
 a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth 
 gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look 
 no more backward; and the hand may be a little child's. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 Theee was one person, as you will believe, who 
 watched with keener though more hidden interest than 
 any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under the 
 weaver's care. He dared not do anything that would 
 imply a stronger interest in a poor man's adopted child 
 than could be expected from the kindliness of the young 
 Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little present 
 to a simple old fellow whom others noticed with good- 
 will; but he told himself that the time would come 
 when he might do something towards furthering the 
 welfare of his daughter without incurring suspicion. 
 Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his inability to 
 give his daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he 
 was. The child was being taken care of, and would 
 very likely be happy, as people in humble stations 
 often were — happier, perhaps, than those brought up in 
 luxury. 
 
 That famous ring that pricked its owner when he for- 
 got duty and followed desire — I wonder if it pricked 
 very hard when he set out on the chase, or whether it 
 pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick 
 when the chase had long been ended, and hope, folding 
 her wings, looked backward and became regret? 
 
 Godfrey Cass's cheek and eye were brighter than ever 
 now. He was so undivided in his aims, that he seemed 
 like a man of firmness. No Dunsey had come back: 
 
 223 
 
SILAS MARNER 223 
 
 people had made up their minds that he was gone for a 
 soldier, or gone "out of the country," and no one cared 
 to be specific in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a 
 respectable family. Godfrey had ceased to see the 
 shadow of Dunsey across his path ; and the path now 
 lay straight forward to the accomplishment of liis best, 
 longest-cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey 
 had taken the right turn ; and it was pretty clear what 
 would be the end of things, for there were not many 
 days in the week that he was not seen riding to the 
 Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely 
 if the day had been fixed, smiled with the pleasant con- 
 sciousness of a lover who could say *'yes," if he liked. 
 He felt a reformed man, delivered from temptation ; and 
 the vision of his future life seemed to him as a promised 
 land for which he had no cause to fight. He saw him- 
 self with all his happiness centred on his own hearth, 
 while Nancy would smile on him as he played with the 
 children. 
 
 And that other child, not on the hearth — he would 
 not forget it ; he would see that it was well provided for. 
 That was a father's duty. 
 
PART II 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI 
 
 It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after 
 Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. 
 The bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the 
 cheerful peal that told that the morning service was 
 ended; and out of the arched door -way in the tower 
 came slowly, retaj'ded by friendly gi'eetings and ques- 
 tions, the richer parishioners who had chosen this 
 bright Sunday morning as eligible for church-going. It 
 was the rural fashion of that time for the more impor- 
 tant members of the congregation to depart first, while 
 their humbler neighbours waited and looked on, strok- 
 ing their bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any 
 large ratepayer who turned to notice them. 
 
 Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad 
 people, there are some whom we shall recognise, in spite 
 of Time, who has laid his hand on them all. The tall 
 blond man of forty is not much changed in features 
 from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty : he is only 
 fuller in flesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of 
 youth — a loss which is marked even when the eye is 
 undulled and the wi'inkles are not yet come. Perhaps 
 the pretty woman, not much younger than he, who is 
 leaning on his arm, is more changed than her husband: 
 
 324 
 
SILAS MARNER 225 
 
 the lovely bloom that used to be always on her cheek 
 now comes but fitfully, with the fresh morning air or 
 with some strong surprise ; yet to all who love human 
 faces best for what they tell of human experience, 
 Nancy's beauty has a heightened interest. Often the 
 soul is ripened into fuller goodness while age has spread 
 an ugly film, so that mere glances can never divine the 
 preciousness of the fruit. But the years have not been 
 so cruel to Nancy. The firm yet placid mouth, the 
 clear veracious glance of the brown eyes, speak now of 
 a nature that has been tested and has kept its highest 
 qualities ; and even the costume, with its dainty neat- 
 ness and purity, has more significance now the coquet- 
 ries of youth can have nothing to do w4th it. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died 
 away from Eaveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered 
 to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) have 
 turned round to look for the tall aged man and the 
 plainly dressed woman who are a little behind — Nancy 
 having observed that they must wait for "father and 
 Priscilla" — and now they all turn into a narrower path 
 leading across the churchyard to a small gate opposite 
 the Red House. \Ye will not follow them now; for 
 may there not be some others in this departing congi'e 
 gation whom we should like to see again — some of those 
 who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we 
 may not recognise so easily as the master and mistress 
 of the Red House? 
 
 But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marnesr-. His 
 large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, 
 afl is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted in 
 early life, and they have a less vague, a more answering 
 
226 SILAS MARNER 
 
 gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame 
 much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The 
 weaver's bent shoulders and white hair give him almost 
 the look of advanced age, though he is not more than 
 five-and-fif ty ; but there is the fi-eshest blossom of youth 
 close by his side — a blond dimpled girl of eighteen, who 
 has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into 
 smoothness under her brown bonnet : the hair ripples as 
 obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and 
 the little ringlets burst away from the restraining comb 
 behind and show themselves below the bonnet crown. 
 Eppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hau*, 
 for there is no other girl in Raveloe who has hair at all 
 like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth. She 
 does not like to be blameworthy even in small things : 
 you see how neatly her prayer-book is folded in her 
 spotted handkerchief. 
 
 ', That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian 
 suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the 
 question of hair in the abstract, when Eppie puts it to 
 him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in 
 general, but he doesn't want Eppie's hair to be differ- 
 ent. She surely divines that there is some one behind 
 her who is thinking about her very pai'ticularly, and 
 mustering courage to come to her side as soon as they 
 are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, 
 and take care not to turn away her head from her father 
 Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as 
 to who was at church, and who was not at church, and 
 how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Eectory 
 wall! 
 
 *'I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 
 
SILAS MARNER 227 
 
 daisies in it, like Mrs. Winthrop's," said Eppie, when 
 they were out in the lane; "only they say it 'ud take a 
 deal of digging and bringing fresh soil — and you 
 couldn't do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I 
 shouldn't like you to do it, for it 'ud be too hard work 
 for you." 
 
 *'Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o' 
 garden : these long evenings, I could work at taking in 
 a little bit o' the waste, just enough for a root or two 
 o' flowers for you; and again, i' the morning, I could 
 have a turn wi' the spade before I sat down to the 
 loom. Why didn't you tell me before as you wanted a 
 bit o' garden?" 
 
 "/ can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the 
 young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie 's side, 
 entering into the conversation without the trouble of 
 formalities. "It'll be play to me after I've done my 
 day's work, or any odd bits o' time when the work's 
 slack. And I'll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's 
 garden — he'll let me, and willing." 
 
 "Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas; "I 
 wasn't aware of you; for when Eppie's talking o* 
 things, I see nothing but what she's a-saying. Well, if 
 you could help me witli the digging, we might get her a 
 bit o' garden all the sooner." 
 
 "Then, if you think well and good," said Aai'on, 
 "I'll come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we'll 
 settle what land's to be taken in, and I'll get up an hour 
 earlier i' the morning, and begin on it." 
 
 "But not if you don't promise me not to work at the 
 hard digging, father," said Eppie. "Fori shouldn't 
 ha' said anything about it," she added, half -bashfully, 
 
228 SILAS MARNER 
 
 half -roguishly, "only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud 
 be so good, and " 
 
 "And yon might ha' known it without her telling 
 you," said Aaron. "And Master Marner knows too, I 
 hope, as I'm able and willing to do a turn o' work for 
 him, and he won't do me the unkindness to anyways 
 take it out o' my hands." 
 
 "There, now, father, you won't work in it till it's all 
 easy," said Eppie, "and you and me can mark out the 
 beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It'll be a 
 deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we've got some 
 flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us, and 
 know what we're talking about. And I'll have a bit of 
 rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they're so 
 sweet-smelling; but there's no lavender only in the 
 gentlefolks' gardens, I think." 
 
 "That's no reason why you shouldn't have some," 
 said Aaron, "for I can bring you slips of anything; I'm 
 forced to cut no end of 'em when I'm gardening, and I 
 throw 'em away mostly. There's a big bed o' lavender 
 at the Red House; the missus is very fond of it." 
 
 "Well," said Silas, gi'avely, "so as you don't make 
 free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at the 
 Red House-: for Mr. Cass's been so good to us, and 
 built us up the new end o' the cottage, and given us 
 beds and things, as I couldn't abide to be imposin' for 
 garden-stuff or anything else. " 
 
 "No, no, there's no imposin'," said Aaron; "there's 
 never a garden in all the parish but what there's endless 
 waste in it for want o' somebody as could use every- 
 thing up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as 
 there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was 
 
SILAS MARNER 229 
 
 made the most on, and there was never a morsel but 
 what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one think- 
 ing o' that — gardening does. But I must go back now, 
 else mother 'ull be in trouble as I aren't there." 
 
 * 'Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron," said 
 Eppie; "I shouldn't like to fix about the garden, and 
 her not know everything from the first — should you^ 
 father?" 
 
 "Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron," said Silas; 
 "she's sure to have a word to say as '11 help us to set 
 things on their right end." 
 
 Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and 
 Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 
 
 "0 daddy!" she began, Avhen they were in privacy, 
 clasping and squeezing Silas's arm, and skipping round 
 to give him an energetic kiss. "My little old daddy! 
 I'm so glad. I don't think I shall want anything else 
 when we've got a little garden; and I knew Aaron 
 would dig it for us," she went on v/ith roguish triumph 
 — "I knew that very well." 
 
 "You're a deep little puss, you are," said Silas, with 
 the mild passive happiness of love-crowned age in his 
 face; "but you'll make yourself fine and beholden to 
 Aaron." 
 
 "0 no, I shan't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; 
 "he likes it." 
 
 "Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else 
 you'll be dropping it, jumping i' that way." 
 
 Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under 
 observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly 
 donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot — a 
 meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human triviali- 
 
'230 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ties, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by get- 
 ting his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to 
 gratify him with her usual notice, tliough it waa 
 attended with the inconvenience of his following them, 
 painfully, up to the very door of theii' home. 
 
 But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put 
 the key in the door, modified the donkey's views, and he 
 limped away again without bidding. The sharp bark 
 was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting 
 them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing 
 at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a 
 worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, 
 and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much 
 aa to say, "I have done my duty by this feeble creature, 
 you perceive;*' while the lady-mother of the kitten sat 
 sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked 
 round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though 
 she was not going to take any trouble for them. 
 
 The presence of this happy animal life was not the 
 only change which had come over the interior of the 
 stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living- 
 room, and the small space was well filled with decent 
 furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly 
 Wintlirop's eye. The oaken table and three-cornered 
 oaken chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in so 
 poor a cottage : they had come, with the beds and other 
 things, from the Ked House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as 
 every one said in the village, did very kindly by the 
 weaver ; and it was nothing but right a man should be 
 looked on and helped by those who could afford it, when 
 he had brought up an orphan child, and been father 
 and mother to her — and had lost his money too, so as he 
 
SILAS MARNER 231 
 
 had nothing but what he worked for week by week, and 
 when the weaving was going down too — for there was 
 less and less flax spun — and Master Marner was none so 
 young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was 
 regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on 
 neighbourly help were not to be matched in Raveloe. 
 Any superstition that remained concerning him had 
 taken an entii'ely new colour ; and Mr. Macey, now^ a 
 very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen 
 except in his chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine 
 at his door -sill, was of opinion that when a man had 
 done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a 
 sign that his money would come to light again, or least- 
 wise that the robber would be made to answer for it — 
 for, as Mr. Macey observed of himself, his faculties were 
 as strong as ever. 
 
 Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied 
 gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it the 
 potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday fashion, 
 by being put into a dry pot over a slowly-dying fire, as 
 the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would not 
 consent to have a grate and oven added to his conveni- 
 ences : he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved his 
 brown pot — and was it not there when he had found 
 Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for us still ; and 
 let all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it 
 bruise its own roots. 
 
 Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon lay- 
 ing down his knife and fork, and watching half -abstract- 
 edly Eppie 's play with Snap and the cat, by which her 
 own dining was made rather a lengthy business. Yet it 
 was a sight that might well arrest wandering thoughts : 
 
232 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and the 
 whiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off by the 
 dai'k-bhie cotton gown, laughing merrily as the kitten 
 held on with her four claws to one shoulder, like a 
 design for a jug -handle, while Snap on the right hand 
 and Puss on the other put up their paws towards a 
 morsel which she held out of the reach of both — Snap 
 occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with the 
 cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and 
 futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed 
 them both, and divided the morsel between them. 
 
 But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the 
 play, and said, "0 daddy, you're wanting to go into the 
 sunshine to smoke your pipe. But I must clear away 
 first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother 
 comes. I'll make haste — I won't be long." 
 
 Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the 
 last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the 
 sages of Eaveloe, as a practice "good for the fits;" and 
 this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the 
 ground that it was as well to try what could ao no harm 
 — a principle which was made to answer for a great deal 
 of work in that gentleman's medical practice. Silas did 
 not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his 
 neighbours could be so fond of it ; but a humble sort of 
 acquiescence in what was held to be good, had become a 
 strong habit of that new self which had been developed 
 in him since he had found Eppie on his hearth : it had 
 been the only clew his bewildered mind could hold by in 
 cherishing this young life that had been sent to him out 
 of the darkness into which his gold had departed. By 
 seeking what was needful for Eppie, by sharing the 
 
SILAS MARNER 233 
 
 effect that everything produced on her, he had himself 
 come to appropriate the forms of custom and belief 
 which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with re- 
 awakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had 
 begun to ponder over the elements of his old faith, and 
 blend them with his new impressions, till he recovered a 
 consciousness of unity between his past and present. 
 The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust 
 which come with all pure peace and joy, had given him 
 a dim impression that there had been some error, some 
 mistake, which had thrown that dark shadow over the 
 days of his best years ; and as it grew more and more 
 easy to him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he 
 gradually communicated to her all he could describe of 
 his early life. The communication was necessarily a 
 slow and difficult process, for Silas's meagre power of 
 explanation was not aided by any readiness of interpreta- 
 tion in Dolly, whose narrow outward experience gave her 
 no key to strange customs, and made every novelty a 
 source of wonder that arrested them at every step of the 
 narrative. It was only by fragments, and at intervals 
 which left Dolly time to revolve what she had heard till 
 it acquired some familiarity for her, that Silas at last 
 arrived at the climax of the sad story — the drawing of 
 lots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this 
 had to be repeated in several interviews, under new 
 questions on her part as to the nature of this plan for 
 detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent. 
 
 "And yourn's the same Bible, you're sure o' that. 
 Master Marner — the Bible as you brought wi' you from 
 that country — it's the same as what they've got at 
 church, and what Eppie's a-learning to read in?" 
 
234 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *'Yes," said Silas, "every bit the same; and there's 
 drawing o' lots in the Bible, mind you," he added in a 
 lower tone. 
 
 **0 dear, dear," said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if 
 she were hearing an unfavorable report of a sick man's 
 case. She was silent for some minutes; at last she 
 said — 
 
 "There's wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; 
 the parson knows, I'll be bound; but it takes big words 
 to tell them things, and such as poor folks can't make 
 much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning 
 o' what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but 
 I know it's good words — I do. But what lies upo' your 
 mind — it's this. Master Marner: as, if Them above had 
 done the right thing by you. They'd never ha' let you 
 be turned out for a wicked thief when you was inni- 
 cent." 
 
 "Ah!" said Silas, who had now come to understand 
 Dolly's pliraseology, "that was what fell on me like as if 
 it had been red-hot iron; because, you see, there was 
 nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. 
 And him as I'd gone out and in wi' for ten year and 
 more, since when we was lads and went halves — mine 
 own familiar friend in whom I trusted, had lifted up 
 his heel again' me, and worked to ruin me." 
 
 "Eh, but he was a bad un — I can't think as there's 
 another such," said Dolly. "But I'm o'ercome, Master 
 Marner; I'm like as if I'd waked and didn't know 
 whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as 
 sure as I do when I've laid something up, though I can't 
 justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights in what 
 happened to you, if one could but make it out; and 
 
SILAS MARNER 235 
 
 you'd no call to lose heart as you did. But we'll talk 
 on it again ; for sometimes things come into my head 
 when I'm leeching or poulticing, or such, as I could 
 never think on when I was sitting still." 
 
 Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many 
 opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded to> 
 and she was not long before she recurred to the subject. 
 
 "Master Marner," she said, one day that she came to 
 bring home Eppie's washing, "I've been sore puzzled 
 for a good bit wi' that trouble o' yourn and the draw- 
 ing o' lots; and it got twisted back'ards and for'ards, as 
 I didn't know which end to lay hold on. But it come 
 to me all clear like, that night when I was sitting up 
 wi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left her children 
 behind, God help 'em — it come to me as clear as day- 
 light; but whether I've got hold on it now, or can any- 
 ways bring it to my tongue's end, that I don't know. 
 For I've often a deal inside me as '11 never come out ; 
 and for what you talk o' your folks in your old country 
 niver sajdng prayers by heart nor saying 'em out of a 
 book, they must be wonderful cliver; for if I didn't 
 know *Our Father,' and little bits o' good words as I 
 can carry out o' church wi' me, I might down o' my 
 knees every night, but nothing could I say." 
 
 "But you can mostly say something as I can make 
 sense on, Mrs. Winthrop," said Silas. 
 
 "Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat 
 like this : I can make nothing o' the drawing o' lots 
 and the answer coming wrong ; it 'ud mayhap take the 
 parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i' big 
 Words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, 
 it was when I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, 
 
236 SILAS MARNER 
 
 and it allays comes into my head when I'm sorry for 
 folks, and feel as I can't do a power to help 'em, not 
 if I was to get up i' the middle o' the night — it comes 
 into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer 
 heart nor what I've got — for I can't be anyways better 
 nor Them as made me ; and if anything looks hard to 
 me, it's because there's things I don't know on; and for 
 the matter o' that, there may be plenty o' things I don't 
 know on, for it's little as I know — that it is. And so, 
 while I was thinking o' that, you come into my mind, 
 
 Master Marner, and it all come pouring in : if / felt i' 
 
 my inside what was the right and just thing by you, and 
 them as prayed and drawed the lots, all but that wicked 
 un, if thei/''d ha' done the right thing by you if they 
 could, isn't there Them as was at the making on us, and 
 knows better and has a better will? And that's all as 
 ever I can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle 
 to me when I think on it. For there was the fever 
 come and took off them as were full -gro wed, and left the 
 helpless children; and there's the breaking o' limbs; 
 and them as 'ud do right and be sober have to suffer by 
 them as are contrairy — eh, there's trouble i' this world, 
 and there's things as we can niver make out the rights 
 on. And all as we've got to do is to trusten. Master 
 Marner — to do the right thing as fur as we know, and 
 to trusten.^ For if us as knows so little can see a bit o' 
 
 ^ A curiously tender and sympathetic tribute to the value 
 of simple faith to come from one who could not follow the 
 advice. One of the chief sources of George Eliot's greatness 
 was her ability to appreciate at their real worth things 
 which were alien to her temperament. She was not a woman 
 of religious faith, yet she saw the full beauty and power and 
 glory of it. 
 
SILAS MARKER 237 
 
 good and rights, we may be sure as there's a good and a 
 rights bigger nor what we can know — I feel it i ' my own 
 inside as it must be so. And if you could but ha' gone 
 on trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn't ha' run 
 away from your fellow-creatures and been so lone." 
 
 *'Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard," said Silas, in an 
 undertone; "it 'ud ha' been hard to trusten then." 
 
 **And so it would," said Dolly, almost with com- 
 punction; **them things are easier said nor done; and 
 I'm partly ashamed o' talking." 
 
 **Nay, nay," said Silas, *'you're i' the right, Mrs. 
 Winthrop — you're i' the right. There's good i' this 
 world — I've a feeling o' that now; and it makes a man 
 feel as there's a good more nor he can see, i' spite o' the 
 trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o' the lots is 
 dark; but the child was sent to me: there's dealings 
 with us — there's dealings." ^ 
 
 This dialogue took place in Eppie's earlier years, when 
 Silas had to part with her for two hours every day, that 
 she might learn to read at the dame school, after he 
 had vainly tried himself to guide her in that first step to 
 learning. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often 
 been led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which 
 come to people who live together in perfect love, to talk 
 with her too of the past, and how and why he had lived 
 a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For it 
 would have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie 
 that she was not his own child : even if the most delicate 
 reticence on the point could have been expected from 
 
 ^ The love for Eppie has brought Marner to a belief in a 
 Providence. This faith he had lost when, at Lantern Yard, 
 the lots declared him guilty of the theft. 
 
238 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own questions about 
 her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up, 
 without that complete shrouding of the past which 
 would have made a painful barrier between their minds. 
 So Eppie had long known how her mother had died on 
 the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found 
 on the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden 
 curls for his lost guineas brought back to him. The 
 tender and peculiar love with which Silas had reared her 
 in almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided 
 by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her 
 from the lowering influences of the village talk and 
 habits, and had kept her mind in that freshness which 
 is sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable 
 attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of 
 poetry which can exalt the relations of the least - 
 instructed human beings ; and this breath of poetry had 
 surrounded Eppie from the time when she had followed 
 the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas's hearth; so 
 that it is not surprising if, in other things besides her 
 delicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village 
 maiden, but had a touch of refinement and fervour 
 which came from no other teaching than that of 
 tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too 
 childish and simple for her imagination to rove into 
 ^questions about her unknown father ; for a long while it 
 did not even occur to her that she must have had a 
 father ; and the first time that the idea of her mother 
 having had a husband presented itself to her, was when 
 Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been taken 
 from the wasted finger, and had been carefully preserved 
 by him in a little lackered box shaped like a shoe. He 
 
SILAS MARNER 239 
 
 delivered this box into Eppie's charge when she bad 
 grown up, and she often opened it to look at the ring : 
 but still she thought hardly at all about the father of 
 whom it was the symbol. Had she not a father very 
 close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers 
 in the village seemed to love their daughters? On the 
 contrary, who her mother was, and how she came to die 
 in that forlornness, were questions that often pressed on 
 Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who 
 was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that 
 a mother must be very precious ; and she had again and 
 again asked Silas to tell her how her mother looked, 
 whom she was like, and how he had found her against 
 the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and 
 the outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still ; 
 and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into 
 the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her 
 eyes and thoughts. 
 
 *'Father," she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which 
 sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence across her 
 playfulness, '*we shall take the furze bush into the 
 garden; it'll come into the corner, and just against it 
 I'll put snow-drops and crocuses, 'cause Aaron says they 
 won't die out, but'll always get more and more." 
 
 "Ah, child," said Silas, always ready to talk when he 
 had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses 
 more than the puffs, "it wouldn't do to leave out the 
 furze bush ; and there's nothing prettier to my thinking, 
 when it's yallow with flowers. But it's just come into 
 my head what we're to do for a fence — mayhap Aaron 
 can help us to a thought ; but a fence we must have, 
 else the donkeys and things 'all come and trample every- 
 
240 SILAS MARNER 
 
 thing down. And fencing's hard to be got at, by what 
 X can make out." 
 
 "0, I'll tell yon, daddy," said Eppie, clasping her 
 hands suddenly, after a minute's thought. "There's 
 lots o' loose stones about, some of 'em not big, and we 
 might lay 'em atop of one another, and make a wall. 
 You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron 'ud 
 carry the rest — I know he would." 
 
 "Eh, my precious un," said Silas, "there isn't enough 
 stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, 
 wi' your little arms you couldn't carry a stone no bigger 
 than a turnip. You're dillicate made, my dear," he 
 added, with a tender intonation — "that's what Mrs. 
 Winthrop says." 
 
 "0, I'm stronger than you think, daddy," said 
 Eppie; "and if there wasn't stones enough to go all 
 round, why they'll go part o' the way, and then it'll be 
 easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See here, 
 round the big pit, what a many stones!" 
 
 She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of 
 the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back 
 in surprise. 
 
 "0, father, just come and look here," she ex- 
 claimed — "come and see how the water's gone down 
 since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever so 
 full!" 
 
 "Well, to be sure," said Silas, coming to her side. 
 "Why, that's the draining they've begun on, since 
 harvest, i' Mr. Osgood's fields, I reckon. The foreman 
 said to me the other day, when I passed by 'em, 'Master 
 Marner,' he said, 'I shouldn't wonder if we lay your bit 
 o' waste as dry as a bone.' It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, 
 
SILAS MARNER 241 
 
 he said, had gone into the draining: he'd heen taking 
 these fields o' Mr. Osgood." 
 
 "How odd it'll seem to have the old pit dried up!" 
 said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a 
 large stone. ''See, daddy, I can carry this quite well," 
 she said, going along with much energy for a few steps, 
 hut presently letting it fall. 
 
 *'Ah, you're fine and strong, aren't you?" said Silas, 
 while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. 
 *'Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank 
 against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You 
 might hurt yourself, child. You need have somebody 
 to work for you — and my arm isn't overstrong." 
 
 Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied 
 more than met the ear ; and Eppie, when they sat down 
 on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold 
 caressingly of the arm that was not overstrong, held it 
 on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the 
 pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the 
 hedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the sun, 
 and threw happy playful shadows all about them. 
 
 ''Father," said Eppie, very gently, after they had 
 been sitting in silence a little while, "if I was to be 
 married, ought I to be married with my mother's ring?" 
 
 Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the 
 question fell in with the under-current of thought in his 
 own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, "Why, 
 Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?" 
 
 "Only this last week, father," said Eppie, ingenu- 
 ously, "since Aaron talked to me about it." 
 
 "And what did he say?" said Silas, still in the 
 same subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should 
 
242 SILAS MARNER 
 
 fall into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie's 
 good. 
 
 **He said he should like to be married, because he was 
 a-going in four-and-twenty and had got a deal of garden- 
 ing work, now Mr. Mott's given up; and he goes twice 
 a-week regular to Mr. Cass's, and once to Mr. Osgood's, 
 and they're going to take him on at the Rectory." 
 
 **And who is it as he's wanting to marry?" said Silas, 
 with rather a sad smile. 
 
 ''Why, me, to be sure, daddy," said Eppie, with 
 dimpling laughter, kissing her father's cheek; *'as if 
 he'd want to marry anybody else!" 
 
 "And you mean to have him, do you?" said Silas. 
 
 "Yes, some time," said Eppie, "I don't know when. 
 Everybody's married some time, Aaron says. But I 
 told him that wasn't true : for, I said, look at father — 
 he's never been married." 
 
 "No, child," said Silas, "your father was a lone man 
 till you was sent to him." 
 
 "But you'll never be lone again, father," said Eppie, 
 "tenderly. "That was what Aaron said — 'I could never 
 think o' taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.' 
 And I said, 'It 'ud be no use if you did, Aaron.' And 
 he wants us all to live together, so as you needn't work 
 a bit, father, only what's for your own pleasure; and 
 he'd be as good as a son to you — that was what he 
 said." 
 
 "And should you like that, Eppie?" said Silas, look- 
 ing at her. 
 
 "I shouldn't mind it, father," said Eppie, quite 
 simply. "And I should like things to be so as you 
 needn't work much. But if it wasn't for that, I'd 
 
SILAS MARKER 243 
 
 sooner things didn't change. I'm very happy : I like 
 Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, and 
 behave pretty to you — he always does behave pretty to 
 you, doesn't he, father?" 
 
 '*Yes, child, nobody could behave better," said Silas, 
 emphatically. "He's his mother's lad." 
 
 "But I don't want any change," said Eppie. "I 
 should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. 
 Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry a 
 bit — only a bit — because he said I didn't care for him, 
 for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as 
 he did." 
 
 "Eh, my blessed child," said Silas, laying down his 
 pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any 
 longer, "you're o'er young to be married. We'll ask 
 Mrs. Winthrop — we'll ask Aaron's mother what she 
 thinks: if there's a right thing to do, she'll come at it. 
 But there's this to be thought on, Eppie: things will 
 change, whether we like it or no; things won't go on for 
 a long while just as they are and no difference. I shall 
 get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, 
 if I don't go away from you altogether. Not as I mean 
 you'd think me a burden — I know you wouldn't — but it 
 'ud be hard upon you; and when I look for'ard to that, 
 I like to think as you'd have somebody else besides me 
 — somebody young and strong, as '11 outlast your own 
 life, and take care on you to the end." Silas paused, 
 and, resting his ^Tists on his knees, lifted his hands up 
 and down meditatively as he looked on the ground. 
 
 "Then, would you like me to be married, father?" 
 said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice. 
 
 "I'll not be the man to say no, Eppie," said Silas, 
 
244 SILAS MARNER 
 
 emphatically; **but we'll ask your god-mother. She'll 
 wish the right thing by you and her son too." 
 
 ** There they come then," said Eppie. "Let us go 
 and meet 'em. the pipe ! won't you have it lit again, 
 father?" said Eppie, lifting that medicinal appliance 
 from the ground. 
 
 "Nay, child," said Silas, "I've done enough for 
 to-day. I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more 
 good than so much at once. ' ' 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank dis- 
 coursing in the fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss 
 Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister's arguments, 
 that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, 
 and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to 
 the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of 
 four only) were seated round the table in the dark 
 wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday dessert before 
 them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly orna- 
 mented with leaves by Nancy's own hand before the 
 bells had rung for church. 
 
 A great change has come over the dark wainscoted 
 parlour since we saw it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and 
 under the wifeless reign of the old Squire. Now all is 
 polish, on which no yesterday's dust is ever allowed to 
 rest, from the yard's width of oaken boards round the 
 carpet, to the old Squire's gun and whips and walking- 
 sticks, ranged on the stag's antlers above the mantel- 
 piece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor 
 occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but 
 she has brought into the Red House the habit of filial 
 reverence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honour 
 these relics of her husband's departed father. The 
 tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver 
 is undimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to 
 send forth unpleasant suggestions : the only prevailing 
 
246 SILAS MARNER 
 
 scent is of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the vases 
 of DerbysWre spar. All is purity and order in this 
 once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered 
 by a new presiding spirit. 
 
 "Now, father," said Nancy, *'i*s there any call for you 
 to go home to tea? Mayn't you just as well stay with 
 us? — such a beautiful evening as it's likely to be." 
 
 The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey 
 about the increasing poor-rate and the ruinous times, 
 and had not heard the dialogue between his daughters, 
 
 *'My dear, you must ask Priscilla," he said, in the 
 once firm voice, now become rather broken. "She 
 manages me and the farm too." 
 
 "And reason good as I should manage you, father," 
 said Priscilla, "else you'd be giving yourself your death 
 with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything 
 turns out wrong, as it can't but do in these times, there's 
 nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find 
 fault with but himself. It's a deal the best way o' being 
 master, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep 
 the blaming in your own hands. It 'ud save many a 
 man a stroke, /believe." 
 
 "Well, well, my dear," said her father, with a quiet 
 laugh, "I didn't say you don't manage for everybody's 
 good." 
 
 "Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla," 
 said Nancy, putting her hand on her sister's arm affec- 
 tionately. "Come now; and we'll go round the garden 
 while father has his nap." 
 
 "My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the gig, 
 for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can't hear 
 of it; for there's this dairymaid, now she knows she's to 
 
SILAS MARNER 247 
 
 be married, turned Michaelmas/ she'd as lief pour the 
 new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That's 
 the way with 'em all: it's as if they thought the world 
 'ud be new-made because they're to be married. So 
 come and let me put my bonnet on, and there'll be time 
 for us to walk round the garden while the horse is being 
 put in." 
 
 When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept 
 garden- walks, between the bright turf that contrasted 
 pleasantly with the dark cones and ai'ches and wall -like 
 hedges of yew, Priscilla said — 
 
 **I'm as glad as anything at your husband's making 
 that exchange o' land ^\ith cousin Osgood, and begin- 
 ning the dairying. It's a thousand pities you didn't do 
 it before; for it'll give you something to fill your mind. 
 There's nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o' worrit 
 to make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, 
 when you can once see yom* face in a table there's noth- 
 ing else to look for; but there's always something fresh 
 with the dairy; for even in the depths o' winter there's 
 some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it 
 come whether or no. My dear," added Priscilla, press- 
 ing her sister's Iiand affectionately as they walked side 
 by side, *'you'll never be low when you've got a dairy." 
 
 *'Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure 
 with a gTateful glance of her clear eyes, "but it won't 
 make up to Godfrey: a dairy's not so much to a man. 
 And it's only what he cares for that ever makes me low. 
 I'm contented with the blessings we have, if he could be 
 contented." 
 
 * A Saints-day in conmiemoration of the Archangel Michael. 
 It occurs on the 39th of September. 
 
248 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *'It drives me past patience," said Priscilla, impetu- 
 ously, *'that way o' the men — always wanting and want- 
 ing, and never easy with what they've got: they can't 
 sit comfortable in their chairs when they've neither ache 
 nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their 
 mouths, to make 'em better than well, or else they must 
 be swallowing something strong, though they're forced 
 to make haste before the next meal comes in. But joy- 
 ful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o' man. 
 And if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so 
 as the men wouldn't ha' run after you, we might have 
 kept to our own family, and had nothing to do with 
 folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins." 
 
 "0 don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting 
 that she had called forth this outburst; "nobody has 
 any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. It's natural he 
 should be disappointed at not having any children: 
 every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay 
 by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with 
 'em when they were little. There's many another man 
 'ud hanker more than he does. He's the best of hus- 
 bands." 
 
 "0, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I 
 know the way o' wives; they set one on to abuse their 
 husbands, and then they turn round on one and praise 
 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. But father '11 be 
 waiting for me; we must turn now." 
 
 The large gig with the steady old grey was at the 
 front door, and Mr. Lammeter was already on the stone 
 steps, passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what very 
 fine points Speckle had when his master used to ride 
 him. 
 
SILAS MARKER 249 
 
 *'I always would have a good horse, you know," said 
 the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time to be 
 quite effaced from the memory of his juniors. 
 
 "Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the 
 week's out, Mr. Cass," was Priscilla's parting injunc- 
 tion, as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by 
 way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 
 
 "I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone- 
 pits, Nancy, and look at the draining," said Godfrey. 
 
 "You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?" 
 
 "0, yes, I shall be back in an hour." 
 
 It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to do 
 a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. 
 Nancy seldom accompanied him ; for the women of her 
 generation — unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor 
 management — were not given to much walking beyond 
 their own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in 
 domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with her, 
 she usually sat with Mant's Bible before her, and after 
 following the text with her eyes for a little while, she 
 would gi'adually permit them to wander as her thoughts 
 had already insisted on wandering. 
 
 But Nancy's Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out 
 of keeping with the devout and reverential intention 
 implied by the book spread open before her. She was 
 not theologically instructed enough to discern very 
 clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the 
 past which she opened without method, and her own 
 obscure, simple life; but the spirit of rectitude, and the 
 sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on 
 others, which were strong elements in Nancy's char- 
 acter, had made it a habit with her to scrutinise her past 
 
250 SILAS MARNER 
 
 feelings and actions with self -questioning solicitude. 
 Her mind not being courted by a great variety of sub- 
 jects, she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, 
 again and again, through all her remembered experience, 
 especially through the fifteen years of her married time, 
 in which her life and its significance had been doubled. 
 She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and 
 looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new 
 epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the 
 relations and trials of life, or which had called on her 
 for some little effort of forbearance, or of painful adher- 
 ence to an imagined or real duty — asking herself con- 
 tinually whether she had been in any respect blamable. 
 This excessive rumination and self -questioning is per- 
 haps a morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral 
 sensibility when shut out from its due share of outward 
 activity and of practical claims on its affections — inevi- 
 table to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot 
 is narrow. "I can do so little — have I done it all well?" 
 is the perpetually recurring thought ; and there are no 
 voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no per- 
 emptory demands to divert energy from vain regret or 
 superfluous scruple. 
 
 There was one main thread of painful experience in 
 Nancy's married life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt 
 scenes, which were the oftenest revived in retrospect. 
 The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden had 
 determined the current of retrospect in that frequent 
 direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The first 
 wandering of her thought from the text, which she still 
 attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes and silent 
 lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the defence 
 
SILAS MARNER S51 
 
 she had set up for her husband against Priscilla's 
 implied blame. The vindication of the loved object is 
 the best balm affection can find for its wounds: — "A 
 man must have so much on his mind," is the belief by 
 which a wife often supports a cheerful face under rough 
 answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy's deepest 
 wounds had all come from the perception that the 
 absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in 
 her husband's mind as a privation to which he could not 
 reconcile himself. 
 
 Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel 
 still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she 
 had looked forward with all the varied expectations and 
 preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill the 
 mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a 
 mother. Was there not a drawer filled with the neat 
 work of her hands, all unworn and untouched, just as 
 she had arranged it there fourteen years ago — just, but 
 for one little dress, which had been made the burial- 
 dress? But under this immediate personal trial Nancy 
 was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had sud- 
 denly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, lest she 
 should in this way be cherishing a longing for what was 
 not given. 
 
 Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indul- 
 gence of what she held to be sinful regret in herself that 
 made her shrink from applying her own standard to 
 her husband. **It is very different — it is much worse 
 for a man to be disappointed in that way : a woman can 
 always be satisfied with devoting herself to her husband, 
 but a man wants something that will make him look for- 
 ward more — and sitting by the fire is so much duller to 
 
252 SILAS MARNER 
 
 him than to a woman." And always, when Nancy 
 reached this point in her meditations — trying, with pre- 
 determined sympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw 
 it — there came a renewal of self -questioning. Had she 
 done everything in her power to lighten Godfrey's priva- 
 tion? Had she really been right in the resistance which 
 had cost her so much pain six years ago, and again four 
 years ago — the resistance to her husband's wish that 
 they should adopt a child? Adoption was more remote 
 from the ideas and habits of that time than of our own ; 
 still Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary 
 to her mind to have an opinion on all topics, not 
 exclusively masculine, that had come under her notice, 
 as for her to have a precisely marked place for every 
 article of her personal property : and her opinions were 
 always principles to be unwaveringly acted on. They 
 were firm, not because of their basis, but because she 
 held them with a tenacity inseparable from her mental 
 action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from 
 filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening toilet, 
 pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three-and- 
 twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had formed 
 every one of her habits in strict accordance with that 
 code. She carried these decided judgments within her 
 in the most unobtrusive way : they rooted themselves in 
 her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years 
 ago, we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, 
 because "it was right for sisters to di-ess alike," and 
 because "she would do what was right if she wore a 
 gown dyed with cheese-colouring." 
 
 That was a trivial but typical instance of the mode in 
 which Nancy's life was regulated. 
 
SILAS MARNER 253 
 
 It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty- 
 egoistic feeling, which had been the ground of Nancy's 
 diflScult resistance to her husband's wish. To adopt a 
 child, because children of your own had been denied 
 you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Provi- 
 dence: the adopted child, she was convinced, would 
 never turn out well, and would be a curse to those who 
 had wilfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear 
 that, for some high reason, they were better without. 
 When you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, 
 it was a bounden duty to leave o5 so much as wishing 
 for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could 
 scarcely make mor,e than a verbal improvement in her 
 principle. But the conditions under which she held it 
 apparent that a thing was not meant to be, depended on 
 a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have 
 given up making a purchase at a particular place if, on 
 three successive times, rain, or some other cause of 
 Heaven's sending, had formed an obstacle; and she 
 would have anticipated a broken limb or other heavy 
 misfortune to any one who persisted in spite of such 
 indications. 
 
 *'But why should you think the child would turn out 
 ill?" said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. ''She has 
 thriven as well as child can do with the weaver; and lie 
 adopted her. There isn't such a pretty little girl any- 
 where else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we 
 could give her. Where can be the likelihood of her 
 being a curse to anybody?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear Godfrey," said Nancy, who was sitting 
 with her hands tightly clasped together, and with yearn- 
 ing, regretful affection in her eyes. *'The child may 
 
254 SILAS MARNER 
 
 not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he didn't 
 go to seek her, as we should be doing. It will be wrong: 
 I feel sure it will. Don't you remember what that lady 
 we met at the Royston Baths told ua about the child her 
 sister adopted? That was the only adopting I ever 
 heard of: and the child was transported when it was 
 twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don't ask me to do what 
 I know is wrong : I should never be happy again. I 
 know it's very hard for you — it's easier for me — but it's 
 the will of Providence." 
 
 It might seem singular that Nancy — with her religioua 
 theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions, 
 fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, 
 and girlish reasonings on her small experience — should 
 have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so nearly 
 akin to that of many devout people whose beliefs are 
 held in the shape of a S3^stem quite remote from her 
 knowledge: singular, if we did not know that human 
 beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude the bairiers 
 of system. 
 
 Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about 
 twelve years old, as a child suitable for them to adopt. 
 It had never occurred to him that Silas would rather 
 part with his life than with Eppie. Surely the weaver 
 would wish the best to the child he had taken so much 
 trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune 
 should happen to her : she would always be very grate- 
 ful to him, and he would be well provided for to the end 
 of his life — provided for as the excellent part he had 
 done by the child deserved. Was it not an appropriate 
 thing for people in a higher station to take a charge off 
 the hands of a man in a lower? It seemed an eminently 
 
SILAS MARNER 255 
 
 appropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons that were 
 known only to himself ; and by a common fallacy, he 
 imagined the measure would be easy because he had 
 private motives for desiring it. This was rather a 
 coarse mode of estimating Silas's relation to Eppie; but 
 we must remember that many of the impressions which 
 Godfrey was likely to gather concerning the labouring 
 people around him would favour the idea that deep 
 affections can hardly go along with callous palms and 
 scant means ; and he had not had the opportunity, even 
 if he had had the power, of entering intimately into all 
 that was exceptional in the weaver's experience. It was 
 only the want of adequate knowledge that could have 
 made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to entertain an 
 unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outlived 
 that blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy's praise 
 of him as a husband was not founded entirely on a 
 wilful illusion. 
 
 *'I was right," she said to herself, when she had 
 recalled all their scenes of discussion — "I feel I was 
 right to say him nay, though it hurt me more than any- 
 thing ; but how good Godfrey has been about it I Many 
 men would have been very angry with me for standing 
 out against their wishes ; and they might have thrown 
 out that they'd had ill-luck in marrying me ; but God- 
 frey has never been the man to say me an unkind word. 
 It's only what he can't hide : everything seems so blank to 
 him, I know ; and the land — what a difference it 'ud make 
 to him, when he goes to see after things, if he'd children 
 growing up that he was doing it all for! But I won't 
 murmur; and perhaps if he'd married a woman who'd 
 have had children, she'd have vexed him in other ways." 
 
256 SILAS MARNER 
 
 This possibility was Nancy's chief comfort; and to 
 give it greater strength, she labonred to make it impos- 
 sible that any other wife should have had more perfect 
 tenderness. She had been forced to vex him by that 
 one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving 
 effort, and did !N'ancy no injustice as to the motives of 
 her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her 
 fifteen yeai's and not be aware that an unselfish clinging 
 to the right, and a sincerity clear as the flower-born 
 dew, were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt 
 this so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too 
 averse to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and 
 truthful, was kept in a certain awe of this gentle wife 
 who watched his looks with a yearning to obey them. It 
 seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to 
 her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover 
 from the repulsion the story of his earlier marriage 
 would create, told to her now, after that long conceal- 
 ment. And the child, too, he thought, must become an 
 object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be 
 painful. The shock to Nancy's mingled pride and 
 ignorance of the world's evil might even be too much 
 for her delicate frame. Since he had married her with 
 that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to the 
 last. Whatever else he did, he could not make an irrepar- 
 able breach between himself and this long-loved wife. 
 
 Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to 
 the absence of children from a hearth brightened by 
 such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily to that 
 void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thor- 
 oughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all 
 men and women who reach middle age without the clear 
 
SILAS MARNER 257 
 
 perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous: 
 under the vague dulness of the grey hours, dissatisfac- 
 tion seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation 
 of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on 
 a childless hearth, thinks with envy of the father whose 
 return is greeted by young voices — seated at the meal 
 where the little heads rise one above another like nursery 
 plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every one of 
 them, and thinks the impulses by which men abandon 
 freedom, and seek for ties, are surely nothing but a brief 
 madness. In Godfrey's case there were further reasons 
 why his thoughts should be continually solicited by this 
 one point in his lot ; his conscience, never thoroughly 
 easy about Eppie, now gave his childless home the 
 aspect of a retribution; and as the time passed on, 
 under Nancy's refusal to adopt her, any retrieval of his 
 error became more and more difficult. 
 
 On this Sunday afternoon it was already four yearfa 
 since there had been any allusion to the subject between 
 them, and Nancy supposed that it was for ever buried. 
 
 *'I wonder if he'll mind it less or more as he gets 
 older," she thought; "I'm afraid more. Aged people 
 feel the miss of children : what would father do without 
 Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely — 
 not holding together with his brothers much. But I 
 won't be over-anxious, and trying to make things out 
 beforehand: I must do my best for the present." 
 
 With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her 
 reverie, and turned her eyes again towards the forsaken 
 page. It had been forsaken longer than she imagined, 
 for she was presently surprised by the appearance of the 
 servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a little 
 
258 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "before the usual time for tea ; but Jane had her reasons. 
 
 *'Is your master come into the yard, Jane?" 
 
 **No'm, he isn't," said Jane, with a slight emphasis, 
 of which, however, her mistress took no notice. 
 
 *'I don't know whether you've seen 'em, 'm," con- 
 tinued Jane, after a pause, "but there's folks making 
 haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt 
 something's happened. There's niver a man to be seen 
 i' the yard, else I'd send and see. I've been up into the 
 top attic, but there's no seeing anything for trees. I 
 hope nobody's hurt, that's all. " 
 
 *'0, no, I daresay there's nothing much the matter," 
 said Xancy. ''It's perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got out 
 again, as he did before." 
 
 "I wish he mayn't gore anybody then, that's all," 
 said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which 
 covered a few imaginary calamities. 
 
 *'That gu'l is always terrifying me," thought Nancy; 
 **I wish Godfrey would come in." 
 
 She went to the front window and looked as far as 
 she could see along the road, with an uneasiness which 
 she felt to be childish, for there were now no such signs 
 of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey would 
 not be likely to luturn by the village road, but by the 
 jfields. She continucrl to stand, however, looking at the 
 placid churchyard with the long shadows of the grave- 
 stones across the bright green hillocks, and at the glow- 
 ing autumn colours of the Eectory trees beyond. Before 
 such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is 
 more distinctly felt — ^like a raven flapping its slow wing 
 across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more 
 that Godfrey would come in. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, 
 and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She turned 
 from the window with gladness in her eyes, for the 
 wife's chief dread was stilled. 
 
 *'Dear, I'm so thankful you're come," she said, going 
 towards him. **I began to get . . ." 
 
 She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down hia 
 hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her with 
 a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as if he 
 saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invisible 
 to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to 
 speak again ; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw 
 himself into his chair. 
 
 Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 
 *'Tell her to keep away, will you?" said Godfrey; and 
 when the door was closed again he exerted himself to 
 speak more distinctly. 
 
 "Sit down, Nancy — there," he said, pointing to a 
 chair opposite him. *'I came back as soon as I could, 
 to hinder anybody's telling you but me. I've had a 
 great shock — but I care most about the shock it'll be to 
 you." 
 
 **It isn't father and Priscilla?" said Nancy, with 
 quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on 
 her lap. 
 
 *'No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, unequal to 
 
 259 
 
260 SILAS MARNER 
 
 the considerate skill with which he would have wished 
 to make his revelation. "It's Dunstan — my brother 
 Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've 
 found him — found his body — his skeleton." 
 
 The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy 
 made her feel these words a relief. She sat in compar- 
 ative calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He 
 went on : 
 
 *'The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly — from the 
 draining, I suppose ; and there he lies — has lain for six- 
 teen years, wedged between two great stones. There's 
 his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunt- 
 ing-whip, with my name on; he took it away, without 
 my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the 
 last time he was seen. " 
 
 Godfrey paused : it was not so easy to say what came 
 next. "Do you think he drowned himself?" said 
 Nancy almost wondering that her husband should be so 
 deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago 
 to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been 
 augured. 
 
 "No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but distinct 
 voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. 
 Presently he added: "Dunstan was the man that robbed 
 Silas Marner." 
 
 The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this 
 surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard 
 even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonour. 
 
 "0 Godfrey!" she said, with compassion in her tone, 
 for she had immediately reflected that the dishonour 
 must be felt still more keenly by her husband. 
 
 "There was the money in the pit," he continued — 
 
SILAS MARNER 261 
 
 *'all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered 
 up, and they're taking the skeleton to the Rainbow. 
 But I came back to tell you : there was no hindering it ; 
 ^ou must know." 
 
 He was silent, looking on the ground for two long 
 minutes. Nancy would have said some words of com- 
 fort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an 
 instinctive sense that there was something behind — that 
 Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he 
 lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, 
 as he said — 
 
 * 'Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. 
 When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 
 I've lived with a secret on my mind, but I'll keep it 
 from yoa no longer. I wouldn't have you know it by 
 somebody else, and not by me — I wouldn't have you find 
 it out after I'm dead. I'll tell you now. It's been '1 
 will' and 'I won't' with me all my life — I'll make sure 
 of myself now." 
 
 Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the 
 husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a crisis 
 which suspended affection. 
 
 * 'Nancy," said Godfrey, slowly, "when I married 
 you, I hid something from you — something I ought to 
 have told you. That woman Marner found dead in the 
 enow — Eppie's mother — that wretched woman — was my 
 wife: Eppie is my child." 
 
 He paused, di-eading the effect of his confession. But 
 Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped and 
 ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a medi- 
 tative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 
 
 *'You'll never think the same of me again," said 
 
262 SILAS MARKER 
 
 Godfrey, after a little while, with some tremor in his 
 voice. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 **I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I 
 oughtn't to have kept it from you. But I couldn't bear 
 to give you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying 
 her — I suffered for it." 
 
 Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost 
 expected that she would presently get up and say she 
 would go to her father's. How could she have any 
 mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with 
 her simple severe notions? 
 
 But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and 
 spoke. There was no indignation in her voice — only 
 deep regret. 
 
 ** Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, 
 we could have done some of our duty by the child. 
 Do you think I'd have refused to take her in, if I'd 
 known she was yours?" 
 
 At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an 
 error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its 
 own end. He had not measured this wife with whom he 
 had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more 
 agitation. 
 
 ''"And — 0, Godfrey — if we'd had her from the first, if 
 you'd taken to her as you ought, she'd have loved me 
 for her mother — and you'd have been happier with me: 
 I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our 
 life might have been more like what we used to think it 
 'udbe." 
 
 The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 
 
 **But you wouldn't have married me then, Nancy, if 
 
SILAS MARNER 263 
 
 I'd told you," said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of 
 his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct 
 had not been utter folly. **You may think you would 
 now, but you wouldn't then. With your pride and your 
 •other's, you'd have hated having anything to do with 
 me after the talk there'd have been." 
 
 "I can't say what I should have done about that, 
 Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. 
 But I wasn't worth doing wrong for — nothing is in this 
 world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand — not 
 even our marrying wasn't, you see." There was a faint 
 sad smile on Nancy's face as she said the last words. 
 
 "I'm a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy," 
 said Godfrey, rather tremulously. **Can you forgive me 
 ever?" 
 
 *'The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you've 
 made it up to me — you've been good to me for fifteen 
 years. It's another you did the wrong to; and I doubt 
 it can never be all made up for." 
 
 '*But we can take Eppie now," said Godfrey. *'I 
 won't mind the world knowing at last. I'll be plain 
 and open for the rest o' my life." 
 
 "It'll be different coming to us, now she's grown 
 up," said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. "But it's 
 your duty to acknowledge her and provide for her ; and 
 I'll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to 
 make her love me." 
 
 "Then we'll go together to Silas Marner's this very 
 night, as soon aa everything's quiet at the Stone-pits." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 BetweeK eight and nine o'clock that evening, Eppie 
 and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the 
 great excitement the weaver had undergone from the 
 events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this 
 quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and 
 Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one 
 else, to leave him alone with his child. The excitement 
 had not passed away : it had only reached that stage 
 when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external 
 stimulus intolerable — when there is no sense of weari- 
 ness, but rather an intensity of inward life, under which 
 sleep is an impossibility. Any one who has watched 
 such moments in other men remembers the brightness of 
 the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over 
 coarse features from that transient influence. It is as if 
 a new fineness of eai' for all spiritual voices had sent 
 wonder-working vibrations through the heavy mortal 
 frame — as if *' beauty born of murmuring sound" had 
 passed into the face of the listener. 
 
 Silas's face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he 
 sat in his arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had 
 drawn her own chair towards his knees, and leaned for- 
 ward, holding both his hands, while she looked up at 
 him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the 
 recovered gold — the old long -loved gold, ranged in 
 orderly heaps, as Silas u/sed to range it in the days when 
 
 2t)^ 
 
SILAS MARNER 265 
 
 it was his only joy. He had been telling her how he 
 used to count it every night, and how his soul was 
 utterly desolate till she was sent to him. 
 
 *At first, I'd a sort o' feeling come across me now 
 and then," he was saying in a subdued tone, **as if you 
 might be changed into the gold again ; for sometimes, 
 turn my head which way I would, I seemed to see the 
 gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, 
 and find it was come back. But that didn't last long. 
 After a bit, I should have thought it was a curse come 
 again, if it had drove you from me, for I'd got to feel 
 the need o' your looks and your voice and the touch o' 
 your little fingers. You didn't know then, Eppie, when 
 you were such a little un — you didn't know what your 
 old father Silas felt for you." 
 
 **But I know now, father," said Eppie. *'If it 
 hadn't been for you, they'd have taken me to the work- 
 house, and there'd have been nobody to love me." 
 
 "Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
 you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to 
 the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
 from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till 
 it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is 
 wonderful." 
 
 Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the 
 money. *'It takes no hold of me now," he said, pon- 
 deringly — ''the money doesn't. I wonder if it ever 
 could again — I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I 
 might come to think I waa forsaken again, and lose the 
 feeling that God was good to me." 
 
 At that moment there was a knocking at the door ; 
 and Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. 
 
266 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Beautiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering 
 tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as she 
 stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when she 
 saw Mr. and Mr. Godfrey Cass. She made her little 
 rustic curtsy, and held the door wide for them to enter. 
 
 "We're disturbing you very late, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Cass, taking Eppie's hand, and looking in her face with 
 an expression of anxious interest and admiration. 
 Nancy herself was pale and tremulous. 
 
 Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, 
 went to stand against Silas, opposite to them. 
 
 **Well, Marner," said Godfrey, trying to speak with 
 perfect firmness, "it's a great comfort to me to see you 
 with your money again, that you've been deprived of so 
 many years. It was one of my family did you the 
 wrong — the more grief to me — and I feel bound to make 
 up to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do for 
 you will be nothing but paying a debt, even if I looked 
 no further than the robbery. But there are other things 
 I'm beholden — shall be beholden to you for, Marner." 
 
 Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed 
 between him and his wife that the subject of his father- 
 hood should be approached very carefully, and that, if 
 possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the 
 future, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. 
 Nancy had urged this, because she felt strongly the 
 painful light in which Eppie must inevitably see the 
 relation between her father and mother. 
 
 Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to 
 by "betters," such as Mr. Cass — tall, powerful, florid 
 men, seen chiefly on horseback — answered with some 
 constraint — 
 
SILAS MARNER 267 
 
 **Sir, I've a deal to thank you for a 'ready. As for 
 the robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, you 
 couldn't help it: you aren't answerable for it." 
 
 '*You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never 
 can; and I hope you'll let me act according to my own 
 feeling of what's just. I know you're easily contented: 
 you've been a hard-working man all your life." 
 
 '*Yes, sir, yes," said Marner, meditatively. "I 
 should ha' been bad off without my work : it was what I 
 held by when everything else was gone from me." 
 
 "Ah," said Godfrey, applying Marner 's words simply 
 to his bodily wants, "it was a good trade for you in this 
 country, because there's been a great deal of linen-weav- 
 ing to be done. But you're getting rather past such 
 close work, Marner: it's time you laid by and had some 
 rest. You look a good deal pulled down, though you're 
 not an old man, are you?" 
 
 "Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir," said Silas, 
 
 "0, why, you may live thirty years longer — ^look at 
 old Macey ! And that money on the table, after all, is 
 but little. It won't go far either way — whether it's put 
 out to interest, or you were to live on it as long as it 
 would last: it wouldn't go far if you'd nobody to keep 
 but yourself, and you've had two to keep for a good 
 many years now." 
 
 "Eh, sir," said Silas, unaffected by anytliing Godfrey 
 was saying, "I'm in no fear o' want. We shall do very 
 well — Eppie and me 'ull do well enough. There's few 
 working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I 
 don't know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it 
 as a deal — almost too much. And as for us, it's little 
 we want " 
 
268 SILAS MARNER 
 
 *' Only the garden, fialier," said Eppie, blushing up 
 to the ears the moment after. 
 
 **You love a garden, do you, my dear?" said Nancy, 
 thinking that this turn in the point of view might help 
 her husband. **We should agree in that: I give a deal 
 of time to the garden." 
 
 "Ah, there's plenty of gardening at the Red House," 
 said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in 
 approaching a proposition which had seemed so easy to 
 him in the distance. "You've done a good part by 
 Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It 'ud be a great 
 comfort to you to see her well provided for, wouldn't it? 
 She looks blooming and healthy, but not fit for any 
 hardships : she doesn't look like a strapping girl come of 
 working parents. You'd like to see her taken care of 
 by those who can leave her well off, and make a lady of 
 her ; she's more fit for it than for a rough life, such as 
 she might come to have in a few year's time." 
 
 A slight flush came over Marner 's face, and disap- 
 peared, like a passing gleam. Eppie was simply wonder- 
 ing Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed to 
 have nothing to do with reality, but Silas was hurt and 
 uneasy. 
 
 "I don't take your meaning, sir," he answered, not 
 having words at command to express the mingled feel- 
 ings with which he had heard Mr. Cass's words. 
 
 "Well, my meaning is this, Marner," said Godfrey, 
 determined to come to the point. "Mrs. Cass and I, 
 you know, have no children — nobody to be the better for 
 our good home and everything else we have — more than 
 enough for ourselves. And we should like to have 
 somebody in the place of a daughter to us — we should 
 
SILAS MARNER 269 
 
 like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as our 
 own child. It 'ud be a great comfort to you in your 
 old age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, 
 after you've been at the trouble of bringing her up so 
 well. And it's right you should have every reward for 
 that. And Eppie, I'm sure, will always love you and be 
 grateful to you : she'd come and see you very often, and 
 we should all be on the look-out to do everything we 
 could towards making you comfortable. " 
 
 A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some 
 embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are 
 coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall 
 gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had been 
 speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind 
 Silas's head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly: 
 she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for 
 some moments when Mr. Cass had ended — powerless 
 under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. 
 Eppieis heart was swelling at the sense that her father 
 was in distress ; and she was just going to lean down and 
 speak to him, when one struggling dread at last gained 
 the mastery over every other in Silas, and he said, 
 faintly — 
 
 "Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your 
 way. Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass." 
 
 Eppie took her hand from her father's head, and came 
 forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with 
 shyness this time : the sense that her father was in doubt 
 and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness. 
 She dropt a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and then to 
 Mr. Cass, and said — 
 
 *' Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir. But I can't 
 
270 SILAS MARNER 
 
 leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him.* 
 And I don't want to be a lady — thank you all the 
 same" (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). '*I 
 couldn't give up the folks I've been used to." 
 
 Eppie 's lip began to tremble a little at the last words. 
 She retreated to her father's chair again, and held him 
 round the neck : while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up 
 his hand to grasp hers. 
 
 The tears were in Nancy's eyes, but her sympathy 
 with Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her 
 husband's account. She dared not speak, wondering 
 what was going on in her husband's mind. 
 
 Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us 
 when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had 
 been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve 
 his error as far as the time was left to him; he was 
 possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead 
 to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed 
 on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with 
 lively appreciation into other people's feelings coun- 
 teracting his virtuous resolves. The agitation with 
 which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with 
 anger. 
 
 ^ This passage, an important one, suggests one of the 
 cardinal ideas of George Eliot's philosophy, — the influence 
 on character of environment. The real father had deserted 
 Eppie, had not been such even in name; the foster father 
 had reared her and given her a real parent's love. To 
 the latter then the heart of Eppie spontaneously^ cleaves 
 and the prospect of position and wealth is no temptation. 
 This outcome is not only an illustration of the force of 
 surroundings; it is also a vindication of human gratitude 
 and an illustration of the power of Nemesis. 
 
SILAS MARNER 271 
 
 *'Biit I've a claim on yon, Eppie — the strongest of all 
 claims. It's my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my 
 child, and provide for her. She's jrj own child: her 
 mother was my wife. I've a natural claim on her that 
 El list stand before every other." 
 
 Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite 
 pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, by 
 Eppie 's answer, from the dread lest his mind should be 
 in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in him 
 set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. 
 "Then, sir," he answered, with an accent of bitterness 
 that had been silent in him since the memorable day 
 when his youthful hope had perished — "then, sir, why 
 didn't you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before 
 I'd come to love her, i'stead o' coming to take her from 
 me now, when you might as well take the heart out o' 
 my body? God gave her to me because you turned your 
 back upon her. and He looks upon her as mine: you've 
 no right to her ! When a man turns a blessing from his 
 door, it falls to them as take it in." 
 
 *'I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I've repented 
 of my conduct in that matter," said Godfrey, who could 
 not help feeling the edge of Silas's words. 
 
 "I'm glad to hear it, sir," said Marner, with gather- 
 ing excitement; "but repentance doesn't alter what's 
 been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and 
 saying 'I'm her father' doesn't alter the feelings inside 
 us. It's me she's been calling her father ever since she 
 could say the word." 
 
 "But I think you might look at the thing more 
 reasonably, Marner," said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed 
 by the weaver's direct truth-speaking. "It isn't as if 
 
272 SILAS MARKER 
 
 she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you'd 
 never see her again. She'll be very near you, and come 
 to see you very often. She'll feel just the same towards 
 you." 
 
 '*Just the same?" said Marner, more bitterly than 
 ever. ''How '11 she feel just the same for me as she does 
 now, when we eat o' the same bit, and drink o' the same 
 cup, and think o' the same things from one day's end to 
 another? Just the same? that's idle talk. You'd cut 
 us i' two." 
 
 Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the 
 pregnancy of Marner's simple words, felt rather angry 
 again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very sel- 
 fish (a judgment readily passed by those who have never 
 tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was 
 undoubtedly for Eppie's welfare; and he felt himself 
 called upon, for her sake, to assert his authority. 
 
 *'I should have thought, Marner," he said, severely — 
 *'I should have thought your affection for Eppie would 
 make you rejoice in what was for her good, even if it 
 did call upon you to give up something. You ought to 
 remember your own life's uncertain, and she's at an age 
 now when her lot may soon be fixed in a way very 
 different from what it would be in her father's home: 
 she may marry some low working-man, and then, what- 
 ever I might do for her, I couldn't make her well-off. 
 You're putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and 
 though I'm sorry to hurt you after what you've done, 
 and what I've left undone, I feel now it's my duty to 
 insist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do 
 my duty." 
 
 It would be difficult LO say whether it were Silas or 
 
SILAS MARNER 273 
 
 Eppie that was more deeply stirred by this last speech of 
 Godfrey's. Thought had been very busy in Eppie as 
 she listened to the contest between her old long-loved 
 father and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly 
 come to fill the place of that black featureless shadow 
 which had held the ring and placed it on her mother's 
 finger. Her imagination had darted backward in con- 
 jectures, and forward in previsions, of what this revealed 
 fatherhood implied ; and there were words in Godfrey's 
 last speech which helped to make the previsions espe- 
 cially definite. Not that these thoughts, either of past 
 or future, determined her resolution — that was deter- 
 mined by the feelings which vibrated to every word Silas 
 had uttered; but they raised, even apart from these feel- 
 ings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly- 
 revealed father. 
 
 Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in con- 
 science, and alarmed lest Godfrey's accusation should be 
 true — ^lest he should be raising his own will as an 
 obstacle to Eppie 's good. For many moments he was 
 mute, struggling for the self -conquest necessary to the 
 uttering of the difficult words. They came out tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 "I'll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to 
 the child. I'll hinder nothing." 
 
 Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own 
 affections, shared her husband's view, that Marner was 
 not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real 
 father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very 
 hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no 
 question that a father by blood must have a claim above 
 that of any foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her 
 
274 SILAS MARNER 
 
 life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of 
 * 'respectability," could not enter into the pleasures 
 which early nurture and habit connect with all the little 
 aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor : to her 
 mind, Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was 
 entering on a too long withheld but unquestionable 
 good. Hence she heard Silas's last words with relief, 
 and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was 
 achieved. 
 
 **Eppie, my dear," said Godfrey, looking at his 
 daughter, not without some embarrassment, under the 
 sense that she was old enough to judge him, * 'it'll 
 always be our wish that you should show your love and 
 gratitude to one who's been a father to you so many 
 years, and we shall want to help you to make him com- 
 fortable in every way. But we hope you'll come to love 
 us as well; and though I haven't been what a father 
 should ha' been to you all these years, I wish to do the 
 utmost in my power for you for the rest of my life, and 
 provide for you as my only child. iVnd you'll have the 
 best of mothers in my wife — that'll be a blessing you 
 haven't known since you were old enough to know it." 
 
 "My dear, you'll be a treasure to me," said Nancy, in 
 her gentle voice. "We shall want for nothing when we 
 have our daughter." 
 
 Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had 
 done before. She held Silas's hand in hers, and grasped 
 it firmly — it was a weaver's hand, with a palm and 
 finger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure — while 
 she spoke with colder decision than before. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir, for your offers 
 — they're very great, and far above my wish. For I 
 
SILAS MARNER 275 
 
 should have no delight i' life any more if I was forced 
 to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at 
 home, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We've been 
 used to he happy together every day, and I can't think 
 o' no happiness without him. And he says he'd nobody 
 i' the world till I was sent to him, and he'd have noth- 
 ing when I was gone. And he's took care of me and 
 loved me from the first, and I'll cleave to him as long as 
 he lives, and nobody shall ever come between him and 
 me." 
 
 **But you must make sure, Eppie," said Silas, in a 
 low voice — *'you must make sure as you won't ever be 
 sorry, because you've made your choice to stay among 
 poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you 
 might ha' had everything o' the best." 
 
 His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he 
 listened to Eppie 's words of faithful affection. 
 
 "I can never be sorry, father," said Eppie. "I 
 shouldn't know what to think on or to wish for with 
 fine things about me, as I haven't been used to. And it 
 *ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a 
 gig, and sit in a place at church, as 'ud make them as 
 I'm fond of think me unfitting company for 'em. 
 What could /care for then?" 
 
 Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning 
 glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where he 
 was moving the end of his stick, as if he were ponder- 
 ing on something absently. She thought there was a 
 word which might perhaps come better from her lips 
 than from his. 
 
 **What you say is natural, my dear child — it's natural 
 you should cling to those who've brought you up," she 
 
276 SILAS MARNER 
 
 said, mildly; *'bnt there's a duty yon owe to your law- 
 ful father. There's perhaps something to be given up 
 on more sides than one. When yom' father opens his 
 home to you, I think it's right you shouldn't tui'n your 
 back on it. " 
 
 "I can't feel as I've got any father but one," said 
 Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered. ''I've 
 always thought of a little home where he'd sit i' the 
 corner, and I should fend and do everything for him : I 
 can't think o' no other home. I wasn't brought up to 
 be a lady, and I can't turn my mind to it. I like the 
 working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. 
 And," she ended passionately, while the tears fell, "I'm 
 promised to marry a working-man, as '11 live with 
 father, and help me to take care of him." 
 
 Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and 
 Bmarting dilated eyes. This fi*ustration of a purpose 
 towards which he had set out under the exalted con- 
 sciousness that he was about to compensate in some 
 degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him 
 feel the air of the room stifling. 
 
 "Let us go," he said, in an under-tone. 
 
 "We won't talk of this any longer now," said Nancy, 
 rising. "We're your well-wishers, my dear — and yours 
 too, Marner. We shall come and see you again. It's 
 getting late now." 
 
 In this way she covered her husband's abrupt 
 departure, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door, 
 unable to say more. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight in 
 silence. When they entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey 
 threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid down her 
 bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth near her 
 husband, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, 
 and yet fearing to utter any word lest it might jar on his 
 feeling. At last Godfrey turned his head towards her, 
 and their eyes met, dwelling in that meeting without 
 any movement on either side. That quiet mutual gaze 
 of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment 
 of rest or refuge from a gi'eat weariness or a great danger 
 — not to be interfered with by speech or action which 
 would distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment 
 of repose. 
 
 But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy 
 placed hers within it, he drew her towards him, and said — 
 
 ''That's ended!" 
 
 She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by 
 his side, "Yes, I'm afraid we must give up the hope of 
 having her for a daughter. It wouldn't be right to 
 want to force her to come to us against her will. We 
 can't alter her bringing up and what's come of it." 
 
 "No," said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, 
 in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic 
 speech — "there's debts we can't pay like money debts, 
 by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. 
 While I've been putting off and putting off, the trees 
 
 211 
 
278 SILAS MARKER 
 
 have been growing — it's too late now. Marner was in 
 the right in what he said about a man's turning away a 
 l^lessing from his door: it falls to somebody else. I 
 wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy — I shall pass 
 for childless now against my wish." 
 
 Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little 
 while she asked — "You won't make it known, then, 
 about Eppie's being your daughter?" 
 
 *'No: where would be the good to anybody? — only 
 harm. I must do what I can for her in the state of life 
 she chooses. I must see who it is she's thinking of 
 marrying." 
 
 "If it won't do any good to make the thing known," 
 said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself 
 the relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried 
 to silence before, *'I should be very thankful for father 
 and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what 
 was done in the past, more than about Dunsey : it can't 
 be helped, their knowing that." 
 
 *'I shall put it in my will — I think I shall put it in 
 my will. I shouldn't like to leave anything to be found 
 out, like this about Dunsey," said Godfrey meditatively. 
 *'But 1 can't see anything but difficulties that 'ud come 
 from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her 
 happy in her own way. I've a notion," he added, after 
 a moment's pause, *'it's Aaron Winthrop she meant she 
 was engaged to. I remember seeing him with her and 
 Marner going away from church." 
 
 "Well, he's very sober and industrious," said Nancy, 
 trying to view the matter as cheerfully as possible. 
 
 Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently he 
 looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said — 
 
SILAS MARNER 279 
 
 
 'She's a very pretty, nice girl, isn't she, Nancy?" 
 'Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I 
 wondered it had never struck me before." 
 
 *'I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of 
 my being her father: I could see a change in her 
 manner after that." 
 
 *'She couldn't bear to think of not looking on Marner 
 as her father," said Xancj, not wishing to confirm her 
 husband's painful impression. 
 
 **She thinks 1 did wrong by her mother as well as by 
 her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she must 
 think it: she can never know all. It's part of my pun- 
 ishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I 
 should never have got into that trouble if I'd been true 
 to you — if I hadn't been a fool. I'd no right to expect 
 anything but evil could come of that marriage — and 
 when I shirked doing a father's part too." 
 
 Nancy was silent : her spirit of rectitude would noc let 
 her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a just 
 compunction. He spoke again after a little while, but 
 the tone was rather changed: there was tenderness 
 mingled with the previous self-reproach. 
 
 **And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I've 
 been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn't something 
 else — as if I deserved it." 
 
 *' You've never been wanting to me, Godfrey," said 
 Nancy, with quiet sincerity. "My only trouble would 
 be gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that's been 
 given us." 
 
 *'Well, perhaps it isn't too late to mend a bit there. 
 Though it is too late to mend some things, say what 
 thev will." 
 
CHAPTEE XXI 
 
 The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at 
 their breakfast, he said to her — 
 
 "Eppie, there's a thing I've had on my mind to do 
 this two year, and now the money's been brought back 
 to US, we can do it. I've been turning it over and over 
 in the night, and I think we'll set out to-morrow, while 
 the fine days last. We'll leave the house and everything 
 for your godmother to take care on, and we'll make a 
 little bundle o' things and set out." 
 
 "Where to go, daddy?" said Eppie, in much surprise. 
 
 "To my old country — to the town where I was born — 
 up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the min- 
 ister : something may ha' come out to make 'em know I 
 was innicent o' the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a 
 man with a deal o' light — I want to speak to him about 
 the drawing o' the lots. And I should like to talk to 
 him about the religion o' this country-side, for I partly 
 think he doesn't know on it." 
 
 Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not 
 only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange country, 
 but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. 
 Aaron was so much wiser than she was about most 
 things — it would be rather pleasant to have this little 
 advantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed 
 with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a 
 journey, and requiring many assurances that it would 
 
 280 
 
SILAS MARNER 281 
 
 not take them out of the region of carriers' carta and 
 alow waggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas 
 should revisit his own country, and find out if he had 
 been cleared from that false accusation. 
 
 "You'd be easier in your mind for the rest o' your 
 life, Master Marner," said Dolly — "that you would. 
 And if there's any light to be got up the yard as you 
 talk on, we've need of it i' this world, and I'd be glad 
 on it myself, if you could bring it back." 
 
 So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, 
 in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a 
 blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through 
 the streets of a great manufacturing town. Silas, 
 bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over 
 his native place, had stopped several persons in succes- 
 sion to ask them the name of this town, that he might 
 be sure he was not under a mistake about it. 
 
 "Ask for Lantern Yard, father — ask this gentleman 
 with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop 
 door; he isn't in a hurry like the rest," said Eppie, in 
 some distress at her father's bewilderment, and ill at 
 ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the 
 multitude of strange indifferent faces. 
 
 "Eh, my child, he won't know anything about it," 
 said Silas; "gentlefolks didn't ever go up the Yard. 
 But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to 
 Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way out o' 
 that as if I'd seen it yesterday." 
 
 With some difficulty, after many turnings and new 
 inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim 
 walls of the jail, the first object that answered to any 
 image in Silas's memory, cheered him with the certi- 
 
282 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tude, whicli no assurance of the town's name had 
 hitherto given him, that he was in his native place. 
 
 "Ah," he said, drawing a long breath, "there's the 
 jail, Eppie; that's just the same: I aren't afraid now. 
 It's the third turning on the left hand from the jail 
 doors — that's the way we must go." 
 
 "0, what a dark ugly place!" said Eppie. "How it 
 hides the sky! It's worse than the Workhouse. I'm 
 glad you don't live in this town now, father. Is Lan- 
 tern Yard like this street?" 
 
 "My precious child," said Silas, smiling, "it isn't a 
 big street like this. I never was easy i' this street 
 myself, but I was fond o' Lantern Yard. The shops 
 here are all altered, I think — I can't make 'em out; but 
 I shall know the turning, because it's the third." 
 
 "Here it is," he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they 
 came to a narrow alley. "And then we must go to the 
 left again, and then straight for'ard for a bit, up Shoe 
 Lane : and then we shall be at the entry next to the 
 o'erhanging window, where there's the nick in the road 
 for the water to run. Eh, I can see it all." 
 
 "0 father, I'm like as if I was stifled," said Eppie. 
 "I couldn't ha' thought as any folks lived i' this way, 
 so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits 'ull look 
 when we get back !" 
 
 "It looks comical to me, child, now — and smells bad. 
 I can't think as it usened to smell so." 
 
 Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out 
 from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased 
 Eppie's uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief 
 when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where 
 there was a broader strip of sky. 
 
SILAS MARNER 283 
 
 **Dear heart!" said Silas, *'wliy, there's people com- 
 ing out o' the Yard as if they'd been to chapel at thi£^ 
 time o' day — a weekday noon!" 
 
 Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of dis- 
 tressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were 
 before an opening in front of a large factory, from 
 which men and women were streaming for their mid-day 
 meal. 
 
 *Tather," said Eppie, clasping his arm, "what's the 
 matter?" 
 
 But she had to speak again and again before Silas 
 could answer her. 
 
 "It's gone, child," he said, at last, in strong agitation 
 — "Lantern Yard's gone. lb must ha' been here, 
 because here's the house with the o'erhanging window — 
 I know that — it's just the same; but they've made this 
 new opening; and see that big factory! It's all gone- 
 chapel and all." 
 
 "Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, 
 father — they'll let you sit down," said Eppie, always on 
 the watch lest one of her father's strange attacks should 
 come on. "Perhaps the people can tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to 
 Shoe Lane only ten years ago, whe» the factory was 
 already built, nor from any other source within his 
 reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern 
 Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister. 
 
 "The old place is all swep' away," Silas said to Dolly 
 Winthrop on the night of his return — "the little grave- 
 yard and everything. The old heme's gone; I've no 
 home but this now. I shall never know whether they 
 
^84 SILAS MARNER 
 
 got at the truth o' the robbery, nor whether Mr. Pas ton 
 could ha' given me any light about the drawing o' the 
 lots. It's dark tp me, Mrs. Wintlirop, that is; I doubt 
 it'll be dark to the last." 
 
 "Well, yes. Master Marner," said Dolly, who sat with 
 a placid listening face, now bordered by grey hairs; ''I 
 doubt it may. It's the will o' Them above as a many 
 things should bo dark to us; but there's some things as 
 I've never felt i' the dark about, and they're mostly 
 what comes i' the day's work. You were hard done by 
 that once. Master Marner, and it seems as you'll never 
 know the rights of it; but that doesn't hinder there 
 leing a rights, Master Marner, for all it's dark to you 
 and me." 
 
 *'No," said Silas, "no; that doesn't hinder. Since 
 the time the child was sent to me and I've come to love 
 her as myself, I've had light enough to trusten by; and 
 now she says she'll never leave me, I think I shall 
 trusten till I die." 
 
CO'N^CLUSION" 
 
 There was one time of the year which was held in 
 Eaveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It was 
 when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned 
 gardens showed their golden and purple wealth above 
 the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still 
 young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. 
 People were not so busy then as they must become when 
 the full cheese-making and the mowing had set in ; and 
 besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress could be 
 worn v/ith comfort and seen to advantage. 
 
 Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on 
 the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, for 
 her di'ess was a very light one. She had often thought, 
 though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfec- 
 tion of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with 
 the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals ; so that when 
 Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, and asked 
 Eppie to choose what it should be, previous meditation 
 had enabled her to give a decided answer at once. 
 
 Seen at a little distance as she walked across the 
 chiu'chyard and down the village, she seemed to be 
 attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash 
 of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband's arm, 
 and with the other she clasped the hand of her father 
 Silas. 
 
 "You won't be giving me away, father," she had said 
 
 285 
 
286 SILAS MARNER 
 
 before tliey went to church; "you'll only be taking 
 Aaron to be a son to you." 
 
 Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; 
 and there ended the little bridal procession. 
 
 There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla 
 Lammeter was glad that she and her father had happened 
 to drive up to the door of the Red House just in time to 
 see this pretty sight. They had come to keep Nancy 
 company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away 
 to Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a 
 pity, for otherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look on at the 
 wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, 
 naturally feeling a great interest in tlie weaver who had 
 been wronged by one of his own family. 
 
 "I could ha' wished Nancy had had the luck to find a 
 child like that and bring her up," said Priscilla to her 
 father, as they sat in the gig; "I should ha' had some- 
 thing young to think of then, besides the lambs and the 
 calves." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, yes," said Mr. Lammeter; "one feels 
 that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks : 
 they'd need have some young eyes about 'em, to let 'em 
 know the world's the same as it used to be." 
 
 Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sister ; 
 and the wedding group had passed on beyond the Ked 
 House to the humbler pai't of the village. 
 
 Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. 
 Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his 
 own door, would expect some special notice as they 
 passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. 
 
 "Mr. Macey 's looking for a word from us," said 
 
CONCLUSION 287 
 
 Dolly; "he'll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing — 
 and him so racked with rheumatiz." 
 
 So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. 
 He had looked forward to the occasion, and had his pre- 
 meditated speech. 
 
 "Well, Master Marner," he said, in a voice that 
 quavered a good deal, "I've lived to see my words com& 
 true. I was the first to say there was no harm in you, 
 though your looks might be again' you ; and I was the 
 first to say you'd get your money back. And it's noth- 
 ing but rightful as you should. And I'd ha' said the 
 *Amens,' and willing, at the holy matrimony; but 
 Tookey's done it a good while now, and I hope you'll 
 have none the worse luck." 
 
 In the open yard before the Eainbow the pai'ty of 
 guests were already assembled, though it was still neai'ly 
 an hour before the appointed feast-time. But by this 
 means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of their 
 pleasure ; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas 
 Marner 's strange history, and arrive by due degrees at 
 the conclusion that he had brought a blessing on himself 
 by acting like a father to a lone motherless child. Even 
 the farrier did not negative this sentiment : on the con- 
 trary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and invited 
 any hardy person present to contradict him. But he 
 met with no contradiction ; and all differences among 
 the company were merged in a general agreement with 
 Mr. Snell's sentiment, that when a man had deserved 
 his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish 
 him joy. 
 
 As the bridal group approached, a heai'ty cheer was 
 raised in the Rainbow yard ; and Ben Winthrop, whose 
 
288 SILAS MARNER 
 
 jokes had retained their acceptable flavour, found it 
 agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations ; 
 not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the 
 Stone-pits before joining the company. 
 
 Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected 
 there now ; and in other ways there had been alterations 
 at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas's 
 larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they 
 would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new 
 home. The garden was fenced with stones on two 
 sides, but in front there v/as an open fence, through 
 which the flowers shone with answering gladness, as the 
 four united people came within sight of them. 
 
 **0 father," said Eppie, "what a pretty home ours is! 
 I think nobody could be happier than we are. ' ' 
 
 THE END 
 
WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 1783-1859 
 
[For Questions on the Life of Irving, The 
 Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Living's 
 Literary Style, see pages 11 to 16 of Marsh 
 and Royster's Manual for teaching English 
 Classics, hound in this vohtme.] 
 
 Copyright, 1901. by Scott, Fobesman and Company 
 
IXTEODUCTION 
 
 I, BIOGRAPHY 
 
 There is a familiar engraving which represents an 
 imaginary gathering of Washington Irving and his literary 
 irvin and friends at Sunnyside, the home of Irving 's 
 his literary later years. In the center of the foreground 
 riends. Irving is seated, a somewhat portly, smooth- 
 
 faced and kindly-looking man of fifty or more. At his 
 near left stands James K. Paulding, an early literary 
 comrade and life-long friend. Near by sit Bryant, the 
 poet and editor, Cooper, the novelist, and Bancroft, the 
 historian. Somewhat in the background stands a younger 
 man — Emerson, the poet and philosopher. On the right 
 the place of honor is held by Prescott, Irving's friendly 
 rival in the field of Spanish history. Here also are Hal- 
 leck, remembered as the author of Marco Bozzaris^ and, 
 again in the background, several younger men — Nathan- 
 iel Parker Willis, William Gilmore Simms, Longfellow, 
 Hawthorne, Holmes. But the center of the picture is 
 Irving; all the other figures of the group combine to 
 bring him out with special prominence. 
 
 This fancy of the artist pictures to us very well the 
 place of Washington Irving in American letters during 
 the later years of his life. Other names were becoming 
 known — those of Longfellow, Hawthorne, Emerson— 
 names that were destined to equal, some of them perhaps 
 to surpass, his in renown; hue they were the nynies 
 
 9 
 
10 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of young men, candidates for fame and as yet hardly well 
 breathed in the race. Irving was nearing the term of a 
 long and prosperous career, a career that covers one-half 
 of our whole literary history. He could look back to the 
 time when American letters were not yet in existence, for 
 he himself was the chief founder of them. 
 
 American 
 
 literature Until Within a fcw ycars of the Revolution- 
 
 before ^^.y ^^^j. uhqh had been too much engaged 
 
 Irving. , , 
 
 in clearmg farms and building homes to 
 spend much time on the more leisurely pursuits of art and 
 letters. There were historians, for example Bradford and 
 Winslow; and preachers, for example Cotton Mather and 
 Jonathan Edwards. But often their work is crude in 
 form and narrow in subject- matter; when we read the 
 writers of this period now it is with something of the anti- 
 quarian's pleasure in their quaintness and archaisms, or the 
 historian's interest in the information to be derived from 
 them. In a somewhat later period the intellectual stir that 
 preceded and accompanied the Revolution bore fruit in a 
 plentiful yield of state papers, speeches, pamphlets, and 
 even poetry. Some of it is extremely vigorous, and at its 
 time it was effective. But, as is almost always true of lit- 
 erature written for a special time or occasion, very little 
 of it has outlived the period of its production. With the 
 possible exception of Woolman the Quaker's Journal, the 
 only American book written before the close of the Revo- 
 lutionary War that still holds a worthy place by reason of 
 its literary excellence is Franklin's AiUoMograpliy. Yet 
 nothing was further from Franklin's intention than the 
 composition of a work of literature. Franklin was states- 
 man, scientist, philanthropist, all more or less consciously ; 
 but he has come to be counted among men of letters 
 almost by accident. The first writer in America who 
 
BIOGRAPHY 11 
 
 deliberately chose letters as a profession was Charles 
 Brockden Brown, a moderately successful journalist and 
 novelist of the first decade of this century. But Brown's 
 work did not have sufficient power or originality to draw 
 together and give form to the incipient literary tendencies 
 of the country. Irving, the first American to gain wide 
 reputation abroad, was also the first to gain a reputation 
 at home that has proved lasting. Cooper and Bryant were 
 his near followers; but all the other names in the first 
 flowering period of American literature came into promi- 
 nence only after his fame had reached its zenith. 
 
 Irving was born in New York in 1783, the year the 
 
 Treaty of Paris was signed and the independence of the 
 
 United States formally acknowledged. 
 
 Irving'8 birth. „, , . , , , 
 
 Washington, for whom he was named, was 
 inaugurated when Irving was six years old ; and we are 
 told that when he came to New York to take the oath 
 of office as first President, he placed his hands upon 
 the head of his youthful namesake and gave him his 
 blessing. 
 
 That America of which Washington took control in 
 1789 was an almost inconceivably different country from 
 the America of to-day. The settled portions of it were 
 still a mere fringe along the Atlantic coast. Eighteen 
 years were to pass before Fulton made his first experi- 
 ments with the "Clermont" on the Hudson, and thirty- 
 nine years before work was begun on the Baltimore 
 and Ohio railroad, the first railroad to cross the Allegha- 
 nies. But perhaps the most astonishing changes of the 
 past hundred years are those which have affected the 
 cities of the country. When Irving was a boy in New 
 York, that place was a town of less than 25,000 inhab- 
 itants. It covered only the lower end, the point, of 
 
12 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Manhattan Islando The present Bleeker Street marked 
 the northern limits of the little town.^ Beyond that 
 stretched the rocky, hill-broken farms of the Dutch set- 
 tlers — the Wolfert Webbers whom fate was to make rich 
 in spite of themselves. The fashionable promenade was 
 in Battery Park, now a region of grimy shipping and 
 ugly warehouses: and William Street, in which Irving's 
 father lived, now a street of tall office-buildings, was then 
 an uptown residence street. 
 
 There was much in the life of this eighteenth -century 
 New York to excite the imagination of a sensitive boy, and 
 Irving spent his time in exploring the secret places of his 
 native city and in wandering through the half -wild regions 
 beyond the Harlem. The wandering instinct was strongly 
 developed in him, and when his explorations on land grew 
 tame, he tells how he would go down to the wharves at the 
 city's edge and watch with longing eye the great vessels 
 sail slowly out of the harbor on their long voyages across 
 the ocean. 
 
 His own first long voyage was one he never forgot. In 
 his seventeenth year his parents gave him permission to 
 make a summer visit to his sister, who lived near Albany. 
 In 1800 the best way to reach Albany from New York was 
 by boat on the Hudson Eiver. Nowadays the distance is 
 irvin-^'s first Ki^tl© ^^ Icss than twclvc hours ; but then it 
 trip up the wasalougvoyagc by sail, and Irving tells with 
 what anxiety intending passengers selected 
 their boat and made all possible preparations for their com- 
 fort. This journey made known to Irving for the first time 
 the beauties of the river that he never ceased to love. The 
 depth and vividness of the impressions he received at this 
 
 1 Cf. Todd, The Story of New York, p. 438. 
 
BIOGRAPHY 13 
 
 time may be seen from the following description written 
 many years afterwards : 
 
 "What a time of intense delight was that first sail 
 throngh the Highlands! I sat on the deck as we slowly 
 tided along at the foot of those stern mountains, and 
 gazed w^ith wonder and admiration at those stern cliifs 
 impending far above me, crowned with forests, with 
 eagles sailing and screaming around them ; or listened to 
 the unseen stream dashing down precipices; or beheld 
 rock, and tree, and cloud, and sky reflected in the glassy 
 stream of the river. And then how solemn and thrilling 
 the scene as we anchored at night at the foot of these 
 mountains, clothed with overhanging forests; and every- 
 tliing grew dark and mysterious ; and I heard the plaintive 
 note of the whip-poor-will from the mountain-side, or was 
 startled now and then by the sudden leap and heavy 
 splash of the sturgeon. 
 
 ". . . But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the 
 Kaatskill Mountains had the most witching effect on my 
 boyish imagination. Xever shall I forget the effect upon 
 me of the first view of them predominating over a wide 
 extent of country, part w^ild, w^oody, and rugged; part 
 softened away into all the graces of cultivation. As we 
 slowly floated along, I lay on the deck and watched them 
 through a long summer's day, undergoing a thousand 
 mutations under the magical effects of atmosphere; some- 
 times seeming to approach, at other times to recede; now 
 almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the 
 setting sun, until, in the evening, they printed themselves 
 against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian 
 landscape." — Life, by P. M. Irving, vol. I, p. 19. 
 
 Perhaps, as it so often proves with the recollections of 
 childhood, Irving has unconsciously filled in the above 
 picture from the recollection of his frequent later trips up 
 the Hudson. Yet the fact that these later recollections all 
 center around that first early experience shows that it was 
 a profound one, and, in Irving's life, the most form- 
 ative of them all. 
 
14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But manifestly a man's life could not all be spent in 
 
 idle wandering, however pleasant that might be. In the 
 
 summer after this trip up the Hudson Irving 
 
 Attempts ^ ^j^g serious study of the law. His 
 
 at law. o J 
 
 preliminary education had been very slight 
 indeed. He had attended a boy's school for some years, 
 and had prepared for entrance to Columbia college. Two 
 of his brothers had attended this college and had been 
 graduated from it. But, perhaps through negligence or 
 a dislike of all formal study, Irving himself did not 
 enter the college. In after life he always regretted the 
 omission of the formal discipline of a college course in 
 his education, for he thought it deprived him of an advan- 
 tage he was never able to make up in other ways. With 
 no more liking for the routine of law than for that of the 
 school, Irving nevertheless gave his attention to the former 
 subject for the next few years. Before he could be admitted 
 to the bar, however, his health broke down, and in 1804, 
 in hopes of restoring him, it was determined to send him 
 on a voyage to Europe. Thus, though doubtless in a way 
 far different from that he had imagined, a long- cherished 
 wish was to be realized. 
 
 The voyage across the water was made in May and June 
 of 1804, and proved to be the thing Irving most needed. 
 
 When, after a voyage of six weeks, he left 
 fo^Euiope!^^ the ship at Bordeaux, his health was very 
 
 much improved. For a year and a half, he 
 was a traveller and sight-seer, visiting various places in 
 France, Italy, and England, meeting many famous peo- 
 ple, and passing through many exciting and whimsical 
 adventures. He scon developed the true traveller's spirit 
 and took the buffets and the favors of fortune with equal 
 good will. During most of these journeyings, he kept 
 
BIOGRAPHY 15 
 
 a diary in which he noted his opinions and observa- 
 tions and described the adventures of a traveller's life. 
 Perhaps the most exciting of these experiences was an 
 attack by Italian pirates. He was passenger on a ship 
 bound from Genoa to Messina for a cargo of wine, and 
 when several days out the ship was attacked by pirates, 
 off the coast of Italy near the Island of Elba. Though 
 the affair proved a bloodless one, it was not unattended 
 with danger. The description of it^ reads almost like an 
 extract from one of Irving's own banditti stories in the 
 Tales of a Traveller^ owdi often in writing those stories, 
 he must have thought of his early experiences in Italy. 
 Fortunately no more serious adventure than this of the 
 pirates occurred to interrupt the journeyings of the 
 youthful traveller. He continued on his way through 
 France and Italy, and passed the latter part of his stay 
 abroad in England. He took ship for America in Janu- 
 ary, 1806, and after a rough voyage of over nine weeks, 
 arrived safely at New York. 
 
 As soon as he had settled down in his old place, Ir^ang 
 again took up the study of the law, and after several 
 
 months, in November, 1806, was admitted 
 to the Bar. ^^ ^^^® ^^^ ^^ Ncw York. His admissiou, 
 
 however, was due more to the good-nature 
 of his examiners than to the adequacy of his preparation ; 
 for we may well suppose that what little legal learning 
 had found its way into his brain before his departure had 
 been quite crowded out by the many new experiences of 
 his two years abroad. Even after his admission to the 
 bar, he does not appear to have taken much interest in his 
 profession. To his natural dislike of the dry routine of 
 business there was added the further distraction of an 
 
 1 Life, by P. W. Irving, vol. I, p. 65 ff . ^ 
 
16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 active social life. He had many graces of nature and of 
 manner; his disposition was frank and kindly, and wher- 
 ever he was known he was liked. His letters of this 
 period from Kichmond and Baltimore and Washington 
 show with what ease and pleasure he took his place in 
 the best social life of the community in which he hap- 
 pened to find himself. 
 
 About this time Irving made his first attempts of any 
 importance at literature. Together with his brother Wil- 
 liam and James K. Paulding a young friend 
 and relative, he projected a Spectator- 
 like periodical called Salmagundi. The first number 
 of this periodical appeared in January 1807, and nine- 
 teen other numbers appeared at irregular intervals be- 
 tween that time and the appearance of the last number 
 in January, 1808. The purpose of the periodical as 
 announced by the editors in the first number was impu- 
 dent enough when we consider their age and inexperience : 
 *'Our purpose is simply to instruct the young, reform the 
 old, correct the town, and castigate the age; this is an 
 arduous task, and therefore we undertake it with confi- 
 dence." The essays, broadly humorous and satirical, had 
 the high-spirits and unrestraint of youth. They secured 
 for the writers a considerable local popularity, but they 
 were ephemeral in character and Irving himself was soon 
 quite willing to have them forgotten. 
 
 Irving's second literary venture brought him a wider 
 
 and more lasting fame than the Salmagundi papers. In 
 
 1809 he published his Knicherhocker'' s His- 
 
 mi^o?/.**^''^^' i^^'y ^f ^^^''^ ^^^'^^' ^^^^ is ^ burlesque 
 history of New York, supposed to have 
 
 been made up from the writings of a Dutch antiquary, 
 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker. It undoubtedly ranks as 
 
BIOGRAPHY 17 
 
 Irving's masterpiece of humor. Sir Walter Scott, who 
 praised the book warmly, thought he saw in it great 
 resemblance to the satire of Swift. The Knicherhocher 
 History^ however, is without the deep seriousness of 
 Swift's satire; like Salmagundi^ it shows more the 
 high spirits of youth than the settled purpose of the 
 satirist. At the time of the appearance of the book it 
 was severely criticised by many of the Dutch families 
 in New York, who felt personally aggrieved at the ludi- 
 crous figures their Dutch ancestry made in its pages. 
 And in fact there was slight justification for such treat- 
 ment of the burghers of New Amsterdam. Irving chose 
 to present the unjustly exaggerated view of Dutch char- 
 acter that had long been traditional in British literature. 
 In England, where the Dutch with their armies and fleets 
 had several times so frightened the English that the Eng- 
 lish were driven to exaggerated satire to regain their self- 
 respect, such a treatment of the subject as Irving's would 
 have had point ; but in America no more inoffensive and 
 industrious race of people than the Dutch was to be found 
 in all the Colonies. But neither satire nor history was 
 the main object of the Knidcerlocher History. Irving, 
 writing in 1848, thus outlines the purpose of the book: 
 
 "It was to embody the traditions of our city in an amus- 
 ing form; to illustrate its local humors, customs, and 
 peculiarities ; to clothe home scenes and places and familiar 
 names with those imaginative and whimsical associations 
 so seldom met with in our new country, but which live 
 like charms and spells about the cities of the old world, 
 binding the heart of the native inhabitant to his home." 
 
 How well the book accomplished this purpose can be 
 seen by a glance at its present-day effects. In New Y^ork 
 the Knickerbocker legend has worked itself into the very 
 fiber of the people. Allusions to it are familiarly used 
 
18 INTRODUCTION 
 
 by many who have never read a line of Irving. The name 
 itself, by an odd change, has become a synonym for aris- 
 tocracy. In a thousand ways the legend has preserved 
 traditions and sentiments that otherwise would have been 
 speedily lost. It lives like a charm and a spell, binding 
 the heart of the native inhabitant to his country; it has 
 become itself a part of the country. 
 
 The Knicherlocher History was revised and brought to 
 completion beneath the darkest shadow that ever obscured 
 
 Irving 's sky. Matilda Hoffman, to whom he 
 Hoffman.^*^* ^^^ engaged to be married, died after a brief 
 
 illness in her eighteenth year. Her memory 
 always lingered in his mind,ready to be called forth by the 
 slightest occasion. He never again thought of marriage, 
 and never accustomed himself to speak Miss Hoffman's 
 name. There was something of fine chivalry in him that 
 held him true even to a memory, and to the end he always 
 kept before him the image of his early love in her first 
 youth and beauty. 
 
 The next few years after the appearance of the Knicher- 
 hocker History saw nothing new from Irving's pen. His 
 
 natural indolence must explain this, for his 
 di^culties. ^^^ practice made slight enough demands 
 
 upon his time. In 1810 he was made a 
 silent partner in a hardware business which was conducted 
 by his brothers. This connection, though first the cause 
 of much anxiety to him, was finally the making of his 
 literary career. For the business affairs of the firm hav- 
 ing become embarrassed, in 1815 Irving was sent to a 
 branch house in Liverpool for the purpose of putting 
 things in order. For three years he labored over the 
 uncongenial details of business. But the affairs of the 
 firm passed from bad to worse, and despite the brothers' 
 
BIOGRAPHY 19 
 
 best efforts, in 1818 they were finally driven to bank- 
 ruptcy. In this apparent misfortune, however, there lay 
 a blessing for Irving; his undisciplined nature always 
 needed a strong incentive to work, and in the necessity of 
 making a living he found this incentive. Leaving Liver- 
 pool, he went up to London with no other defense against 
 the hostility of fortune than his pen ; and the rest of Irv- 
 ing's life is the story of the way he, with that single 
 weapon, not only won wealth abundant but an enduring 
 fame and honor better than all wealth. 
 
 The first fruit of Irving's activity in London was his most 
 
 famous book — the Sketch Booh. The story of the way this 
 
 book was written shows clearly the diffi- 
 
 SketchBook. ^ . ^ . . , ^ . "^ , 
 
 culties under which Irvmg at the time 
 labored. He was far from home, with no helpful friend 
 to turn to for adWce or comfort, and with no prospect of 
 any certain income ; worst of all, however, was his home 
 friends' lack of faith in him. To them it seemed mad- 
 ness when Irving refused an unimportant government 
 position at Washington which would have given him an 
 assured income but would have shut the way entirely to 
 any further literary advance. In the face of these diffi- 
 culties Irving went bravely to work upon the project of 
 the Sketch Book. His plan was to issue the book in num- 
 bers, in America only, under the name of Geoffrey Crayon. 
 In the prospectus prefixed to the first number, he 
 announced the plan of his work in a very tentative and 
 hesitating manner, showing clearly how unsure he was of 
 himself : 
 
 ((I 
 
 'The following writings are published on experi- 
 ment; should they please, they may be followed by others. 
 The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. 
 He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and 
 
20 INTRODUCTION 
 
 has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, there- 
 fore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publi- 
 cation. ' ' 
 
 The first number appeared in May, 1819, and contained 
 Tlie AutJior^s Account of Himself, The Voyage, Roscoe^ 
 The Wife, and Rip Van WinMe. The second number 
 appeared several months later and contained four essays — 
 English Writers on America, Rural Life in England, The 
 Broken Heart, and The Art of Book-making. A third 
 number appeared in September of the same year and was 
 followed at irregular intervals by four more numbers, the 
 last number appearing in September, 1820. 
 
 The success of the Sketch Book was immediate and gen- 
 eral. The pen-name Geoffrey Crayon could not hide the 
 fact that the Knickerhocker History of New 
 
 Its success. 
 
 York and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow were 
 written by the same hand, and to the liking for the 
 sketches themselves was added all Irving's earlier popu- 
 larity. The books sold well and relieved their author of 
 the worry and trouble of immediate need. But better 
 than this, their success restored to him some of the con- 
 confidence in himself which the anxieties of the past few 
 years had robbed him of. Sir Walter Soott offered him 
 the editorship of a new periodical publication about 
 to be established in Edinburgh; and Irving, though he 
 declined the offer because he felt himself unfit for the reg- 
 ular routine of such an occupation, was very much grati- 
 fied at this renewed expression of good will on the part 
 of the great author. The kind words of his intimate 
 friends and the generous appreciation of many of the best 
 critics in America revived him and gave him incentive to 
 renewed effort. His fine sensitiveness to praise and blame 
 shows clearly in the way in which he took the news of 
 
BIOGRAPHY 21 
 
 his success. The following extract is from a letter 
 written to a friend in New York after the appearance of 
 several numbers of the work : 
 
 "The manner in which the work has been received, and 
 the eulogiums that have been passed upon it in the Amer- 
 ican papers and periodical works, have completely over- 
 whelmed me. They go far, far beyond my most sanguine 
 expectations; and, indeed, are expressed with such pecul- 
 iar warmth and kindness, as to aiiect me in the tenderest 
 manner. The receipt of your letter, and the reading of 
 some of the criticisms this morning, have rendered me 
 nervous for the whole day. I feel almost appalled by such 
 success, and fearful that it cannot be real, or that it is not 
 fully merited, or that I shall not act up to the expecta- 
 tions that may be formed. We are whimsically consti- 
 tuted beings. I had got out of conceit of all that I had 
 written, and considered it very questionable stuli, and 
 now that it is so extravagantly be-praised, I begin to feel 
 that I shall not do as well again. However we shall see 
 as we get on. As yet I am extremely irregular and pre- 
 carious in my fits of composition. The least thing puts 
 me out of the vein, and even applause flurries me, and 
 prevents my writing; though, of course, it will ulcimately 
 be a stimulus. 
 
 "I hope you will not attribute all this sensibility to the 
 kind reception I have met with to an author's vanity. I 
 am sure it proceeds from very different sources. Vanity 
 could not bring the tears into my eyes, as they have been 
 brought by the kindness of my countrymen. I have felt 
 cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited, and these sud- 
 den ravs of sunshine agitate even more than they revive 
 me."— Z^/e, by P. M. Irving, vol. I, pp. 330, 31. 
 
 After the first six numbers of the Sketch Booh had ap- 
 peared in America, Irving was driven by the appearance of 
 various unauthorized editions to publish them in Eng- 
 land. The first attempt came to grief through the failure 
 of his publisher ; but finally, aided by the good words of 
 
22 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Walter Scott, the book was accepted by Murray, the 
 
 -greatest of English publishers. Its success in England 
 
 was as great as it was in America; perhaps 
 
 Publication ^-^^ ^Qg^ evident mark of this is the fact 
 
 in iLngland. 
 
 that twice the publisher begged the author 
 to accept a sum of one hundred guineas in addition 
 to the terms agreed upon by them. We, as Americans, 
 however, have special reason to feel gratified that the 
 success of the Sketch Booh was first won in America. In 
 that day, American critical judgment depended only too 
 often upon British example and it is a pleasure to know 
 that our first native writer of importance was accepted by 
 us without waiting upon foreign opinion. 
 
 The next few years after the appearance of the Sketch 
 Booh were years of wandering. The autumn and winter of 
 1820-21 were spent on the continent, chiefly in Paris. Here 
 Irving formed a firm friendship with Thomas Moore, the 
 poet ; and indeed we should expect sympathy of spirit be- 
 tween the man who wrote the Broken Heart and the author 
 
 of the Irish Melodies. After his return to 
 Bracebridge Loudou, in January, 1822, Irving published 
 of aTraveuer. Bvacehriclge Hallj first in America, and in 
 
 May of the same year in England. In method 
 the book resembles the Sketch Book; it is a miscella^ieous 
 collection of essays and short stories suggested by the 
 experiences of travel or elaborated from the outlines of 
 things that had long been ripening in the author's mem- 
 ory. Though it did not have the charm of novelty, it 
 was well received both in England and America. Again 
 in 1822 Irving was on the continent, travelling through 
 Prance and Germany. It was on this journey, while 
 detained by illness at Mayence that he wrote the intro- 
 duction to a volume which takes its title from the cir- 
 
BIOGRAPHY 2$ 
 
 ciimstances of its composition — the Tales of a Traveller. 
 The body of the book was written during the winter 
 of 1823-24, in Paris, though the completed volume was 
 not published until his return to England, in 1824. De- 
 spite Irviug's own special liking for the Tales of a Trav- 
 eller and despite the fact that it contains some of the 
 author's best work, it was coolly received by the pub- 
 lic. The reason for this is evident. The three books 
 that he had so far published — the Sketch Booh^ Brace- 
 hridge Hall^ and the Tales of a Traveller^ were of a kind. 
 They were all books made up of pleasant descriptive 
 and reflective essays and humorous short stories ; they all 
 breathed the same quiet air of kindly though not very 
 vigorous interest in the life of the world the author knew. 
 Something of this was accepted eagerly and more was- 
 taken willingly; but Irving was guilty of the error of feed- 
 ing to satiety the taste he had aroused and his readers 
 murmured at the same dish continually set before them. 
 
 Irving was not slow in seeing that the field he had hith- 
 erto been cultivating was worked out. He determined ta 
 place himself in entirely new, fresh sur- 
 Life in Spain, rouudiugs and to occupy himsclf with an en- 
 tirely new sort of work. In 1826 he went 
 to Spain, in which country he lived for three years. This 
 period he spent in visiting the various famous places of 
 the land and in much close reading of historical manu- 
 scripts in the chief Spanish libraries. The results of 
 these historical studies appeared in the publication of his 
 Life of Columbus, in 1828; of the Conquest of Granada 
 in 1829 ; of the ComjMniojis of CoUimhus in 1831 ; and, as a 
 final lighter postlude to these more serious works, of the 
 Alliamhra in 1832. 
 
 The year of the publication of the Alhambra closes- 
 
24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 a period in Irving's life. In that year, after an un- 
 broken absence of seventeen years, he came home to New- 
 York. How eagerly he always looked forward to this 
 return is made very evident in his letters to his friends 
 throughout the whole of these seventeen years. He had 
 never the slightest thought of a permanent residence 
 abroad, and now that success had brought him a good 
 
 name and an assured income, he rejoiced in 
 home! "^" them chieily because they helped him to 
 
 realize what had always been his first hope. 
 After the disturbances of the home-coming were over and 
 after several extensive trips through the South and the 
 West, sections of the country which were almost unbroken 
 wilderness when he left America but now were filled with 
 cities and towns, he purchased the little Dutch cottage 
 on the bank of the Hudson near Tarrytown, called by its 
 former owner Wolfert's Roost, that is in English, Wol- 
 fert's Rest, but known to us better by the name which 
 Irving gave it, — Sunny side. Here he passed the rest of 
 his life with the exception of four years, from 1842-48, 
 during which time he served as minister to Spain. 
 
 During Irving's residence at Madrid, no diplomatic com- 
 plications which might have tested his political w^isdom 
 arose. The distractions of his position w^ere sufficient, 
 however, to prevent him from carrying out any of his 
 literary plans, and at the close of his four years he was 
 glad to return to his home on the banks of the Hudson. 
 These years at Sunnyside were serene and happy ones. 
 Irving was the foremost man of letters in America and 
 his home became the natural center of all the literary 
 life of the country. He was looked upon as both the 
 founder and the patriarch of American letters. He was 
 not however content to rest in honor, and as a result of 
 
BIOGRAPHY 25 
 
 these last labors he published in 1849 a Life of Oliver 
 Goldsmith and a Life of Mahomet. His last work was a 
 Last works Life of Washington. He had been engaged 
 and death. upon this task f or many years and he intended 
 that it should stand as the most lasting monument to his 
 memory. The first volume was published in 1855; ill- 
 health delayed the completion of the second volume and it 
 was not until 1859 that it was ready for publication. It 
 came as a fitting close to a life of unceasing industry. 
 After a long and trying sickness, borne with great equa- 
 nimity of spirit, Irving died in November of the same year. 
 Asa man, perhaps kindliness was Irving's main charac- 
 teristic. There was nothing of self-assertion in him or of 
 contempt for the wishes or the weaknesses 
 Irving's Qf i^jg fellow-mcu. This side of his character 
 
 diisposition. . n -n t i • o 1 • 1 J 
 
 IS well illustrated by an action of his later 
 years. After his return to America he was engaged upon 
 a work which was to treat of the Spanish invasion of 
 Mexico. He had gathered his material and had already 
 begun the actual composition of the book when his atten- 
 tion was called to the fact that a young man hitherto 
 unknown to him, named Prescott, was engaged upon the 
 same subject. After determining the seriousness of his 
 rival and his ability to accomplish the task he had chosen, 
 Irving generously relinquished the subject to him. As a 
 result we gained Prescott 's Conquest of Mexico though we 
 missed from Irving the story of a period that he was 
 peculiarly fitted to treat. We cannot but feel, however, 
 that one such action is worth more than a whole row of 
 volumes. Throughout Irving's long and varied life, we 
 do not know that he ever cherished a single enmity or 
 that he was ever mixed up in any of the petty quarrels 
 such as spot the lives of so many men of letters. Yet his 
 
26 INTRODUCTION 
 
 amiability was due to no weakness of character or want of 
 fixed opinions. The sure judgment of his own powers 
 maintained in the face of a disheartening opposition, the 
 uninterrupted faitlifulness to his country during a long 
 residence abroad in which he had every encouragement to 
 forget that country, and finally the depth and sincerity of 
 the attachment of his half-dozen personal friends to him 
 —these are sufficient indications of strength and individ- 
 uality of character. 
 
 The second main characteristic of the man was delicacy 
 and refinement of feeling. Perhaps his was not a very 
 profound or strenuous nature. He never cared to mix in 
 His deucacy poHtics or in the daily concerns of a business 
 and refinement life; his seusc of persoual rcpugnancc to- 
 o eeimg. wards sordid details was stronger than his 
 sense of the good to be accomplished through the use of 
 such tools. This attitude towards the things of daily life 
 is not, to be sure, very unusual, nor is it generally to be 
 commended. The justification of it in Irving is to be 
 found in a real and not an affected delicacy of nature. 
 Irving's temperament was that of a poet — a poet of a 
 tender and somewhat sentimental cast of imagination. 
 Always the characteristic of his work is beauty rather 
 than power. However much he may have felt in his heart 
 the deeper mysteries of existence, in open life he preferred 
 the play of gentler feelings and emotions. 
 
 As a corrective to what might otherwise have proved a 
 cloying sweetness of nature, Irving was possessed of a 
 His sense third main characteristic — an unfailing sense 
 
 of hamor. ^f -^j^g humorous and whimsical in life. The 
 
 world was not tragic to him ; neither was it entirely happy. 
 It was a place of mixed good and evil where one could 
 rejoice at the good, sorrow at the evil, it is true, but for- 
 
SKETCH BOOK 27 
 
 get it chiefly, in the distractions which a kind fate has 
 put at our disposal. 
 
 II. THE SKETCH BOOK AIs"D THE TALES OF A TRAVELLER 
 
 Irving 's fame rests most securely upon four volumes of 
 his earlier work — the Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, the 
 Tales of a Traveller, and the Alhamhra, The most widely- 
 read of these four books and the one which engages the 
 most lively popular interest, has always been the Sketch 
 Book. Yet in some respects the Sketch Book, taken as a 
 whole, is inferior to either of the last two books of the 
 group. Irving, as an essayist, frankly belongs to the 
 school of Addison and nowhere in his works are the marks 
 of his discipleship so evident as in parts of the Sketch 
 Book. In form, in style, and even in sentiment, such 
 essays as Roscoe, The Wife, The Broken Heart, A Royal Poet, 
 The Wido2v and Her Son, and The Pride of the Village, 
 are copies of Irving's literary models — Addison and Gold- 
 smith. Likewise in those numbers descriptive of English 
 customs and localities, such as The Country Church, West- 
 minster Ahhey, Christmas, and the other essays of that 
 group, we have essentially the method of Addison, differing 
 only in that it is applied by one who stands without the 
 English life which he describes. Bracehridge Hall, which 
 is largely an elaboration of the Christmas essays of the 
 Sketch Book, is clearly under the same influences. All of 
 these sketches show literary taste and exquisite sensi- 
 tiveness to literary impressions ; but no more. It was this 
 characteristic of his work that led Hazlitt, the English 
 c-ritic, to say of Irving a short time after the appearance of 
 the Sketch Book, that his writings were **very good copies 
 of our British essayists and novelists, which may be yery 
 
28 INTRODUCTION 
 
 well on the other side of the water, or as proofs of the 
 capabilities of the national genius, but which might be dis- 
 pensed with here, where we have to boast of the originals. " ^ 
 
 Hazlitt's ears, however, were so filled with the old note 
 in the Sketch Booh, that he was deaf to what was new and 
 individual in it. In Bij) Van Winkle, the Legend of 
 Skejjy HoIImv, and, to a less degree, in the Spectre Bride- 
 groom, we have examples of independent and original work. 
 It is probably the interest of the first two of these three 
 numbers of the Sketch Book that has enabled it to main- 
 tain the distinguished place which it has always held among 
 Irving's works. In the stories of this type Irving found 
 himself; and the characteristics which mark these two 
 stories are worked out, perhaps not more perfectly, but 
 more consistently and with more conscious mastery of 
 form,in the later volumes, the Alhamhra and the Tales of 
 a Traveller. 
 
 The first distinctive characteristic of the volumes of this 
 group is one of form. In his reflective and descriptive 
 essays, as has been said aboie, Irving is a manifest fol- 
 lower of Addison. In his use of the short-story form in 
 English, however, Irving stands a pioneer. When he began 
 to write, the short story still bore upon it the marks of its 
 origin ; it was either a hard, formal, didactic treatise, derived 
 The Short f rom the moral apologue or fable ; or it was 
 
 story. j^ sentimental love-tale, derived from the arti- 
 
 ficial love-romance that followed the romance of chivalry. 
 Irving took this form and made of it merely "the frame on 
 which to stretch his materials." His materials w^ere not 
 the old formal apologue, nor the worn-out romance of 
 love, nor, again, mere ingenuity of plot and incident, but 
 rather the materials which modern fiction has made specially 
 
 1 The Spirit of the Age, p. 405. 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER 29 
 
 its own — *Hhe play of thought, and sentiment, and lan- 
 guage ; the weaving in of characters, lightly, yet expres- 
 sively delineated ; the familiar and faithful exhibition of 
 scenes in common life; and the half -concealed vein of 
 humor that is often playing through the whole. "^ Al- 
 ready in his lifetime Irving found himself "elbowed by 
 men who followed his footsteps. " Hawthorne and Poe were 
 his near followers, and American writers since his time 
 have always favored the short-story form. But whatever 
 the excellence of his successors, Irving will always^stand as 
 the chief originator of one of the most characteristic forms 
 of modern literature. 
 
 A second and ever present element in the tales is humor. 
 Perhaps we should not call Irving's humor characteristic- 
 irving's ally American. The first notable American 
 
 humor. humorist was Benjamin Franklin ; and in 
 
 the mock-serious extravagance of some of his utterances we 
 get strange foretastes of our latest and greatest humor- 
 ist, Mark Twain. Irving's humor, perfectly individual and 
 natural as it is, depends more upon the play of shades 
 of feeling for its effects; it is quiet and refined, sly and 
 half -concealed. At times there is also a strain of mild 
 satire mingled with it, as for example, in the Stor-i/ of 
 the Little Antiquary, or the Adventure of the Pojokins 
 Family, both in the Tales^ of a Traveller. Usually, how- 
 ever, the characters are depicted with a simple pleasure in 
 their quaintness and oddities. They are sometimes exag- 
 gerated to the point of grotesqueness, as, for example, 
 the characters gathered together at The Hunting Dinner; 
 yet the exaggeration is never carried so far as to 
 take them beyond our sympathy. Dickens, who was a 
 confessed admirer of Irving, probably learned something 
 
 ^Life, by P. M. Irving, II., 226. 
 
30 INTRODUCTION 
 
 from this metliod in the humorous and whimsical exag- 
 geration of some of his own characters. There is a touch 
 also of the gruesome in some of the tales. It is prob- 
 able that Irving here was somewhat influenced by his 
 reading in the German romantic writers of the beginning 
 of the last century. Sir AValter Scott, in his essay On 
 the Supernatural in Fictitious Composition^ in which he 
 points out the excellence of the German stories of this 
 type, praises Irving's story of the Bold Dragoon in the 
 Tales of a Traveller as the only example of the fantastic 
 then to be found in English literature. But even in these 
 tales of the grotesque, the main purpose is always humor- 
 ous ; in the most striking example of this kind, the Story of 
 the German Student^ the possible weird effect of the story 
 is destroyed by its humorous conclusion. This same 
 fantastic element, deepened and made more somber, 
 appears again in the writings of Poe ; but we can not be 
 sure here that Poe did not derive his inspiration directly 
 from the writings of the same German romanticists that 
 influenced Irving. 
 
 Finally, the stories under discussion are remarkable for 
 what we may call a sense of locality. Irving, perhaps bet- 
 ter than any other English writer, has been able to seize 
 Sense of upou the Spirit of places and fix that spirit 
 
 locality. -^ language. It is this power which gives 
 
 unfailing interest to such essays in the Sketch Boole as 
 Westminster Abbey ^ Little Britain^ Stratford on Avon, and 
 others. The same power enabled him to transfer to his 
 pages the atmosphere of faded splendor in the Alhambra, 
 Similarly the romantic life of Italy a hundred years ago 
 is revealed to us in the banditti stories of the Tales of a 
 Traveller. In many ways Irving satisfied, and still con- 
 tinues to satisfy, the nalmral curiosity which the people of 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER 31 
 
 America have always had concerning the manners and 
 customs and famous places of Europe. The first ambas- 
 sador whom the new world of letters sent to the old, as 
 Thackeray called him, he was also the first messenger to 
 bring back to this country an intelligent report of his 
 embassy. 
 
 But Irving was able not only to fix for us the places of 
 the Old World with all their wealth of human association 
 and story ; he accomplished the much more difficult task 
 of investing the life and nature of the New World with 
 the same richness of tradition that charms us in the old. 
 The legends of the Ehine mean no more to the German 
 than the legends of the Hudson mean to us. Just how 
 far the stories of which Irving made use were traditional 
 among the inhabitants of the Hudson valley, it is perhaps 
 impossible to determine. But it is certain that now they 
 have become for everyone who passes through that region, 
 the most appropriate expression of its poetry and beauty. 
 A similar achievement was the creation of that part of the 
 Knickerbocker legend which centers about the city of New 
 York. This field Irving first entered in his Knicher- 
 hoclcer History; and again and again in later works — nota- 
 bly in the Money -Diggers of the Tales of a Traveller — 
 he returns to the favorite subject of his youth. In this 
 subject he was always successful. The legend has in- 
 vested the island of Manhattan and its surrounding waters 
 with the glow of traditional romance. Knickerbocker has 
 become the city's "most all-pervading and descriptive 
 name"; and the humorous conception of Dutch character 
 and history in the legend has become "as inseparable from 
 New York as the form of the island and the encircling 
 shores of the bay." In this achievement alone there is 
 surety of lasting fame; for the city whose traditions 
 
32 INTRODUCTION 
 
 living's pen first fashioned and enriched has itself become 
 a chief monument to his memory. 
 
 III. BIBLIOGKAPHY 
 
 Irying's works are published in several standard editions 
 by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York City. 
 
 TJie Life and Letters of Washington Irving^ by his 
 nephew, Pierre M. Irving, was published in four volumes, 
 New York, 1862-64. A new edition, revised and condensed 
 into three volumes, was published by the Putnams in 1895. 
 This Life is of special value because it is the only place in 
 which Irving's letters and travelling journal are accessible. 
 A shorter life is Charles Dudley Warner's Washington 
 Irving^ Boston, 1881, in the American Men of Letters 
 Series. Mr. Warner also has a briefer sketch prefixed to 
 the Geoffrey Crayon Edition of Irving's works; and a 
 short study in a separate volume. Work of Washington 
 Irving^ published by Harpers. There are few critical 
 works of importance. Besides the several studies by 
 Warner given above and the standard histories of Ameri- 
 can literature, the following may be mentioned: George 
 William Curtis, in Literary and Social Essays; Edwin 
 W. Morse, in the Warner Classics Historians and Essay- 
 ists (Doubieday and McClure Company), pp. 143-168; 
 and, for a discussion of the national element in Irving, 
 Lodge, Studies in History^ pp. 344- G. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
 
 KNICKERBOCKER 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 
 lu the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
 indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
 expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
 navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru- 
 dently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. 
 Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market- 
 town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, 
 but which is more generally and properly known by the 
 name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, 
 in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
 country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands 
 to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be 
 that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
 advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
 Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
 is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 
 which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
 A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough 
 to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, 
 or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that 
 ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 
 
 509 
 
510 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
 squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that 
 shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
 noon time, when all nature is, peculiarly quiet, and was 
 startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 
 bath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverber- 
 ated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a 
 retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its dis- 
 tractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled 
 life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
 character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
 the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has 
 long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its 
 rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
 all the neighboring country. A drowsy dreamy influence 
 seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very 
 atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a 
 high German doctor, during the early days of the settle- 
 ment; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
 wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the 
 country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 
 Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of 
 some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds 
 of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
 reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs ; 
 are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see 
 strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The 
 whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
 spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors 
 glare oftener across the valley tljan in any other part of 
 the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, 
 seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 511 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
 enchanted region, and seems to be oommander-in-chief of 
 all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
 horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 
 ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried 
 away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the 
 revolutionary war ; and who is ever and anon seen by the 
 country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if 
 on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
 the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and 
 especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. 
 Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those 
 parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating 
 the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the 
 body of the trooper, having been buried in the church- 
 yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly 
 quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with which 
 he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight 
 blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to gel 
 back to the church -yard before daybreak. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 
 tion, which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
 in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at 
 all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless 
 Hc'i'seman of Sleepy Hollovr. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
 nantioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
 ^ alley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 
 resides there for a time. However wide avrake they may 
 have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are 
 sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of 
 the air, and begin to grov/ imaginative — to dream dreams, 
 and see apparitions. 
 
612 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for 
 it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and 
 there embosomed in the great State of New -York, that 
 population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while 
 the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is 
 making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- 
 less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like 
 those little nooks of still water which border a rapid 
 stream; where we may see the straw and babble riding 
 quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic har- 
 bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
 Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
 shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should 
 not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
 t-ating in its sheltered bosom. 
 
 In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
 period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years 
 since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who 
 sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy 
 Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the 
 vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut; a State which 
 supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as 
 for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier 
 woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of 
 Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, 
 but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms 
 and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, 
 feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole 
 frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, 
 and fiat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
 and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather- 
 cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the 
 wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 513 
 
 on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
 about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius 
 of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow 
 eloped from a cornfield. 
 
 His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
 rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, 
 and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was 
 most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe 
 twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against 
 the window shutters ; so that, though a thief might get in 
 with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in 
 getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the archi- 
 tect, Yust Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 
 The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant sit- 
 uation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook 
 running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at 
 one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' 
 voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a 
 drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive; inter- 
 rupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the mas- 
 ter, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, 
 by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy 
 loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
 say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind 
 the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." — 
 Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
 of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the 
 smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered 
 justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking 
 the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on 
 those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that 
 winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with 
 
514 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
 inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong- 
 headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and 
 swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. 
 All this he called '*doing his duty by their parents;" and 
 he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
 the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that 
 "he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest 
 day he had to live.'* 
 
 When school hours were over, he was even the compan- 
 ion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday after 
 noons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who 
 happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for 
 mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed 
 it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. 
 The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
 have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily 
 bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the 
 dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his main- 
 tenance, ;he was, according to country custom in those 
 parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
 whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- 
 cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the 
 neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a 
 cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
 his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
 schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
 drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both use- 
 ful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally 
 in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; 
 mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the 
 <jowB from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 515 
 
 aid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute 
 sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
 school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
 He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the 
 children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold,^ 
 W^hich whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he 
 would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with 
 his foot for whole hours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
 master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
 shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
 was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to 
 take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band 
 of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely 
 carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his 
 voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation ; 
 and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that 
 church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, 
 quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sun- 
 day morning, which are said to be legitimately descended 
 from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little 
 make-shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly 
 denominated **by hook ^and by crook," the worthy peda- 
 gogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
 who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have 
 a wonderfully easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
 in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being con- 
 sidered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly 
 superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country 
 swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the par- 
 
 1 From the lUustrated alphabet of the New England Primer: 
 •' The lion bold 
 The lamb doth hold." 
 
516 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 son. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some 
 little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition 
 of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, per- 
 adventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of 
 letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all 
 the country damsels. How he would figure among them 
 in the church -yard, between services on Sundays! gather- 
 ing grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the 
 surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the 
 epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with a v^^hole 
 bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; 
 while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly 
 back, envying his superior elegance and address. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of trav- 
 elling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip 
 from house to house ; so that his appearance was always 
 greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed 
 by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read 
 several books quite through, and was a perfect master of 
 Cotton Mather's * history of New England Witchcraft, in 
 which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 
 
 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
 and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 
 and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; 
 and both had been increased by his residence in this spell- 
 bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his 
 capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his 
 school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself 
 on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that 
 whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old 
 Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the 
 
 > After Jonathan Edwards, the most notable of the New England Puri- 
 tan preachers. His Wonders of the Invisible World appeared in 1693. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 517 
 
 evening made the printed page a mere mist before his 
 eyes. 
 
 Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and 
 awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to 
 be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching 
 hour, fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the 
 whip-poor-will* from the hill -side; the boding cry of the 
 tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of 
 the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of 
 birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, 
 which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now 
 and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness 
 would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a huge 
 blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight 
 against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
 ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
 token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
 drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
 psalm tunes; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
 they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
 with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, '* in linked sweet- 
 ness loDg drawn out,"^ floating from the distant hill, or 
 along the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
 long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they 
 sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
 spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvel- 
 lous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and 
 haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, 
 
 * The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. 
 It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble 
 those words. — [Author's Note. J 
 
 * Quoted from Milton's L" Allegro. 
 
518 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping 
 Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He 
 would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, 
 and of the direful omens and portentous sights and 
 sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of 
 Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with spec- 
 ulations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the 
 alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, 
 and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
 dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of 
 a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of 
 course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly pur. 
 chased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. 
 "What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the 
 dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful 
 look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
 across the waste fields from some distant window! — How 
 often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, 
 which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! — How 
 often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his 
 own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread 
 to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some 
 uncouth being tramping close behind him! — and how 
 often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush- 
 ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was 
 the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
 phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though 
 he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than 
 once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely peram- 
 bulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and 
 he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 519 
 
 devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed 
 by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
 ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put 
 together, and that was — a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled, one even- 
 ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, 
 was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
 a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
 fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting 
 and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
 versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast 
 expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
 might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture 
 of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off 
 her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
 which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
 Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and 
 withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the pret- 
 tiest foot and ankle in the country round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
 sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a 
 morsel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after 
 he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus 
 Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, 
 liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
 his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own 
 farm ; but within those every thing was snug, happy, and 
 well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but 
 not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun- 
 dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His 
 stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
 one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the 
 Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree 
 
520 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which 
 bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in 
 a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling 
 away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bub- 
 bled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the 
 farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a 
 church ; every window and crevice of which seemed burst- 
 ing forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was 
 busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swal- 
 lows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and 
 rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watch- 
 ing the weather, some with their heads under their wings, 
 or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, 
 and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine 
 on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in 
 the repose and abundance of their pens; whence sallied 
 forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
 the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in 
 an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regi- 
 ments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, 
 and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered house- 
 wives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the 
 barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a hus- 
 band, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burn- 
 ished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
 heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and 
 then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
 children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
 sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his 
 devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roast- 
 ing-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an 
 apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 521 
 
 in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of 
 crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and 
 the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
 couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the 
 porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
 and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld 
 daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, 
 peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even 
 bright chanticleer himself la}^ sprawling on his back, in a 
 side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter 
 which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
 rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the 
 rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
 corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which 
 surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
 yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, 
 and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they 
 might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested 
 in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the 
 wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his 
 hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with 
 a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
 loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles 
 dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a 
 pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Ken- 
 tucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 
 was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, 
 with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the 
 style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low 
 projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable 
 of being closed up in bad weather. Under this v/ere hung 
 
622 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for 
 fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built 
 along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning- 
 wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the 
 various uses to which this important porch might be 
 devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered 
 the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion and the 
 place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pew- 
 ter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one 
 corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in 
 another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; 
 ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and 
 peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
 with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave 
 him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed 
 chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors ; and 
 irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened 
 from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges ^ and 
 conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of various 
 colored birds' eggs were suspended above it: a great 
 ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a 
 corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense 
 treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
 regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
 and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
 peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, bow- 
 ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
 the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any 
 thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
 easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to 
 make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
 
 ^Osage-oranges, or hedge- apples ; or yellow globular-shaped gourds? 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 523 
 
 walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his 
 heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a 
 man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; 
 and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
 Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart 
 of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
 and caprices, which were for ever presenting new diSi- 
 culties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host 
 of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numer- 
 ous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; 
 keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but 
 ready to fly out in the common cause against any new 
 competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
 roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according 
 to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of 
 the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
 and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 
 jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not 
 unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
 arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
 of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by 
 which he was universally known. He was famed for great 
 knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous 
 on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races 
 and cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which bodily 
 strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all dis- 
 putes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions 
 with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. 
 He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but 
 had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, 
 with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong 
 dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or 
 
524 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, 
 and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attend- 
 ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In 
 cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, sur- 
 mounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at 
 a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a 
 distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, 
 they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew 
 would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at mid- 
 night, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
 sacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
 would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clat- 
 tered by, and then exclaim, **Ay, there goes Brom Bones 
 and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a 
 mixture of awe, admiration, and good will ; and when any 
 madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, 
 always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
 at the bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
 blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
 and though his amorous toyings were something like the 
 gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
 whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. 
 Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates 
 to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his 
 amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to 
 Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that 
 bis master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
 within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried 
 the war into other quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
 Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
 stouter man than he would have shrunk from the compe- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 525 
 
 tition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, 
 however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance 
 in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple- 
 jack — yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never 
 broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pres- 
 sure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, 
 and carried his head as high as ever. 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
 have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
 in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
 Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
 gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character 
 of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm- 
 house ; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the 
 meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a 
 stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel 
 was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better 
 even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
 excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. 
 His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to 
 her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she 
 sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and 
 must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
 Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or 
 plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest 
 Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, 
 watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
 armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly 
 fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
 mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
 daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, 
 or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable 
 to the lover's eloquence. 
 
526 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
 and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
 admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
 or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, 
 and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is 
 a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still 
 greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the 
 latter, for the man must battle for hi#^, for tress at every 
 door and window. He who wins a thousand common 
 hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who 
 keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is 
 indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with 
 the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment 
 Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
 former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen 
 tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
 gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy 
 Hollow. 
 
 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
 would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
 settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the 
 mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the 
 knights-errant of yore — by single combat; but Ichabod 
 was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary 
 to enter the lists againsts him: he had overheard a boast- 
 of Bones, that he would * 'double the schoolmaster up, and 
 lay him on a shelf of his own school -house;" and he was 
 too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some- 
 thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; 
 it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of 
 rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play oU boorish 
 practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object 
 of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 527 
 
 riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; 
 smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chim- 
 ney ; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its 
 formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and 
 turned everything topsy-turvy: so that the poor school- 
 master began to think all the witches in the country held 
 their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, 
 Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule 
 in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog 
 whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, 
 and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
 psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, without 
 producing any material effect on the relative situation of 
 the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, 
 Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool 
 whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little 
 literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that 
 sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on 
 three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil 
 doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry 
 contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon 
 the persons of idle urchins; such as half -munched apples, 
 popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of ram- 
 pant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been 
 some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his 
 scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly 
 whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the mas- 
 ter; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned through- 
 out the school- room. It was suddenly interrupted by the 
 appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, 
 a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mer- 
 cury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half- 
 
528 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 broken colt, whicli he managed with a rope by way of 
 halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an 
 invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or "quilt- 
 ing frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van 
 Tassels 's; and having delivered his message with that air 
 of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro 
 is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed 
 over the brook and was seen scampering away up the 
 hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
 room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, 
 without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped 
 over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a 
 smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken 
 their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
 flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink- 
 stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
 whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
 time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
 and racketing about the green, in joy at their early 
 emancipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
 hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, 
 and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
 locks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the 
 school-house. That he might make his appearance before 
 his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a 
 horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a 
 choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Eipper, 
 and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- 
 errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in 
 the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the 
 looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 529 
 
 animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
 had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He 
 was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a 
 hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
 with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring 
 and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
 devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his 
 day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpow- 
 der. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his mas- 
 ter's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, 
 and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit 
 into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
 there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any 
 young filly in the country. 
 
 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
 with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to 
 the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like 
 grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his 
 hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the 
 motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair 
 of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, 
 for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and 
 the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
 horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his 
 steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Rip- 
 per, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom 
 to be met with in broad daylight. 
 
 It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
 clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
 livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
 dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
 low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped 
 by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
 
530 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
 their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel 
 might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory 
 nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from 
 the neighboring stubble-field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
 In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
 frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
 from the very profusion and variety around them. There 
 was the honest cock -robin, the favorite game of stripling 
 sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twitter- 
 ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden- 
 winged-woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad 
 black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, 
 with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little 
 monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue-jay, that noisy 
 coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under- 
 clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing 
 and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with 
 every songster of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
 to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with 
 delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides 
 he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive 
 opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and 
 barrels for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for 
 the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of 
 Indian com, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy 
 coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty 
 pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, 
 turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving 
 ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon 
 he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 531 
 
 odor of a bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipa- 
 tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, 
 and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little 
 dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 
 
 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
 ** sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
 range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
 scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
 his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of 
 the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that, 
 here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged 
 the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber 
 clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
 them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing 
 gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the 
 deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on 
 the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some 
 parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark -gray 
 and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in 
 the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 
 hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection 
 of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if 
 the vessel was suspended in the air. 
 
 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
 of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with 
 the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 
 farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and 
 breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent 
 pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in 
 close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, homespun 
 petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
 pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as 
 antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat. 
 
532 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 
 city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats 
 with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair 
 generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if 
 they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being 
 esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher 
 and strengthener of the hair. 
 
 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
 ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, 
 a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
 which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, 
 noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of 
 tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, 
 for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of 
 a lad of spirit. 
 
 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
 that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
 entered the state parlor of Van TassePs mansion. Not 
 those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious 
 display of red and white; but the ample charms of a 
 genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time 
 of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
 and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced 
 Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut, 
 the tenderer oly koek,^ and the crisp and crumbling 
 cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 
 honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 
 there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; 
 besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover 
 delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
 pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
 
 1 " The name means literally oil-cakes, and they were originally boiled or 
 fried in oil." Oolonial Days in Old New York, Alice Earle, p. 141. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 533 
 
 roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, 
 all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have 
 enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up 
 its cloud of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the 
 mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as 
 it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
 Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his 
 historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 
 
 He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
 dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
 cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
 do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
 eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
 bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of 
 almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
 thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
 house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Kipper, 
 and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant 
 pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him com- 
 rade ! 
 
 Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
 with a face dilated with content and good humor, round 
 and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions 
 were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of 
 the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
 pressing invitation to *'fall to, and help themselves." 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the common 
 room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
 was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant 
 orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- 
 tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
 The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three 
 strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a 
 
534 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 motion of the head; bowing almost to the groand, and 
 stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
 upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him 
 was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
 motion, and clattering about the room, you would have 
 thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the 
 dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the 
 admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of 
 all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, 
 stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
 door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling 
 their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory 
 from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be 
 otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart 
 was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
 reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely 
 smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself 
 in one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
 to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
 sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former 
 times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
 was one of those highly-favored places which abound with 
 chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
 had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been 
 the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow- 
 boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufiicient 
 time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up 
 his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indis- 
 tinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of 
 every exploit. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 535 
 
 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue 
 bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate 
 with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast-work, 
 only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there 
 was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too 
 rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle 
 of White-plains, being an excellent master of defence, par- 
 ried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he 
 absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at 
 the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at any time to 
 show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were 
 several more that had been equally great in the field, not 
 one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable 
 hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
 apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in 
 legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and super- 
 stitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats; 
 but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that 
 forms the population of most of our country places. 
 Besides there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
 our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their 
 first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
 surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbor- 
 hood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk their 
 rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This 
 is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts 
 except in our long-established Dutch communities. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
 supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to 
 the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in 
 the very air that blew from that haunted region; it 
 breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infect- 
 
533 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 ing all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
 were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling 
 cat their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
 were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and 
 wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the 
 unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in 
 the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the 
 woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, 
 and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
 storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part 
 of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre 
 of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been 
 heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, 
 it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in 
 ^e church -yard. 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
 to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
 stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty 
 elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
 shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming 
 through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends 
 from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, 
 between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of 
 the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where 
 the sunbeams seem to sleep su quietly, one would think 
 that there at least the dead might r'^st in peace. On one 
 side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which 
 raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of 
 fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far 
 from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; 
 the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly 
 shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, 
 even in the daytime ; but occasioned a fearful darkness at 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 537 
 
 night. This was one of the favorite hannts of the head- 
 less horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently 
 encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most 
 heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
 returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
 obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over 
 bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached 
 the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a 
 skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang 
 away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 
 vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
 galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, 
 on returning one night from the neighboring village of 
 Sing Sing,^ he had been overtaken by this midnight 
 trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl 
 of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat 
 the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the 
 church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
 of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
 which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the lis- 
 teners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from 
 the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He 
 repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable 
 author. Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous 
 events that had taken place in his native State of Connect- 
 icut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly 
 walks about Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
 gathered their families in their wagons, and were heard 
 for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over 
 
 1 The name has been recently changed to Ossinning. 
 
538 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 
 behind their favorite swains, and their light - hearted 
 laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along 
 the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until 
 they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and 
 frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered 
 behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
 a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was 
 now on the high road to success. What passed at this 
 interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not 
 know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone 
 wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great 
 interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh 
 these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been 
 playing off any of her coquettish tricks? — Was her encour- 
 agement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
 her conquest of his rival? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — 
 Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of 
 one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair 
 lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to 
 notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often 
 gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several 
 hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncour- 
 teously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
 soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, 
 and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night ^ that Ichabod, 
 heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
 wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
 Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
 the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 
 below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 
 
 » Hamlet, III., ii., 406. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 539 
 
 tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of 
 a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
 dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of 
 the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but 
 it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his dis- 
 tance from this faithful companion of man. Now and 
 then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally 
 awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 
 house away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming 
 sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but 
 occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps 
 the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring 
 marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning sud- 
 denly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
 in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollec- 
 tion. The night grew darker and darker; the stars 
 seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds 
 occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt 
 so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching 
 the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
 stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an 
 enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all 
 the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of 
 landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large 
 enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
 almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
 connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
 Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was 
 universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree.^ 
 The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
 and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of 
 
 » A stone monument now marks the supposed place of Andre's capture. 
 
540 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 
 strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
 whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was but 
 a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As 
 he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw some- 
 thing white, hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused 
 and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, per- 
 ceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed 
 by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
 heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
 against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge 
 bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
 breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay 
 before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
 crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- 
 wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A 
 few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over 
 this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 
 entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted 
 thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over 
 it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at 
 this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- 
 tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines 
 were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. 
 This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and 
 fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it 
 alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; 
 he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
 horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
 dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting for- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 541 
 
 ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
 and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose 
 fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the 
 other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it 
 was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
 only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a 
 thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster 
 now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs 
 of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
 snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
 suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over 
 his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side 
 of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the 
 dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he 
 beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. 
 It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
 some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 
 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
 with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was 
 now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escap- 
 ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon 
 the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show 
 of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — "Who 
 are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his 
 demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no 
 answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflex- 
 ible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
 involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the 
 shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a 
 scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the 
 road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the 
 form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascer- 
 tained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimen- 
 
543 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. 
 He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept 
 aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
 side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright 
 and waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
 companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
 Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened 
 his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
 however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
 pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — 
 the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
 him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
 parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
 could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
 moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, 
 that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
 accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
 brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against 
 the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod 
 was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — 
 but his horror was still more increased, on observing that 
 the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was 
 carried before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror 
 rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
 upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
 his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump 
 with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and 
 thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. 
 Ichabod' s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he 
 stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, 
 in the eagerness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns off to 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 543 
 
 Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
 with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an oppo- 
 site turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. 
 This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees 
 for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
 famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
 knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
 rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 
 had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the 
 saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 
 He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it 
 firm, but in vain; and he had just time to save himself by 
 clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
 fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
 his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Rip- 
 per's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday 
 saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin 
 was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he 
 was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes 
 slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes 
 jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back -bone, with a 
 violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 
 , An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
 hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering 
 reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told 
 him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the 
 church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recol- 
 lected the place where Brom Bones 's ghostly competitor 
 had disappeared. '4f I can but reach that bridge,'** 
 thought Ichabod, '*I am safe." Just then he heard the 
 
 » Because witches cannot cross running water. See Bums's Tarn 
 O'Shanter. 
 
544 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he 
 even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another con- 
 vulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon 
 the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he 
 gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look 
 behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
 rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw 
 the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
 hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge 
 the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
 cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled head- 
 long into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and 
 the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found without his 
 saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 
 ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
 make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but 
 no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house, and 
 strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no school- 
 master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasi- 
 ness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An 
 inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation 
 they came upon his traces. In one part of the road lead- 
 ing to the church was found the saddle trampled in the 
 dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
 and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
 beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, 
 where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of 
 the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
 pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
 master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
 executor of his estate, examined the bundje which con- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 545 
 
 tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts 
 and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of 
 worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; 
 a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs' ears; 
 and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture 
 of the school-house, they belonged to the community, 
 excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New 
 England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- 
 telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scrib- 
 bled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a 
 copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
 These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith 
 consigned to the flames by Hans Van Eipper; who from 
 that time forward determined to send his children no more 
 to school ; observing that he never knew any good to come 
 of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the 
 schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's 
 pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his 
 person at the time of his disapj^earance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
 church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
 gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
 and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
 found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
 budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they had 
 diligently considered them all, and compared them with 
 the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, 
 and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
 off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and 
 in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
 about him. The school was removed to a different quarter 
 of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his 
 stead. 
 
546 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
 York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
 account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
 home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; 
 that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
 the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifi- 
 cation at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; 
 that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
 country; had kept school and studied law at the same 
 time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, 
 electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
 been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court.* Brom Bones 
 too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted 
 the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
 observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story 
 of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty 
 laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to 
 suspect that he knew more about the matter than he 
 chose to tell. 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
 of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
 spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 
 story often told about the neighborhood round the winter 
 evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object 
 of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the 
 road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
 church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house 
 being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 
 haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and 
 the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer even- 
 ing, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chant- 
 
 * A court haviug jurisdiction in cases not involving mora tbaa ten 
 poiinds. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 547 
 
 ing a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes 
 of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 
 
 The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in 
 which I heard it related at the Corporation meeting of the 
 ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its 
 sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleas- 
 ant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, 
 with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected 
 of being poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When 
 his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approba- 
 tion, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had 
 been asleep a greater part of the time. There was, however, one 
 tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who 
 maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout : now and 
 then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon 
 the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of 
 your wary men, who never laugh, but upon good grounds— when 
 they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of 
 the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, 
 he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the 
 other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage 
 motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
 moral of the stQry, and what it went to prove? 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
 lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, 
 looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, 
 lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story 
 was intended most logically to prove : — 
 
 "That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
 pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 
 
 "That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
 likely to have rough riding of it. 
 
 "Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of 
 a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
 state." 
 
548 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
 this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of 
 the syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed 
 him with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he 
 observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the 
 story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points 
 on which he had his doubts. 
 
 "Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I 
 don't believe one-half of it myself . " D. K. 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 1794-1878 
 
[For Questions on the Life of Bryant and 
 on Thanatopsis see pages 107, 108 of Marsh 
 and Royster's Manual for teaching English 
 Classics, bound in this volume.] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 William Cullen Bryant virtually belongs, like Irving 
 and Cooper, to New York, though he was a native of 
 New England and wrote his earliest poetry there. He 
 was born in the autumn of 1794 in the little town of 
 Cummington, where the north fork of the Westfield 
 River goes "brawling over a bed of loose stones in a very 
 narrow valley" in the semi-mountainous region of western 
 Massachusetts. He was the second of seven children. 
 His ancestors had been Americans for generations, several 
 of them having been among the passengers of the May- 
 flower. His father was a physician and surgeon, of 
 abilities quite beyond the small country practice with 
 which he contented himself ; he also served several terms 
 in the state legislature. His mother was a model house- 
 wife, equally adept, as her diary shows, at "teaching 
 Cullen his letters" and "making him a pair of breeches." 
 
 The boy's early schooling was carried on at home and 
 at the district school. At home he had the use of a 
 library exceptionally fine for that time and place, con- 
 taining, as it did, most of the world's classics from Plu- 
 tarch to Shakspere, together with such English classics 
 as Gibbon, Johnson, and Wordsworth. His outdoor 
 sports were many, — trout-fishing, squirrel-hunting, and 
 snow-balling; and there were the time-honored devices 
 for turning work into play at the seasons of making 
 
 3 
 
4 INTRODUCTION 
 
 maple-syrup and cider, and husking corn. Barn-raisings 
 and singing-schools varied the diversions. Few of these 
 things, however, found their way into young Cullen's 
 verses — for he began to write verses in his ninth year. 
 Boy-like, he was ambitious of greater themes and sought 
 exercise in paraphrasing the Book of Job, or in cele- 
 brating an eclipse in turgid lines : — 
 
 "How awfully sublime and grand to see 
 The lamp of Day wrapped in Obscurity!" 
 
 Of course, in this juvenile verse, the sun's ray is 
 "genial," birds "sit upon the spray," "stillness broods," 
 and so forth. It is difficult now to understand how 
 people of taste could ever delight in such cimcumlocu- 
 tions as "the lamp of day" or such stately phraseology as 
 "to see the sun remove behind the moon." But so it 
 was. The English poetic models upon which Bryant 
 formed his taste were full of this sort of thing, and he 
 naturally caught the manner. Unfortunately, it was a 
 manner from which he never, even in his best work, 
 entirely escaped. At the age of thirteen he wrote a poem 
 that was published at Boston (1808) in pamphlet form. 
 It was a political satire in five hundred lines, called The 
 Embargo^ and was aimed at the unpopular policy of 
 Jefferson's administration in closing our ports to foreign 
 commerce because of certain disputes with Great Britain. 
 In it the President was held up to scorn along with Error 
 and Faction and other monsters that made "injured Com- 
 merce weep." There was sufficient reason why the poem 
 should be popular then, though there is no reason why it 
 should be remembered now except as the work of a very 
 precocious little boy. 
 
 He was sent away to an uncle to learn Latin; then to a 
 
THANATOPSIS 5 
 
 minister in a neighboring township, where he paid a dol- 
 lar a week for his bodily and mental fare, the former 
 chiefly bread and milk, the latter Greek and mathematics. 
 In the fall of 1810 he went to Williams College, where he 
 remained seven months. This completed his schooling. 
 He made some preparation for continuing his studies at 
 Yale, but his father was unable to send him there, and he 
 had to content himself with chanting Greek choruses 
 among the Hampshire hills, or making his own first essays 
 at poetry. 
 
 It was during a ramble among these hills in the autumn 
 of 1811, when he was not yet quite seventeen years old, 
 that the conception of Tlianatopsis ("Vision of Death") 
 came to him; and the composition immediately followed. 
 He had been reading Blair's poem, Tlie Grave^ and certain 
 verses of Kirke White's and Southey's, and these may 
 have helped to suggest the somber theme of his own 
 poem; but the immediate inspiration came from the 
 autumnal scene around him, the subdued colors of earth 
 and sky, the bare branches, the fallen leaves, and the 
 decaying trunks of the forest trees. He went home and, 
 sitting at his father's desk, began to write in the middle 
 of a line ; 
 
 ''Yet a few days, and thee 
 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 
 In all his course." 
 
 He broke off, almost as abruptly, in the middle of the 
 forty-ninth line, and left the poem in a pigeon-hole of the 
 desk. There it was afterward found by his father, who 
 had always taken a sympathetic interest in his poetical 
 exercises, and who realized at once that this was a good 
 poem, though it is doubtful whether even a father's pride 
 enabled him to realize Just how good. He at least thought 
 
6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 it worthy to be offered to the North American Review^ 
 It is interesting to turn to that old number of the Review 
 and read the poem in its first form. We miss the familiar 
 beginning : — 
 
 "To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language." 
 
 We miss also the homily at the close, which, although not 
 the best part of the poem, is the most frequently 
 quoted: — 
 
 ' *So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 
 
 These additions were made when Bryant published his 
 first thin volume of poems in 1821, and a few further 
 changes were made afterward. But the central theme, 
 the universality of death, was fully set forth in the orig- 
 inal form and required no changes to make it complete. 
 This youth in his seventeenth year had quite uncon- 
 sciously produced a poem which none of the brilliant 
 galaxy of poets then ascendant in England would have 
 been ashamed to own. If it be true, as has been said, 
 that no American boy can afford not to read Benjamin 
 Franklin's AiitobiograjyJiyj it is almost equally true that 
 no one who cares to cultivate a love of the best in poetry 
 can afford not to learn by heart the eighty-one lines of 
 Thmiatopsis. 
 
THANATOPSIS V 
 
 Of course the anonymous, fragmentary-looking bit of 
 
 verse brought no immediate fame to Bryant, who was 
 
 industriously preparing himself for the very practical life 
 
 he was destined to lead. He read law, and in 1815 was 
 
 licensed to practice. The celebrated lines To a Waterfotol 
 
 were the outcome of an incident of this stage in his 
 
 career. He was walking to a neighboring village with 
 
 the object of finding a place to open a law office, and 
 
 chanced to observe the flight of a lone bird across the 
 
 evening sky. 
 
 * 'Whither, midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
 Thy solitary way ?" 
 
 He fancied he saw in this uncompanioned voyage along 
 *'that pathless coast, the desert and illimitable air," a 
 likeness to his own situation, and, full of the forebodings 
 natural to a young man when first confronting the world, 
 he sought to derive from it consolation : — 
 
 "He who from zone to zone 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone 
 Will lead my steps aright." 
 
 After some years of practice at Great Barrington, and 
 after his marriage, which followed upon the lyrical pre- 
 lude of ''Oh fairest of the rural maids," Bryant deter- 
 mined to abandon the law, partly because of his disgust at 
 learning that in that profession mere technicalities could 
 sometimes defeat justice, and partly because he longed 
 for larger opportunities. 
 
 In 1825 he went to New York and entered upon what 
 proved to be his lifelong career — journalism. He suc- 
 ceeded rather slowly at first, but after his connection with 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 the Eve7img Post, and especially after his succession to 
 the chief editorship of that journal, his fortunes rapidly- 
 mended. He not only made the Evening Post a news- 
 paper of the highest rank, but by the purity of his life 
 and ideals, and the courage with which he always espoused 
 what he believed to be the right, he sensibly elevated the 
 somewhat low tone of the American press, and exercised 
 a profound and wholesome influence upon American 
 politics and public life. He lived and acted in the full 
 conviction that, in his own words, 
 
 "Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
 The eternal years of God are hers ; 
 But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
 And dies among his worshippers." 
 
 For fifty years he faithfully performed the exacting 
 duties that fell to him, finding change and rest in half a 
 dozen voyages to Europe, or in such hours of retirement 
 as he could snatch at the old Cummington homestead, or 
 at the beautiful suburban residence he had provided for 
 himself at Roslyn, Long Island. From time to time he 
 gathered his fugitive verses and published a slender vol- 
 ume. Late in life, too, he sought relief from more 
 strenuous duties by translating the Iliad and the Odyssey 
 into the blank verse of which he rightly felt himself to be 
 a master. The translations are a little cold, but for 
 faithfulness and majesty they rank among the best that 
 have been made. These were finished in 1871. For 
 nearly seven years more the poet's mental activity kept 
 pace with his bodily vigor, until the fatal fall, iu his 
 eighty-fourth year, on the stone steps of General Wilson's 
 house, just after he had delivered a public address on 
 Mazzini, in the hot sun at Central Park. He died after 
 
THANATOPSIS 9 
 
 two weeks of semi-consciousness and was buried at 
 Roslyn. 
 
 Thanatopsis remains, first and last, his great achieve- 
 ment — in form a perfect example of English blank verse, 
 of which he alone among American writers has attained 
 to any real mastery; in substance an epitome of his 
 powers, with its lofty imagination and its musings upon 
 the themes of nature and death. It biirely escapes, too, 
 his besetting melancholy, though, on the whole, it is 
 more consoling than depressing, with the benign presence 
 of Nature felt through it all, and sweet, 
 
 "Strange intimations of invisible things 
 Which, while they seem to sadden, give delight, 
 And hurt not, but persuade the soul to prayer."* 
 
 It has been called a pagan poem, with no ray of Christian 
 hope or promise of immortality. The mere absence of 
 these things does not |make it pagan; yet if any one is 
 left unsatisfied with the spirit of reverence that breathes 
 through its lines, he may find a complement in Tlie Flood 
 of Yeai'Sy that majestic chant written in the poet's 
 eighty-second year. Together the two poems make a 
 perfect confession of faith, and mark both verges of a life 
 and genius that for purity and consecration it would be 
 hard to find excelled. 
 
 * R. H. Stoddard : The Dead Master. 
 
THANATOPSIS 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice. — 
 
 Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements, 
 
 11 
 
12 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 
 Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 
 With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 
 The venerable woods — rivers that move 
 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. 
 
 Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears'no sound. 
 
 Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there: 
 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 
 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
 
 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
 
THANATOPSIS 13 
 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will langh 
 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 
 Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 
 
 The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
 
 The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 
 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. 
 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innuni'erable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams, 
 
A MANUAL 
 
 FOR 
 
 TEACHING ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE L. lyiARSH 
 
 ASSOCIATE IN ENGLISH, THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
 (UNIVERSITY EXTENSION) 
 
 JAMES F. ROYSTER 
 
 OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
 
 CHICAGO 
 SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
 1904 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
 SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The questions, topics for themes, and suggestions for study in 
 this volume are based upon the editions of the respective books 
 in the Lake English Classics (Scott, Foresman and Company, 
 Chicago). All page references are made to the edition of the 
 book in this series, unless otherwise indicated. The general 
 order of study of each book, adopted solely for uniformity and 
 convenience, and not because it is recommended as a desirable 
 order of treatment for the teacher, is as follows: (1) life of 
 the author and other matter contained in the editor's Intro- 
 duction, which can be treated apart from the work in question ; 
 (2) the text of the book itself, including content, characters, 
 style, etc. 
 
 It is not intended that the questions and suggestions on any 
 one book shall be exhaustive. Sometimes they are only supple- 
 mentary to questions already given in the text books. Often 
 those upon one book may be profitably applied in part to an- 
 other book. Questions on mere matters of explanation of the 
 text are seldom given. It is believed, however, that all the 
 material relating to the several books will be found suggestive, 
 and — assuming that the text is first understood — will generally 
 bring out the points which can most profitably be studied in 
 secondary schools. It should be remembered that this volume 
 is intended for the teacher rather than the pupil, and while 
 many of the questions and theme topics may be used directly in 
 the class room, some of the material is suggestive for the 
 teacher, and is intended to be inspiring and directive in the way 
 of personal preparation. 
 
 The order in which the books appear in the Manual has been 
 
 suggested by their adaptability to the student's development and 
 
 increasing ability to appreciate and understand them. The 
 
 material on each book is so prepared that any change from this 
 
 order will not affect its value. 
 
 George L. Marsh 
 
 James F. Royster 
 June 1, 1902 
 
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION 
 
 A second edition of this Manual is made necessary by the 
 publication of six additional books in this series. The methods 
 pursued in preparing the questions and suggestions are the same 
 as defined in the preface to the first edition. 
 
 We wish to acknowledge with thanks our indebtedness to 
 Prof. A. H. To! man for suggestions in the preparation of the 
 questions on the plays of Shakspere. 
 
 George L. Marsh 
 James F. Royster 
 February i, 1904 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Last of the Mohicans— Cooper 7 
 
 Tales of a Traveller, with Selections from The Sketch 
 
 Book — Irving 11 
 
 Ivan HOE— aSco^^ 16 
 
 Silas Marner— (reorgre Eliot ..22 
 
 The Merchant of YBmcE—Shakspere .... 25 
 
 The Vicar of WAKBFiEhD— Goldsmith .... 29 
 
 The Lady of the Lake— ^co<^ 32 
 
 The Sir Roger De Coverley Papers, from the Spectator 
 
 — Addison 35 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner— CoZeWdgre 
 
 ( 
 
 39 
 The Vision of Sir Launfal— Lo?t'eZZ 
 
 The House of the Seven G abides— Hawthorrie . . 42 
 
 The Lay of the Last Minstrel— ^Scofi ... 46 
 
 Julius Caesar — Shakspere 49 
 
 Essay on Burns— CarZ?/Ze ...... 52 
 
 Palamon and Arcite, of The Knight's Tale from Chaucer 
 
 — Dryden 55 
 
 The Iliad of Homer. Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV— Pope 58 
 
 Essays on Milton and Addison— il/ctcaztZa^/ ... 61 
 Minor Poems. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, Lycidas 
 
 — Milton 64 
 
 Revolt of the Tartars, or Flight of the Kalmuck Khan 
 
 and His People from the Russian Territories to the 
 
 Frontiers of China — De Quincey 67 
 
 Marmion— A^cof^ 70 
 
 The Princess — Tennyson 73 
 
 Macbeth— /S^/iafcspere 76 
 
 Speech ON Conciliation WITH America — Burke ... 80 
 
 Paradise Lost, Books I and 11— Milton .... 84 
 
 Poems and Tales, Selected~Poe 87 
 
6 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Twice Told Tales — Hawthorne 92 
 
 Ag You Like iT—Shakspere ...'.. 96 
 
 Hamlet — Shakspere IOC) 
 
 Twelfth Night — Shakspere ..... 103 
 
 Th an ATOPSis— Br 2/ani 107 
 
TEACHER^S MANUAL 
 
 FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. James Fenimore Cooper. Edited 
 by Edwin Herbert Lewis, Ph.D., Associate Professor iu Lewis Institute. 
 Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 430. 40 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Map of Region between Sara- 
 toga Lake and Lake George. 
 Cooper's Life and Work. 
 
 The Life of Cooper: 
 
 Relate the most important 
 facts of Cooper's life . (pp. 
 7-11). 
 
 What was the condition of 
 central and western New 
 York at the time of Cooper's 
 birth? 
 
 How did the life of his boy- 
 hood and youth prepare him 
 for the sort of work which 
 afterwards made him fa- 
 mous? 
 
 Had the American Indian and 
 pioneer appeared in fiction 
 before Cooper's time? 
 
 What was the state of Ameri- 
 can fiction at this time 
 (p. 7)? 
 
 How were the last years of 
 Cooper's life made unpleas- 
 ant? 
 
 Suggestions for Study. 
 Author's Introduction. 
 Text. 
 
 What of his personal qualities 
 (pp. 10, 11)? 
 
 The Plot: 
 
 What is the main purpose of 
 the first chapter of the story? 
 
 In the second, third, and 
 fourth chapters the author 
 lays the groundwork for the 
 development of the plot, in- 
 troduces the principal char- 
 acters, and puts the action 
 under way. Study carefully 
 all the details of these chap- 
 ters. 
 
 What are the ladies' reasons 
 for suspecting Magna? 
 
 What is the author's purpose 
 in turning the conversation 
 in this direction? 
 
 Is there any connection be- 
 tween the conversation of 
 the scout and the two In- 
 
teacheb's manual 
 
 dians and that of the Major's 
 party before the two parties 
 come together? 
 
 What is the first actual step 
 in the complication of the 
 plot? 
 
 What is the full implication 
 of "Uncas is right," etc. 
 (p. 61, 1. 31) in regard to 
 Uncas (cf. p. 74, 1. 13 and 
 p. 103, 1. 26, p. 144, U. 12 ff.)? 
 
 Work out this line of the plot 
 as the story is read. 
 
 Study from first to last to dis- 
 cover what is the attitude 
 of each of the sisters to 
 Duncan. Do they both love 
 him? 
 
 Study also his attitude to- 
 ward the sisters. 
 
 Does he show any preference 
 before the announcement of 
 it (p. 199)? 
 
 Is the revelation (p. 200) that 
 Cora has negro blood in her 
 a complete surprise, or have 
 there been incidents given 
 that prepare for the an- 
 nouncement? Note also such 
 points as show whether or 
 not Cora kntows of this blood 
 in her. 
 
 What influence has this fact 
 on the outcome of the story 
 — on bringing about, or neces- 
 sitating, the particular form 
 of denouement that the story 
 has? 
 
 Make a map of the movement 
 of the action from place to 
 place. 
 
 What betrayed the presence 
 of the party at Glens Falls? 
 
 What striking turn of situa- 
 tion does Chapter IX. con- 
 tain? Describe the rescue on 
 the mound. 
 
 Discuss the author's manage- 
 ment of the arrival of the 
 party at Fort William 
 Henry. 
 
 What development of the 
 story takes place between 
 the entrance of the party to 
 the Fort and the surrender 
 of the Fort? 
 
 Do these developments justify 
 so much space as is taken 
 up by the author? 
 
 What is the'author's purpose 
 in introducing the scene be- 
 tween Montcalm and Magna 
 on the night before the sur- 
 render of the Fort; (p. 212). 
 
 What artistic reason is there 
 for the author's not going 
 more fully into the descrip- 
 tion of the massacre of Fort 
 William Henry? 
 
 What was the difference of 
 opinion between Hawkeye 
 and the Indians as to the 
 manner of following the 
 trail of the captives from 
 William Henry? What does 
 this reveal as to the differ- 
 ence between the mental 
 processes of these charac- 
 ters? 
 
 How is the presence of the 
 hostile Indians on Lake 
 George accounted for? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 Is there any improbability 
 either in the fact that 
 Hawkeye's party did regain 
 the captives' trail west of 
 Lake George, or in the par- 
 ticular circumstances of 
 doing it? What do you 
 think, from the way the 
 author manages the situa- 
 tion, is his opinion as to the 
 improbability? 
 
 Discuss the regaining of the 
 hidden trail by means of 
 the footprints in the stream 
 bed — its probability, etc. 
 (p. 268 ff.)- 
 
 What is the author's purpose 
 in having Duncan wonder 
 at the beaver village and 
 the lone Indian, David (pp. 
 273 ff.)? 
 
 Discuss the plan of the rescue 
 of the sisters — the probabil- 
 ity and improbability of 
 its success. 
 
 How is the incident of the 
 sick woman made to seem 
 not merely a device of the 
 author to bring Duncan to 
 Alice? 
 
 The presence of Hawkeye 
 seems necessary for the res- 
 cue of Alice. How is his 
 presence accounted for? 
 
 Why did he not go, as was 
 agreed, to the village of the 
 Dela wares in search of 
 Cora? 
 
 Compare the conduct of 
 Hawkeye in merely gag- 
 ging Magna (p. 325) with 
 
 his conduct on the knoll (p. 
 145) and at Magua's first 
 escape (p. 59). Compare it 
 also with his advice to Dun- 
 can (p. 286, 11. 9-11). Explain 
 Hawkeye's clemency. 
 Discuss the rescue of Uncas. 
 Justify, if you can, the use 
 made of David in this res- 
 cue. 
 Why did the Delawares re- 
 gard the council (Chapters 
 XXVIII., XXIX.) so very 
 important? 
 What effect is produced by 
 the introduction of the aged 
 chief? 
 What artistic reasons are 
 there for not letting Magna 
 go home without Cora or 
 any of the captives, thus 
 bringing the story to a 
 happy close? 
 What is Heyward's motive in 
 wrangling over the name 
 La Longue Carabine? Was 
 he successful? 
 How did Uncas secure the re- 
 versal of the decision of 
 Tamenund as to all the pris- 
 oners except Cora? 
 Why did he not secure her 
 
 release also? 
 Interpret to the full extent 
 the silence of Uncas (p. 385) 
 and his departing speech to 
 Magua (p. 390). 
 What is the most dramatic 
 point in this dramatic chap- 
 ter (XXX.)? 
 Describe the Indian battle. 
 
10 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Discuss the artistic effect of 
 having Cora and Uncas 
 killed. 
 
 Is there any reason why 
 Hawkeye and not another 
 should have killed Magna? 
 
 Discuss in detail the burial 
 (Chapter XXXIII). 
 
 Who is the hero of the book? 
 
 Your reasons? 
 
 Why is David Gamut intro- 
 duced into the story?^ 
 
 Is General Monroe's part nat- 
 ural? 
 
 Discuss his conduct. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 The teacher should read Miss 
 May Estelle Cook's pamphlet, 
 (see list of books in Appen- 
 dix to this volume), which 
 presents a practical method 
 of teaching the novel, begin- 
 ning with character. 
 
 Pick out from the above ques- 
 tions those about Hawkeye. 
 In answering these questions 
 (or some of them) the pupil 
 will see that he tells some- 
 thing about Hawkeye's char- 
 cicter. Is there any impor- 
 tant point in hiscliaracter not 
 brought out in the questions? 
 State such point or points. 
 Combine all you have said 
 about Hawkeye's character 
 into an essay. 
 
 In the same way, you may 
 gather from the questions 
 and from a review of the 
 book, statements about each 
 
 of the following characters : 
 Hey ward. Magna, Uncas, 
 Gamut, Cora, Alice. 
 
 Combine the statements about 
 each into an essay. 
 
 What is your favorite charac- 
 ter? 
 
 Do you think this was Coop- 
 er's favorite, too? Why? 
 
 Are all the striking charac- 
 teristics of this character 
 necessary for the plot — or are 
 some put in for the sake of 
 character? Specify. 
 
 Have you ever read about the 
 heroes mentioned on p. 12? 
 
 Do you like any of them bet- 
 ter than the characters in 
 this book? 
 
 For other questions, see pp. 
 13 and 14. 
 
 Make a list of scenes described 
 by Cooper. 
 
 Compare them with places 
 you know. 
 
 Point out parts of the story 
 the editor had in mind 
 when writing p. 11. 
 
 Style: 
 
 Discuss Cooper's power to por- 
 tray great emotion (p. 321, 
 Chapter XXXIII). 
 
 Discuss Cooper's power to de- 
 scribe inanimate nature, his 
 power to describe vigorous 
 action, his power to hold 
 the interest of his reader 
 with his narrative. 
 
 What is his particular excel- 
 lence? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 11 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER, with SELECTIONS FROM THE SKETCH 
 BOOK. Washington Irving. Edited by George Philip Krapp, Ph.D., 
 Instructor in Teachers' College, Columbia University. Chicago: Scott, 
 Foresman and Company, pp. 551. 40 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Pbbfaob. 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 I. Biography. 
 
 Irving and his literary 
 
 friends. 
 American Literature before 
 
 Irving. 
 Irving's birth. 
 Irving's first trip up the 
 
 Hudson 
 Attempts at law. 
 First journey to Europe. 
 Admission to the bar. 
 Salmagundi. 
 Knickerbocker History., 
 Death of Miss Hoffman. 
 Business difficulties. 
 Sketch Book. 
 Its success. 
 
 Publication in England. 
 Bracehridge Halt and Tales 
 
 of a Traveller. 
 Life in Spain. 
 The return home. 
 Last works and death. 
 Irving's disposition. 
 
 Life of Irving: 
 
 When and where was he born? 
 
 "Where were his early years 
 spent? 
 
 Describe some of the occupa- 
 tions of his youth which, in 
 your opinion, had an influ- 
 ence on his literary work 
 (pp. 12, 13). 
 
 What was the extent of his 
 education? 
 
 For what profession did he 
 study? With what success? 
 
 Mention any incidents of his 
 
 His delicacy and refine 
 
 ment of feeling. 
 Hisi sense of humor. 
 IL The Sketch Book and the Tales 
 of a Traveller. 
 The short story. 
 Irving's humor. 
 Sense of locality. 
 III. Bibliography. 
 Table of Chief Dates in Irving's 
 
 Life. 
 Tales of a Traveller. 
 
 Part First — Strange Stories by a 
 
 Nervous Gentleman. 
 Part Second— Buckthorne and His 
 
 Friends. 
 Part Third— yy^e Italian Ban- 
 ditti. 
 Part Fovacth— The Money-Dig- 
 gers. 
 Selections from the Sketch 
 Book. 
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hol- 
 low. 
 Rip Van Winkle. 
 Word Index, 
 
 first trip to Europe (1804) 
 whi^li may have had an 
 influence on the Tales of a 
 Ti^aveller (p. 15). 
 
 Tell something of the extent 
 and duration of Irving's later 
 travels. 
 
 What positions did he hold in 
 the diplomatic service of the 
 United States? 
 
 Where did he live and what 
 was his occupation after re- 
 turning to America? 
 
 When did he die? 
 
12 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 His Works: 
 
 What was his first important 
 literary venture (p. 16)? Its 
 success? 
 
 What is said about the pur- 
 pose, tone, and effect of the 
 Knickerbocker History (pp. 
 17, 18)? 
 
 When and under what cir- 
 cumstances was the Sketch 
 Book written? 
 
 Compare with the circum- 
 stances under whicli most of 
 Scott's novels were written. 
 
 What was the success of the 
 Sketch Book ? Its results for 
 Irving? 
 
 When did the Tales of a 
 Traveller appear? With what 
 success (p. 23)? 
 
 What important works re- 
 sulted from Irving's sojourn 
 in Spain? 
 
 What are the most important 
 works which he wrote after 
 his return to America? 
 
 What, in general, was the 
 condition of American liter- 
 ature before Irving began to 
 write (p. 10)? 
 
 What foreign recognition did 
 he secure for it (see many 
 places in Introduction)? 
 
 Name several of the most im- 
 portant of Irving's literary 
 friends (p. 9). 
 
 What works of theirs have you 
 read (e. g. in your Reader)? 
 
 What famous English authors 
 were Irving's models in his 
 essays? 
 
 What is said, however, about i 
 his essential originality (pp. ] 
 28, 29)? 
 
 What is the most prominent 
 characteristic of the tales 
 (p. 29)? 
 
 Illustrate by three examples 
 not mentioned in the Intro- 
 duction. 
 
 Tales of a Traveller: Let 
 the stories be read as stories. 
 
 Notice the machinery of the 
 book: In the first part 
 Irving as Geoffrey Crayon 
 introduces "the nervous 
 gentleman," who tells of 
 "the hunting dinner, " quot- 
 ing in turn from the differ- 
 ent guests there. Trace any 
 similar devices in other parts 
 of the book. 
 
 What views does Irving ex- 
 press in "To the Reader," 
 as to the giving of morals 
 in stories? 
 
 Do you find that he offends in 
 this respect in this book? 
 
 What was Irving's own opin- 
 ion of this book (p. 23)? 
 
 "Strange Stories by a Nervous 
 Gentleman' \- — 
 
 Point out different ways in 
 "The Adventure of My Un- 
 cle" in which we are led to 
 expect a supernatural vis- 
 itor. 
 
 Summarize points of contrast 
 between "The Adventure of 
 my Uncle," and "the Adven- 
 ture of my Aunt." 
 
 In what ways is the telling of 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 13 
 
 "The Bold Dragoon" made 
 to seem appropriate to the 
 character of the person who 
 tells it? 
 
 What effect has the final state- 
 ment in "The Adventure of 
 the German Student," re- 
 garding the student's being 
 in a mad-house (p. 88)? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 telling of "The Adventure 
 of the Mysterious Picture'"? 
 Of "The Adventure of the 
 Mysterious Stranger"? 
 
 Find other examples farther 
 on of stories within stories? 
 Is the device ever carried so 
 far as to become confus- 
 ing? 
 
 Do you detect any apparent 
 affectation in "The Story of 
 the Young Italian"? Is there 
 anything in his character to 
 account for it? 
 See editor's note on p. 141. 
 
 "Buckthorne and His 
 Friends'"': — 
 
 Note all bits of literary criti- 
 cism here which seem to ex- 
 press Irving's own opinions. 
 
 What interesting comment is 
 there on the literary fash- 
 ions of Irving's time (pp.147, 
 165, etc.)? 
 
 Point out in ' 'The Poor-Devil 
 Author" some of the best 
 examples you find of irony 
 or mock seriousness. 
 
 In "Buckthorne" what inter- 
 esting comment is there on 
 public schools (p. 189)? 
 
 How seriously can you take 
 Irving's remarks on the 
 poetical temperament (p. 
 190 and frequently after- 
 ward) ? 
 
 Is the way in which "Sacha- 
 rissa" always turns up at 
 the wrong time (p. 215 and 
 later) natural and probable? 
 
 By what sort of allusions is 
 "The Strolling Manager" 
 made to seem in character? 
 
 What is the effect on the 
 reader of the half promise 
 at the end of "Buckthorne 
 and His Friends"? 
 
 ''The Italian Banditti' \- — 
 
 What striking contrasts does 
 Irving show in the charac- 
 ter of the Englishman? 
 
 In "The Belated Travellers" 
 is the constraint of the 
 Polish count's daughter and 
 the Spanish p r i n c e s s's 
 nephew sufficiently ac- 
 counted for? 
 
 Notice throughout these sto- 
 ries how the English and 
 Italian characters are differ- 
 entiated. 
 
 Notice how vivid descriptions 
 add to the effectiveness of 
 the stories. 
 
 Point out, in "The Story of 
 the Bandit Chieftain," two 
 or three of the best descrip- 
 tions both of persons and of 
 places. 
 
 See question on p. 350. 
 
 How do the comments of the 
 author add to the effective* 
 
14 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 ness of "The Story of the 
 Young Robber"? 
 
 "J7ie Money-Diggers^'' : — 
 
 What differences in style 
 and method do you find in 
 these tales, compared with 
 the preceding, due to the 
 fact that they are supposed 
 to be related by Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker (learned foot- 
 notes, familiar Dutch refer- 
 ences, etc.)? 
 
 Tell in the briefest form con- 
 sistent with completeness, 
 the story of "The Devil and 
 Tom Walker." 
 
 How is nature used in "The 
 Adventure of the Black 
 Fisherman" — and just be- 
 fore — to heighten the eflfec- 
 tiveness of the strange 
 events related? 
 
 What effect has Irving's non- 
 committal method of sug- 
 gesting various practical 
 solutions for events that 
 seem supernatural, as near 
 the end of "The Adventure 
 of the Black Fisherman"? 
 
 Selections from the Sketch 
 
 Book: 
 "Rip Van Winkle'''': — 
 What is the purpose of the 
 
 introductory description of 
 
 the Kaatskills? 
 What are the most important 
 
 dramatic situations which 
 
 you find in this story? 
 What effect is intensified by 
 
 having Rip's return take 
 
 place at the time of an elec- 
 tion? 
 
 How is the supernaturalism of 
 the tale modified or qualified? 
 
 Write character sketches of 
 Rip and his wife, and an 
 account of the game of ten- 
 pins in the Kaatskills. 
 
 "The Legend of Sleepy Hol- 
 low'':— 
 
 What was Irving's purpose 
 in making the scene of this 
 story a place like Sleepy Hol- 
 low? 
 
 Are all the details about Icha- 
 bod Crane essential to the 
 development of the story? 
 
 What justification is there 
 for them? 
 
 How are we prepared by the 
 character of Ichabod for 
 the climax of the story (pp. 
 516, 517)? By the character 
 of Brom Bones (pp. 523-24)? 
 
 Is the apparently supernatural 
 end of the story actuallj'^ ex- 
 plained, or is explanation 
 only hinted at? 
 
 Write a description and a 
 character sketch of Ichabod, 
 and tell in your own words 
 the tale of the Headless 
 Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 Irving's Style: 
 
 Irving's style is justly re- 
 garded as a model. It may 
 safely be used as such. 
 
 The following topics will sug- 
 gest others that may lead to 
 style through imitation : 
 
FOR THE LAKE EITGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 15 
 
 describe some village of your 
 neighborhood (cf. pp. 486-87). 
 
 Describe some place you 
 know, that you have been 
 reminded of in reading Ir- 
 ving (pp. 389, 400, 417, etc.). 
 
 Joes Rip Van Winkle remind 
 you of any one you have 
 ever seen? Tell about him. 
 
 low would Rip Van Winkle 
 or Black Sam feel, do you 
 
 think, at River or 
 
 in woods (use local 
 
 names)? Tell about their 
 taking a walk there. 
 
 3o you know any spot where 
 a person might feel like hid- 
 ing treasure? 
 
 ^ame some of the other places 
 and persons that you have 
 been reminded of, and tell 
 about two or three of them. 
 
 i?7rite an essay on: "Some 
 People Mr. Irving Ought to 
 Have Known"; "Some 
 Places Mr. Irving Would 
 Have Liked to Visit." 
 
 Cell about a man who in some 
 way falls asleep for some 
 years and then wakes up to 
 find everything changed ; 
 make him different from Rip 
 (a hard - working business 
 man possibly), make him 
 interested in the things 
 changed and the change, 
 and bring the sleep on in 
 another way (sickness, blow 
 on the head). 
 
 iVrite a story in which a hard- 
 hearted money lender, like 
 
 Tom Walker (p. 414), is car- 
 ried away and returns to 
 find his valuables nothing 
 but cinders. 
 
 Tell about a company you 
 know and how one story 
 brought out another. 
 
 Questions of such relativity 
 as range of vocabulary had 
 best be taken up in connec- 
 tion with the work in com- 
 position. 
 
 For range of vocabulary cf. 
 Herrick and Damon, pp. 
 110 ff. Let the student re- 
 produce a page of Irving 
 from memory ; so far as pos- 
 sible the matter should be 
 fresh without his remember- 
 ing the form. Now let him 
 compare. Let the class pick 
 out in a short paragraph the 
 words they cannot or do not 
 use. Let them give the near- 
 est synonyms they know. 
 Then let them do some dic- 
 tionary work. In such de- 
 scriptions as pp. 291-94 let 
 them pick out the words 
 used to express the same 
 thing (variety). Compar- 
 ison with other authors is 
 hardly profitable. How- 
 ever, Irving's descriptions 
 may be compared with those 
 in a geography to show that 
 Irving uses a class of words 
 (emotional) not there em- 
 ployed; similarly with his- 
 tory. 
 
 For choice of words cf . Herrick 
 
16 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 and Damon, Chapters XV 
 and XVI. Let the teacher 
 from time to time pick out 
 one or two points here for 
 illustration and ask the 
 pupils to illustrate them 
 from Irving (or whatever 
 author is being read). 
 
 All dictionary work and study 
 of synonyms will awaken 
 the student to both range 
 of vocabulary and choice of 
 words. 
 
 Which of the stories in this 
 
 volume seems to you mosv 
 
 humorous? 
 What can you say as to Ir 
 
 ving's range of vocabulary 
 His choice of words? 
 Is his style stiff, or colloquial 
 Is it ever unpleasantly col 
 
 loquial? 
 Note expressions unfamiliar 
 
 to you. 
 Is the style reserved, or famil 
 
 iar? 
 Is it ever obscure and hard t( 
 
 follow? 
 
 IVANHOE. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by William Edward Simonds, Ph.D. 
 Professor of English Literature, Knox College. Chicago: Scott, Fores 
 man and Company. pp. 620. 45 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Biographical Sketch. 
 
 Ancestry. 
 Childhood. 
 Schooldays. 
 Professional career. 
 Literary labors. 
 The novels. 
 Ivanhoe. 
 Later years. 
 
 II. The Study of the Novel. 
 
 The aim of story-telling is 
 to give pleasure. 
 
 The setting and the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 (Questions on the life of Scott, 
 applicable in part at least 
 to the Lake edition of Ivan- 
 hoe, may be found under 
 The Lady of the Lake, p. 32 
 of this Manual.) 
 
 The plot. 
 
 Unity of the plot. 
 
 Scenes. 
 
 Incidents. 
 
 Climax. 
 
 The characters. 
 Bibliography. 
 A List of the Characters appear 
 
 ing in Ivanhoe. 
 Genealogical Table of the Eng 
 lish Kings after the Normau 
 Conquest. 
 MAP. 
 Text. 
 Appendix. 
 Author's Notes. 
 Index of Words Annotated. 
 
 General Facts: 
 
 What is the date of the pub« 
 
 lication of Ivanhoe? 
 What departure of Scott's 
 
 in choice of subjects does it 
 
 mark (p. 21)? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 17 
 
 Vhat is the origin of the name? 
 
 Vas Ivanhoe a historical char- 
 acter? 
 
 Vhat were Scott's sources for 
 this book? 
 
 Vhat is the rank of Ivanhoe 
 among Scott's works? 
 
 Vhat pen name is used in this 
 book? Why (p. 21)? 
 
 ETTING AND SITUATION 
 
 Vhat is the time of the story? 
 Its duration in time? 
 
 If what race were the rulers 
 of England? The common 
 people? 
 
 >o you know of any admix- 
 ture in the blood royal (the 
 wife of Henry I. was a 
 Saxon princess, p. 39)? 
 
 low does Scott represent 
 the relation existing between 
 the two races? 
 
 [ow does he ^account for their 
 becoming one race? 
 
 Vhat is the location of the 
 story? 
 
 rote on the map (p. 40) the 
 different places mentioned. 
 
 5 the formal introduction end- 
 ing on p. 44 interesting? Can 
 you think of any other way 
 [in which the novel might 
 have been introduced? 
 
 )EVELOPMENT OF THE PLOT : 
 
 Vhat purpose does the conver- 
 sation between Gurth and 
 Wamba in Chapter I serve? 
 
 ummarize briefly the hints in 
 Chapter II as to the station 
 and importance to the story 
 
 of Cedric and his family. 
 What purpose can you see 
 for all these hints before we 
 meet the persons? 
 Trace through Chapters I and 
 
 II the indications of a storm? 
 What purpose is there in 
 having a storm come? 
 
 Trace through Chapters II and 
 
 III hints as to the feeling of 
 Cedric and Rowena toward 
 Cedric's son. 
 
 Summarize the action that 
 takes place during Chapters 
 III, IV, and V, noting partic- 
 ularly the successive appear- 
 ances of the different 
 important characters and the 
 theatric character of the ac- 
 tion. 
 
 Why does Scott have the 
 Palmer, rather than some 
 other character in the story, 
 offer his seat to the Jew (p. 
 92)? 
 
 Are there any hints in Chapter 
 VI that the Palmer is per- 
 haps not really a palmer? 
 
 What in Chapter VII is the 
 significance of the encounter 
 of Athelstane, Cedric, and 
 the yeoman, with Prince 
 John and his company? 
 
 What effect do you think Scott 
 wished to secure by the 
 delay in the tournament (p. 
 142)? 
 
 Is there any evidence in Chap- 
 ter X that Rebecca is 
 especially interested in the 
 DisinheritedKnight? 
 
18 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 "What purpose does Chapter XI 
 serve in the development of 
 the story? 
 
 Who were the robbers and why- 
 did they act as they did? 
 
 In Chapter XII why did Athel- 
 stane array himself on the 
 side of the Templar? 
 
 What effect is produced by the 
 disappearance of the Black 
 Sluggard at the conclusion 
 of the tournament? 
 
 After learning positively that 
 the Disinherited Knight is 
 Ivanhoe, go back and trace 
 all the hints that lead up to 
 this discovery. 
 
 What is the meaning of the 
 message received by Prince 
 John on p. 201? 
 
 What does the repeated sin- 
 gling out of the yeoman 
 Locksley indicate as to his 
 importance in the story? 
 
 What purpose does the en- 
 counter of the Black Knight 
 and the Clerk of Copman- 
 hurst (Chapters XVI and 
 XVII) serve? Point out the 
 chapters, both before and af- 
 ter, with which its action is 
 directly connected. Does it 
 serve any other good purpose 
 besides its direct connection 
 with the plot? 
 
 In Chapter XIX, why is no 
 revelation made as to the 
 identity of the sick man with 
 the Jew, and why do Cedric 
 and Rowena show no cu- 
 riosity? 
 
 Notice in Chapters XIX an 
 XX the natural way i 
 which the persons who ar 
 to take part in the siege o 
 Torquilstone are broug'n 
 together, and how they hav 
 all been previously, in on 
 way or another, sympa 
 thizers with the persons con 
 fined in the castle. 
 
 In Chapter XXI what is th 
 purpose of Cedric's reminis 
 cences (pp. 282-85)? 
 
 Note resemblances of Chapte 
 XXII to The Merchant q 
 Venice. What dramati' 
 effect is prominent in thi 
 chapter? 
 
 Does the matter at the end o 
 Chapter XXIII, beginning 
 with the last paragraph oi 
 p. 306, belong properly wit] 
 the story? What bette 
 place can you suggest fo 
 it? 
 
 What one important even 
 stops all the evil scheme: 
 attempted in Chapters XXI 
 XXIV? Note the suspense ir 
 each story, the climax whicl 
 each reaches, the similarities 
 and contrasts between them 
 Compare the actions of Row 
 ena and Rebecca. 
 
 In Chapter XXV what is the 
 effect of the semi - comic 
 challenge, introduced in the 
 midst of an action so se- 
 rious? 
 
 What purpose does the story 
 of Ulrica, Chapter XXVII, 
 
FOE THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 19 
 
 serve in relation to the fu- 
 ture progress of the story? 
 
 In Chapter XXIX how is the 
 account of the assault pre- 
 sented? Is the method effec- 
 tive? What other sort of 
 description of the assault is 
 given (pp. 408 ff.)? 
 
 What powerful dramatic cli- 
 max is there in Chapter 
 XXX? 
 
 What action in the early part 
 of the book does the Black 
 Knight's whispering to De 
 Brac}"" remind you of (pp. 
 413, HI)? 
 
 Point out from the time of the 
 tournament to final revela- 
 tion of his identity every 
 hint you find as to the Black 
 Knight. What is the purpose 
 of so many? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 long talk of Beaumanoir on 
 pp. 472 ff.? Point out in 
 order the most important 
 events in the trial of Re- 
 becca, Chapters XXXVII and 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Do you find this part of the 
 book any less interesting 
 than what precedes? If so, 
 why? 
 
 In what ways in Chapter 
 XXXIX and before are we 
 prepared for Bois-Guilbert's 
 taking up arms against Re- 
 becca's cause? Make clear 
 the chain of circumstances 
 that is linked around him 
 (pp. 532, 533, etc.). 
 
 Note how in Chapter XL (p. 
 537) we are prepared for 
 Ivanhoe's speedy recovery in 
 time to fight for Rebecca. 
 
 Why does Scott have Wamba 
 blow the bugle (p. 548)? 
 
 Does the unexpected reappear- 
 ance of Athelstane (p. 575) 
 seem reasonable and natural? 
 Is it sufficiently accounted 
 for? 
 
 How does Cedric become rec- 
 onciled with Ivanhoe? 
 
 Do you know any other story 
 in which a champion, de- 
 manded by a woman wrong- 
 ly accused, appears at the 
 last moment, as in Ivanhoe 
 (the Lohengrin story)? 
 
 Is it effective to have Ivanhoe 
 win not by force of arms but 
 by chance at the end of 
 Chapter XLIII? Are there 
 any reasons why it would not 
 have been reasonable to have 
 him win by superior prowess? 
 
 Scenes : 
 
 Referring to the list of scenes 
 on pp. 28-29, summarize the 
 important events that hap- 
 pen in each one. 
 
 Do you find any other scenes 
 worthy of being ranked 
 equal in importance with 
 any of these? 
 
 Point out a scene (not neces- 
 sarily one of these larger 
 ones) illustrating each one 
 of the following matters re- 
 ferred to at the bottom of p. 
 
20 
 
 teacher's MAN"UAL 
 
 29: (1) presenting portraits 
 of the persons concerned; 
 (2) containing the germ from 
 which subsequent action is 
 to spring ; (3) designed chief- 
 ly for contrast and relief; 
 (4) for spectacular effect. 
 Point out a scene in which the 
 action moves very rapidly; 
 another in which it is very 
 slow; another in which the 
 author goes back to pick up 
 a thread in his narrative. 
 
 Characters: 
 
 Do the characters in Ivcmhoe 
 seem to you like real people? 
 Name any who do not. In 
 answering this question 
 make allowance for the fact 
 that the book is a romance 
 dealing with people of a very 
 remote time, but that never- 
 theless it must be true to 
 human nature in general. 
 
 Point out good examples of 
 each of the different ways of 
 revealing character: (1) by 
 direct comment of the au- 
 thor ; (2) by what the charac- 
 ter says and does; (3) by 
 what other people say about 
 the character; (4) by the 
 effect the character has on 
 others. Which one of these 
 methods, in your opinion, 
 predominates in this book? 
 
 Who is the hero of this book? 
 The heroine? 
 
 How does our interest in the 
 fortunes of Richard compare 
 
 with our interest in the for- 
 tunes of Ivanhoe? Our in- 
 terest in Rebecca with that 
 in Rowena? 
 
 Which of the two women do 
 you admire more? Why? 
 
 With which do you think Scott 
 had the greater sympathy? 
 Why? 
 
 Are any of the prominent fig- 
 ures in Ivanhoe brought in 
 without previous mention? 
 
 To what extent is the language 
 of different characters made 
 different according to their 
 race or station? Are these 
 differences such as are sug. 
 gested in the scene between 
 Gurth and Wamba ( pp. 50-5 1 ) ? 
 Note particularly, in this re- 
 gard, the language of Isaac, 
 of Friar Tuck, of the Grand 
 Master of the Templars. 
 
 Referring to the list of charac- 
 ters on pp. 37-38, describe 
 briefly the following: Nos. 
 8, 9, 13, 14, 21, 22, 23, 50, 51. 
 
 Point out clearly the ruling 
 motives of the following: 
 Nos. 1, 4, 15, 16, 41, 45. Are 
 there any occasions on which 
 the ruling motive of one of 
 these characters is made too 
 prominent? 
 
 Style— Vocabulary ; 
 
 Is the range of vocabulary in 
 
 Ivanhoe large or small? 
 Make a list of words found in 
 
 two or three pages (394-97; 
 
 180-83; 202-9; 422-26; 471-76), 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 21 
 
 that refer to ancient man- 
 ners and customs. 
 
 Compare a descriptive, a nar- 
 rative, and an expository- 
 passage each with a similar 
 passage in Irving and Cooper. 
 
 Are the words predominatingly 
 Latin' or Anglo-Saxon. 
 
 Count the number of words of 
 Latin origin and the number 
 of Saxon origin on any one 
 page, and find the percent- 
 age of each. 
 
 Are the words well chosen? 
 
 Is the principle of choice pre- 
 cision or picturesqueness? 
 
 Examine carefully the words 
 which are annotated and any 
 others which are unusual or 
 used with notable felicity. 
 
 Sentences: 
 
 Notice carefully in all the 
 reading, grammatical con- 
 structions not now regarded 
 correct, and idioms not used 
 at the present time. 
 
 Criticize, for example, for 
 grammatical construction, 
 the following: p. 48, line 6, 
 "which circumstance," and 
 
 similar constructions on p. 
 71, etc. ; p. 67, middle, mixed 
 pronouns in sentence begin- 
 ning, "Whosoever thou art," 
 and many similar examples ; 
 p. 85, line 13, "at his ward 
 appearing, "and similar con- 
 structions on p. 157 and else- 
 where; p. 290, near top, the 
 "and which" construction, 
 which is found a number of 
 times elsewhere ; p. 337, ' 'They 
 might be whomsoever," etc. 
 
 Explain all uses of shall and 
 tvill, would and should, near 
 bottom of p. 215 and top of 
 J). 216, and near bottom of p. 
 368, and elsewhere (cf . Her- 
 rick and Damon, pp. 175-80). 
 
 Comment on order and use of 
 subjunctive in paragraph on 
 p. 337, beginning "No, by St. 
 Dunstan," etc. 
 
 Take two or three detached 
 paragraphs containing long 
 sentences and see if clearness 
 and force could not be gained 
 by breaking some of the sen- 
 tences up into shorter ones 
 (cf. Herrick and Damon, pp. 
 285-89 and Chapter XIX). 
 
22 
 
 teacher's man-ual 
 
 SILAS MARNER. George Eliot. Edited by Albert Elmer Hancock, Ph.E 
 Instructor in English in Haverford College. Chicago: Scott, Foresma 
 and Company, pp. 288. 30 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. George Eliot and her Work. 
 
 Biography, 
 
 A Glimpse at the Novels. 
 
 The Psychological Method. 
 
 Realism in Humble Life. 
 
 Her Philosophy of Life: 
 Humanism. 
 
 Style. 
 
 Life of George Eliot •. 
 
 For what reason did Mary Ann 
 Evans style herself George 
 Eliot? 
 
 Write a biography of her. 
 
 What kind of education and 
 home training did she have? 
 
 What trait of character dis- 
 played itself in her childhood 
 that was present in her later 
 life and in all of her works 
 (P- 8)? 
 
 State something of her early 
 struggle with orthodox 
 Christian theology. 
 
 Discuss in a short theme her 
 attitude in Silas Marner 
 toward those who hold to a 
 simple faith (p. 236, note). 
 
 How was she directed toward 
 novel-writing? 
 
 How was she particularly fit- 
 ted by early environment for 
 the novel of middle class life 
 in which she did her best 
 work? 
 
 Name six novels generally con- 
 ceded to be her best and state 
 
 II. Analysis of Silas Marner. 
 Purpose. 
 The Characters. 
 The Descriptions. 
 Dramatic Incidents. 
 Didactic Interpolations. 
 III. Bibliography. 
 
 Topics for Themes and Dt 
 cussions. 
 Text. 
 
 in a word or two the them 
 of each (pp. 13 ff.). 
 What position is assigned t 
 her among English novelist 
 (p. 31)? 
 
 Development of the Plot: 
 How much of the story ha 
 
 taken place before the nove 
 
 opens? 
 Why does the story open whe: 
 
 and where it does and no 
 
 before? 
 How is the past history o 
 
 Marner introduced? 
 What has his false accusatio) 
 
 and condemnation to do wit) 
 
 the plot? 
 How many of the chapters ari 
 
 introductory? 
 How does the time of the ston 
 
 and the secluded situation O) 
 
 Raveloe (p. 36) help to makt 
 
 the story probable? 
 How would modern means O) 
 
 communication have foilec 
 
 Godfrey in his desire to kee| 
 
 some of his secrets? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 23 
 
 When is there the first hint of 
 the stealing of Marner's 
 money (p. 56)? 
 
 Where is there another (p. 
 76)? 
 
 How many plots are there? 
 How are they connected? 
 
 Pick out which chapters have 
 to do with the Cass plot, 
 which with the Marner plot, 
 and which with both. 
 
 Why is the incident of the 
 earthenware pot introduced 
 (\y. 57)? 
 
 What important incident in 
 the plot is motived by God- 
 frey's giving his brother 
 Fowler's rent? 
 
 Is there any intimation that 
 Dunstan will come to grief in 
 the selling of Wildfire (p. 
 66)? 
 
 How does the Wildfire incident 
 connect the two plots? 
 
 What reason had George Eliot 
 for not letting Dunstan give 
 up Wildfire when the bargain 
 was struck (p. 78)? 
 
 What reason for letting Dun- 
 stan take Godfrey's whip (p. 
 81)? 
 
 When is the first mention 
 made of Molly (p. 67)? 
 
 What part does she have in the 
 plot? 
 
 How is Godfrey's past life 
 given (p. 73)? Are there dra 
 matio reasons for this pre- 
 sentation? 
 
 Are there episodes that do not 
 advance the plot? 
 
 What is the purpose of Chap- 
 ter VI? 
 
 Why is this method taken to 
 announce the robbery of 
 Marner? 
 
 Compare it with the other 
 dramatic scenes in the book. 
 
 Is the same method used in 
 each one? 
 
 Count the number of people in 
 each of these scenes. 
 
 Are the incidents of Molly's 
 death and the finding of the 
 child by Marner probable? 
 
 What purpose is served by 
 Chapter VIII? 
 
 Does the quarrel scene between 
 Godfrey and the Squire ad- 
 vance the plot, tell us some- 
 thing about the other char- 
 acters, or does it only illus- 
 trate the character of the 
 Squire (pp. 130 ff.)? 
 
 Why is Mrs. Winthrop intro- 
 duced? 
 
 Why is the New Year's party 
 at the Brick House described 
 at such length? Why are the 
 conversations so minutely re- 
 ported,— for plot, character, 
 or theme? Is there any prep- 
 aration for the foUgwing 
 scene? 
 
 Why does George Eliot make 
 Silas subject to catalepsy? 
 Why portray him with de- 
 fective eyesight? 
 
 Whj' does she give Eppie gold- 
 en hair (p. 190)? 
 
 What do you think of Chapter 
 XVt 
 
24 
 
 teachee's manual 
 
 Does the transition from Part 
 I to Part II seem abrupt? 
 
 How long a time elapses be- 
 tween the two parts? 
 
 Tell what has taken place in 
 Marner's condition in the 
 meantime. How did you 
 find this out? 
 
 Where is the climax in interest 
 reached? 
 
 Does the interest continue to 
 the end? 
 
 Where is the climax in con- 
 struction? Chapter XI or 
 XII? 
 
 When has the inciting force 
 dropped out? 
 
 Does the story seek its end? 
 
 What chapters serve to delay 
 the catastrophe? 
 
 Has tliere been any intimation 
 that Dunstan Cass is dead 
 in the stone-pit (p. 240)? 
 
 Does the story conclude before 
 the "Conclusion"? 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Classify the characters into 
 groups. 
 
 How many principal charac- 
 ters are there? 
 
 Who form the background- 
 characters? 
 
 Characterize in detail Silas 
 Marner, Godfrey Cass, Squire 
 Cass, Nancy Lammeter, Dolly 
 Winthrop, and Eppie. 
 
 How many of the characters 
 stand distinctly in your 
 mind? 
 
 How many are only pegs in the 
 
 development of the plot and 
 
 theme? 
 How many are useless' to the 
 
 plot? 
 What ones serve to reestablish 
 
 Silas Marner in his human 
 
 relations? 
 Are the characters shown by 
 
 action, conversation, 'or the 
 
 author's comment? 
 What do you '^think of George 
 
 Eliot's power of character- 
 ization? 
 
 Method and Style : 
 
 Which is more important in 
 Silas Marner, plot or char- 
 acter? 
 
 Illustrate by the character of 
 Silas Marner the chief points 
 in George Eliot's treatment 
 of character. 
 
 Do her characters seem drawn 
 from real life or are ^they 
 impossible people of the im- 
 agination? 
 
 Is her vision microscopic or 
 telescopic? 
 
 Does she deal with great 
 actions or with motives and 
 impulses? 
 
 How has she attained her two 
 primary objects in the writ- 
 ing of Silas Marner (p. 25)? 
 
 How did George Eliot's schol- 
 arship affect her style? 
 
 Find paragraphs that are made 
 too solid by an overcrowding 
 of facts. 
 
 What do you think of the open- 
 ing paragraph? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 25 
 
 Pick out and preserve examples 
 of "epigrammatic concrete- 
 ness." 
 
 Note her use of conversation. 
 
 Do the people speak naturally, 
 according to their stations in 
 life, or do they indulge in 
 book talk? Take Dolly Win- 
 throp as an example. 
 
 What effect did George Eliot's 
 tendency to moralize have? 
 
 Show how she uses irony of 
 fate in bringing Godfrey's 
 secrets to light, in that 
 
 everything which seems to 
 make him secure eventually 
 leads to his exposure. 
 
 Show that Godfrey escapes the 
 penalties he has brought on 
 himself only to incur others 
 just as severe in the end. 
 
 Is George Eliot's purpose in 
 this merely moral, or does 
 each new step in Godfrey's 
 story make the whole story 
 more interesting? 
 
 For a list of topics for themes 
 see page 32. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. William Siiakspere. Edited by Robert 
 Morss Liovett, Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago. 
 Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.173. 25 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Shakspere and his Plays. 
 
 Life. 
 
 The English Drama. 
 
 Shakspere as a Dramatist. 
 
 II. The Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Date. 
 
 Life of Shakspere : 
 
 Give in a few words the main 
 
 facts of Shakspere's life 
 
 (pp. 3-7). 
 For how long was he connected 
 
 with the stage as actor and 
 
 playwright? 
 What was his fame during his 
 
 lifetime? 
 How did he begin his career as 
 
 dramatist (p. 15)? 
 Was the practice of rewriting 
 
 The Sources of the Plot. 
 The Construction of the 
 Drama. 
 III. Shakspere's Style. 
 Meter. 
 Language. 
 
 TEXT. 
 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 and adapting old plays com- 
 mon at this time? 
 
 Be able to name the most im- 
 portant i3lays of each of the 
 periods of his life. For the 
 plays in tabulated form see 
 Neilson's Introduction to 
 Jtdius Caesar, Lake Classics. 
 
 Was Shakspere a compara- 
 tively rich man at his death 
 (p. 6)? 
 
 Did he write his plays for pos- 
 
26 
 
 teacher's MAIOJAL 
 
 terity or to please an Eliza- 
 bethan audience (p. 17)? 
 
 When was the first authorized 
 edition of his complete 
 works published? 
 
 From what are the texts of 
 the editions of the present 
 day taken? 
 
 What besides dramas did 
 Shakspere write? 
 
 The English Drama : 
 
 Wliat is the source of the 
 drama as we know it (pp. 
 7-15)? 
 
 What were the mystery, mir- 
 acle, and morality plays? 
 
 How was the drama developed 
 from them? 
 
 How did professional actors 
 arise? 
 
 What were interludes (p. 10)? 
 
 In what way was the drama 
 an expression of the intel- 
 lectual and religious revival 
 of the nation? 
 
 What two requirements for 
 dramatic success were pres- 
 ent at the time when Shaks- 
 pere wrote? 
 
 What is the first English com- 
 edy? The first English trag- 
 edy? 
 
 For what did the popular taste 
 call (p. 12)? 
 
 What were the names of the 
 most famous theatres at this 
 time? Of the most famous 
 actors (x>. 13)? 
 
 Describe the theatre of that 
 age. 
 
 Who were some of Shakspere's 
 contemporaries (pp. 14, 15)? 
 
 The Merchant op Venice- 
 Date AND Sources : 
 
 What is the method employed 
 in determining the date of 
 Shakspere's plays (pp. 
 18 ft'.)? 
 
 How is it applied to TJie Mer- 
 chant of Venice? 
 
 What is the probable date of 
 composition? 
 
 Is it in Shakspere's early, mid- 
 dle, or late period? 
 
 Are his plots usually original 
 with him? 
 
 What are the probable sources 
 of the plot of this play? 
 
 Show how the pound of flesh 
 story diiTers from its Italian 
 form in II Pecorone (p. 21) 
 and hovv^ the casket story is 
 changed from the tale in the 
 Gesta Romanorum (p. 24). 
 
 How does Shakspere make one 
 plot of the two stories? 
 
 What is the source of the 
 Launcelot Gobbo and the 
 Lorenzo - Jessica stories (p. 
 25)? 
 
 Determine for yourself the 
 time action of the play. 
 
 Do you agree with what is said 
 on p. 32? 
 
 Development of the Plot: 
 I. Does the discussion of Anto- 
 nio's argosies in I, i, foretell 
 his later ruin? 
 What function have Salanio 
 and Salarino? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 27 
 
 7here is tlie first mention 
 made of the dinner (p. 48)? 
 
 ^hat dramatic purpose does 
 the character of Gratiauo 
 serve? 
 
 [ow is the purpose brought out 
 in the first act? 
 
 [ow are the relations between 
 Antonio and Bassanio 
 brought out in the first 
 scene? 
 
 ^hat exposition is given in the 
 second scene (pp. 53 ff.)? 
 
 fhat device is used for de- 
 scribing the suitors (p. 54)? 
 
 [as there been any mention of 
 the bond previous to the 
 third scene? 
 
 >oes this helj) the plot or is it a 
 
 scene of character exposition? 
 
 Ixplain Shylock's attitude 
 toward Antonio (p. GO). 
 
 3 there any warning in Bassa- 
 nio's speech (1. 180)? 
 
 ummarize Act I and tell what 
 part of the i)lot has been 
 unfolded. 
 
 I, How does Launcelot Gobbo 
 connect the two x)lots? 
 
 Vhat other function has he? 
 
 /an you justify the length of 
 sc. iii? 
 
 Vliat does it accomplish? 
 
 )oes Shy lock have any intima- 
 tion of the treachery of his 
 daughter (p. 79)? Why does 
 Shy lock part with Launcelot? 
 
 s sc. viii a scene of action 
 or of description? 
 
 low have matters been "com- 
 plicated" in Act II? 
 
 How has the plot been ad- 
 vanced? 
 
 III. From where does Anto- 
 nio's downfall begin? 
 
 Who started the rumor that 
 Antonio's ships were 
 wrecked? 
 
 Note Shylock's warning (p. 
 98). 
 
 Notice how he jumps at any 
 word of Antonio's distress 
 (p. 100). 
 
 Is Tubal sympathetic or is he 
 purposely vexing Shylock? 
 
 What plot is brought to an end 
 in sc. ii and what two new 
 plots begin (11. 74, 19G)? 
 
 When does the news of Anto- 
 nio's misfortune reach Bas- 
 sanio? 
 
 What importance has sc. ii 
 in the plot? What does sc. 
 iii accomplish? 
 
 What new incident does sc. iv 
 introduce? 
 
 How does sc. v retard the 
 action? 
 
 IV. Why did not Antonio es- 
 cape? 
 
 Suppose that the play ended 
 with Act IV, what effect 
 would it have? (Edmund 
 Kean — and others —omitted 
 the fifth act.) 
 
 Why does Gratiano speak (p. 
 128)? 
 
 Why do we pay no attention to 
 the improbability of Portia's 
 disguise? 
 
 What zest is given to the end 
 of IV, iv, by the fact tliat the 
 
28 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 players were boys (cf. Neil- 
 son's Julius Caesar, p. 23)? 
 
 Why is the panegyric on mercy 
 introduced (p. 131)? 
 
 Why does Portia lead Shy lock 
 to believe that he will win 
 his cause? 
 
 When does she make the 
 fatal revelation as to the 
 drop of blood? 
 
 How are the threads of the 
 other plots taken up after 
 Shy lock's "exit"? 
 
 V. The main plot and most 
 important sub-plot have 
 been finished at the end of 
 Act IV. What remains for 
 Act V? 
 
 Note the exquisite lyric poetry 
 of so. i, and have the en- 
 comium on music (p. 146) 
 memorized. 
 
 How is the ring story intro- 
 duced? What ending has it? 
 
 What of the ending of the 
 play? 
 
 Plot in General: 
 
 Why does Antonio borrow 
 money of Shylock, his par- 
 ticular enemy (I, i, 130; I, 
 iii, 65)? 
 
 How does Shakspere make it 
 seem probable that such an 
 absurd bond should be pro- 
 posed? 
 
 What was Shylock's purpos 
 
 concerning the bond when i 
 
 was first proposed (I, iii 
 48)? 
 Was his purpose modified i 
 
 any way before the bou' 
 
 was fulfilled? 
 In what different ways is th 
 
 story of the rings helpful t 
 
 the play? 
 How are the conditions t 
 
 which Arragon swears, to b 
 
 enforced? 
 What do you think of the wi 
 
 of Launcelot Gobbo? 
 Is there any excuse fc 
 
 Jessica's treatment of he 
 
 father, or for not payin 
 
 Shylock the money that Ai 
 
 tonio and Bassanio had bo: 
 
 rowed from him? 
 For what moral lesson do( 
 
 Shakspere use the caski 
 
 story? 
 
 Form of the Play : 
 
 What is the metre in whic 
 
 Shakspere's dramas we] 
 
 written? 
 What are the chief variatioi 
 
 from the normal line? 
 What is the rule general! 
 
 observed in the use of blan 
 
 verse and prose? 
 Find examples of and explai 
 
 grammatical peculiarities. 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 29 
 
 rHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Oliver Goldsmith. Edited by Edward P. 
 Morton, A.M., Assistant Professor of Euglish, Indiana University. 
 Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 280. 30 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 [NTRODUCTION. 
 
 Goldsmith's Life. 
 Goldsmith's Work. 
 
 SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 
 
 jOldsmith's Life and 
 Work: 
 
 tV'hen and where was he born? 
 
 What was his father's occupa- 
 tion? 
 
 \Vhat literary use did Gold- 
 smith make of his father's 
 character and occupation 
 (p. 21)? What literary use of 
 the village where he was 
 born (p. 15)? 
 
 What can you say of Gold- 
 smith's early education? 
 
 What of his university life? 
 
 for what profession did he 
 study, and where? 
 
 Fell something of his wander- 
 ings in Europe. What liter- 
 ary work was the ultimate 
 result of them (p. 13)? 
 
 What school position did he 
 afterwards occupy? 
 
 How did he happen to begin to 
 write? What was his first 
 volume? 
 
 N'ame the prominent literary 
 associates of Goldsmith and 
 tell the most important facts 
 about each one of them (p. 
 12)? 
 
 What was Goldsmith's first 
 work of high importance, 
 and when did it appear (p. 
 13)? How was it received? 
 
 Books about GoiiDSMiTH. 
 
 Text. 
 
 Suggestive Questions. 
 
 Glossary. 
 
 What other important poem 
 did he write and when was 
 it published? 
 
 What are the names of his 
 comedies? 
 
 What change in the spirit of 
 comedy were they instru- 
 mental in bringing about 
 (p. 20)? 
 
 Where did Goldsmith live dur- 
 ing the latter years of his 
 life? 
 
 When did he die ; at what age 
 and under what circum- 
 stances? 
 
 Write a character sketch of 
 Goldsmith, using both the 
 Introduction (pp. 16-18) and 
 all that is revealed in rela- 
 tion to various characters in 
 The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield — 
 General Facts: 
 
 (For suggestive questions to 
 which these are only supple- 
 mentary see pp. 267-72 in 
 the Lake English Classics 
 edition of this work. ) 
 
 When was The Vicar of Wajce- 
 field published? 
 
 Tell about Goldsmith's circum- 
 stances shortly before its 
 publication (pp. 13, 14). 
 
30 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 What success did the book 
 have? 
 
 What is the time of the story? 
 Its place? The duration of 
 time? Its general setting, — 
 rustic or urban? 
 
 Progress of the Story: 
 
 Is there anything significant 
 regarding the plot in the 
 characterization of the Vic- 
 ar's daughters in Chapter I? 
 
 What is the purpose, for the 
 story, of the dispute on 
 monogamy in Chapter II? 
 
 Why is so much told in Chap- 
 ter III about young Thorn- 
 hill's uncle? 
 
 Does the account of the elder 
 Thornhill suggest Gold- 
 smith's own experiences (p. 
 43)? 
 
 In Chapter V how is the real 
 attitude of the two girls to- 
 ward Thornhill indicated in 
 spite of the remarks they 
 make on p. 54? 
 
 In Chapter VI what progress 
 is there in the relations of 
 Sophia and Mr. Burchell? 
 
 In what ways, in Chapter IX, 
 is the Vicar's real opinion of 
 the ladies from town shown, 
 — directly or by implication 
 and shrewd guess? 
 
 In Chapter XII does Moses 
 show any characteristic 
 which you know to have 
 been a characteristic of 
 Goldsmith himself? Does 
 the Vicar in Chapter XIV? 
 
 Is the Vicar sincere, in Chap- 
 
 ter XIII, in his gratificatioi 
 over the departure of Bur 
 chell? 
 
 In Chapter XV is there an^ 
 other possible interpretatioi 
 of the letter (pp. 113-14) thai 
 that which the Primrose 
 give it? Is the Vicar con 
 scious of any other interpre 
 tation? 
 
 How do you account for th( 
 actions of Mr. Burchell ii 
 this chapter? 
 
 In Chapter XVII is there an;} 
 significance in the actions o 
 Olivia and Thornhill (p. 129) 
 
 Point out all the details ii 
 Chapter XX which seem t( 
 have been suggested bj 
 actual events in Goldsmith'^ 
 life. All the characteristic 
 of George which seem to bt 
 characteristics of Goldsmitl 
 himself. 
 
 What theatric event taket 
 place^in Chapter XXI? 
 
 Does the burning of the lious€ 
 in Chapter XXII seem rea 
 sonable and natural? Is any 
 explanation offered of how 
 it happened? 
 
 In Chapter XXIV what dra- 
 matic appropriateness is 
 there in the song (p. 192) and 
 the event that immediately 
 follows it? 
 
 In Chapter XXVII is the dis- 
 quisition on punishments a 
 digression? Is it interesting 
 enough of itself to be justi- 
 fied? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 31 
 
 !Jompare the cumulative an- 
 nouncement of the Vicar's 
 misfortunes in Chapter 
 XXVIII with the announce- 
 ment of Job's misfortunes 
 (Book of Job, Chapter I). 
 
 AT^hat strong effect of contrast 
 is there in this chapter (pp. 
 224-26)? 
 
 )o any of the devices used in 
 Chapters XXX and XXXI in 
 untangling the plot seem 
 unreasonable or unnatural? 
 Answer specifically, v/ith 
 reasons for your opinion. 
 
 Characters : 
 
 ^oint out good examples of the 
 revelation of character by 
 each of the following meth- 
 ods: (1) direct comment of 
 the author; (2) what tlie 
 character says and does; (3) 
 what other characters say 
 about him; (4) the effect he 
 has on other characters. 
 
 kVhich method predominates 
 in this book? Count the 
 number of examples of each 
 in any important chapter. 
 Which method is the most 
 effective? In the revelation 
 of the Vicar's character not 
 all of these methods can be 
 used. Which are used with 
 success? 
 
 ^rite character sketches of the 
 
 Vicar, his wife, Moses, 
 George, Olivia, and Sophia, 
 Squire Thornhill, Sir William 
 Thornhill, and Jenkinson. 
 
 Name three characteristics of 
 Dr. Primrose, and show how 
 they lead to incidents in the 
 story. 
 
 Contrast Dr. Primrose and his 
 wife. Does any part of the 
 story grow out of such con- 
 trast? 
 
 Are all the characters neces- 
 sary for the story? 
 
 Was the book written for the 
 story or for the characters? 
 
 Can the characters be divided 
 into good and bad, or does 
 each show a mixture of vir- 
 tues and vices (or faults)? 
 
 Can you deduce a moral from 
 the book? 
 
 Style: 
 
 What is the range of vocabu- 
 lary in The Vicar of Wake- 
 field, compared, say, with 
 that in Ivanhoet The rela- 
 tive simplicity of the style? 
 
 Do you find Goldsmith's words 
 well or ill chosen? His sen- 
 tences rough or smooth, easy 
 or api^arently labored? 
 
 Does he paragraph as a pres- 
 ent-day novelist would? 
 Point out examples to prove 
 j^our answer. 
 
32 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by Williar 
 Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor of English, the University c, 
 Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Foresnian and Company, pp.264. 30 cents. 
 
 Map : The scene of The Lady of 
 
 the Lake. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Life of Scott. 
 
 TI. Scott's Place in the Romantic 
 Movement. 
 
 Life op Scott : 
 
 Can the leading traits of 
 Scott's character be traced 
 to his ancestors (p. 9)? 
 
 How did he regard the mem- 
 bers of his clan, especially 
 the chief (p. 19)? 
 
 What characteristic is repre- 
 sented in his refusal to learn 
 Latin and Greek at school? 
 
 What was his own method of 
 obtaining an education? In 
 what did he become pro- 
 ficient (p. 12)? 
 
 How did he regard his legal 
 studies? How did they ben- 
 efit him in his later work? 
 
 How was he first interested in 
 ballad-writing? 
 
 Describe his early married 
 life (p. 18). 
 
 Tell of the composition, publi- 
 cation, and popularity of his 
 first poems. 
 
 In what business venture did 
 he become involved, and 
 what was the final out- 
 come? 
 
 What defect in his character 
 is it charged that his busi- 
 ness relations brought to 
 light (pp. 24-35)? 
 
 III. The Lady of the Lake. 
 Historical Setting. 
 General Criticism and 
 Analysis. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 
 Describe his life at Abbots 
 ford. 
 
 Tell of the comjjosition of hi: 
 novels. Why were the;| 
 published incognito (p. 33)? 
 
 What can you say of his las^ 
 years and his heroic struggle 
 to pay off the debts incurrec 
 by his connection with Bal 
 lantyne? 
 
 The Romantic Movement ani 
 Scott's Connection with it 
 
 What is meant by the "Ro 
 mantic Movement"? 
 
 What four men were chiefly 
 instrumental in bringing 
 about this revolution in Eng- 
 lish poetry (p. 40)? 
 
 What was the influence ol 
 Scott's poetry on the age in 
 comparison with that ol 
 these men? Give the rea- 
 sons (p. 41). 
 
 What were the distinguishing 
 qualities of the literature ol 
 the eighteenth century^ 
 Illustrate this by examples 
 from Pope or any other poet 
 that you choose from that 
 period, and put them intc 
 contrast with the qualities 
 of the romantic poets. 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 33 
 
 Vas Scott's conservatism a 
 
 "romantic" quality? 
 )oes liis style differ greatly 
 
 from that of the poets of the 
 
 preceding century? 
 
 jADY of the Lake — Con- 
 struction : 
 
 s there anything that has 
 taken place before the open- 
 ing of the poem that has to 
 be understood for a thorough 
 appreciation of the story (p. 
 46)? How are the previous 
 fortunes of the Douglas fam- 
 ily related (p. 98)? 
 
 Vhat purpose in the plot does 
 the Minstrel serve through- 
 out? 
 
 Vhat do you think of the 
 opening? 
 
 )escribe the chase. Does it 
 serve merely to furnish an 
 opportunity for the descrip- 
 tion? 
 
 s the action rapid or slow? 
 
 low is it often retarded? 
 
 ''or what are the songs intro- 
 duced? 
 
 Tote the transition from 
 stanza X to XI (p. 66) ; from 
 XVI to XVII ; fromXXIV to 
 XXV (p. 143); and many 
 others. 
 
 )utline the plot in a theme of 
 two hundred words or less. 
 
 3ow many cases of concealed 
 identity are there in the 
 poem? Does this turning of 
 the plot on mistaken identity 
 make it seem unreal? 
 
 Show in each case where the 
 identity is exposed and 
 vrliere hints have been given 
 beforehand of the real iden- 
 tity. 
 
 Is there any intimation of the 
 identity of Ellen and her 
 father in 11. 6, 7, 8, p. 81 ; 11. 
 11-22, p. 87? 
 
 What is the purpose of Fitz- 
 James's dream (p. 86)? 
 
 What is the first hint of Ellen's 
 love story and the name of 
 her lover (pp. 74, 92)? 
 
 When is Roderick Dhu first 
 mentioned (p. 96)? In wh^t 
 light? 
 
 Where are the relations of 
 Ellen with Roderick and 
 with Malcolm ] further dis- 
 closed (p. 98)? 
 
 To whom is the reference in 
 11. 19-21, p. 116? 
 
 What action does the struggle 
 between Roderick and Mal- 
 colm motive? 
 
 How does Canto Third advance 
 the plot? What is its poet- 
 ical value (p. 56)? 
 
 What purpose does Brian 
 serve? 
 
 Does the prophecy (p. 157) 
 heighten the dramatic effect 
 of the following scene (see 
 p. 196)? 
 
 For what are 11. 5-15, p. 157, a 
 preparation (p. 168)? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 Ballad of Alice Brand (p. 
 162 ff.)? 
 
 What other influence of Scott's 
 
34 
 
 TEACHER'S MANUAL 
 
 early interest in ballad liter- 
 ature can you point out in 
 The Lady of the Lake? 
 
 Does the warning of James by 
 the song of mad Blanche 
 seem improbable? 
 
 Describe the scene where 
 Roderick Dliu calls his men 
 from copse and heath. 
 
 What IS the purpose of the long 
 speeches between James and 
 Roderick in the dramatic 
 scene following? 
 
 Does the combat between 
 James and'Jioderick (pp. 198, 
 199) seem a real fight? 
 
 Why was Roderick preserved 
 to die in the castle at Stir- 
 ling? 
 
 Are 11. 15-25, p. 203, an artistic 
 preparation for the follow- 
 ing scene? 
 
 How do the games in the Cas- 
 tle park hasten the plot to 
 its end? 
 
 How is the fight between Clan- 
 Alpine and the Earl of Mar 
 described? 
 
 How much of the action takes 
 place outside the poem and 
 is related? 
 
 Note the use of the supernat- 
 ural (p. 239). Does it seem 
 impressive? 
 
 Is the conclusion sustained and 
 dramatic? 
 
 Description : 
 
 Are the nature descriptions 
 given for scenic effect or 
 do they serve as a back- 
 
 ground and setting for the 
 story? 
 
 Does Scott employ incidents of 
 plot for the sake of dragging 
 in descriptions? 
 
 Which is the best in the poem : 
 nature description, plot-con- 
 struction, character descrip- 
 tion, or the portrayal of old 
 life and customs? 
 
 Is his descriptive language 
 suggestive? 
 
 Are the landscape scenes 
 given minutely or are they 
 drawn with a free hand? 
 
 Describe Ellen's bower (pp. 78, 
 79). 
 
 Does Scott keep closely to the 
 geography of the region of 
 his tale (see map, p. 3, andl 
 note, p. 260)? 
 
 Describe the approach of Rod- 
 erick's boats (pp. 100 ff.) andl 
 the carrying of the fiery 
 cross to arouse the clan 
 (Canto III). 
 
 Characters: 
 
 Are the characters distinctly 
 
 drawn — do they seem real 
 
 people of flesh and blood? 
 Characterize Ellen. How is 
 
 her character displayed? 
 Do you feel any sympathy 
 
 for Roderick Dhu? Does his 
 
 character grow upon'you (pp. 
 
 96, 98, 99, 182, 188, 195 and 
 
 241)? 
 Was Douglas an historical 
 
 character? 
 Is the character of James Fitz- 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 35 
 
 James true to James V. of 
 Scotland? 
 What place in the ancient 
 
 Scottish clan did the Min- 
 strel have? 
 Describe Allan-bane. 
 
 THE SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS from the Spectator. Addison. 
 Edited by Herbert Vaughan Abbott, Instructor in English in Harvard 
 University. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company. | pp. 249, 30 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 The Streets. 
 
 Night in London. 
 
 The Beau. 
 
 The Woman of Fashion. 
 
 A Fashionable Library. 
 
 A Fashionable Garden. 
 
 Fashionable Amusements. 
 
 The Theater. 
 
 The Pit. 
 
 Differences of Opinion. 
 
 The Coffee-House. 
 
 Special Coffee-Houses. 
 
 The City. 
 
 The Landed Interest. 
 
 Travel into the. Country. 
 
 The Country Gentleman. 
 
 Hunting Fashions. 
 
 The Country Squire. 
 
 The Church. 
 
 The Whigs and the Tories, 
 
 The War. 
 
 Pamphleteers. 
 
 Journalists. 
 
 The Spectator Again. 
 
 Joseph Addison. 
 
 Addison at the Coffee-House. 
 
 Prudent Mr. Addison. 
 
 His Kindly Spirit. 
 
 Dick Steele. 
 
 The Details of his Life. 
 
 His Frankness of Temper, 
 
 His Simplicity of Feeling. 
 
 Dobson on Steele. 
 
 Budgell. 
 
 A Picture of the Age. 
 
 ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 XX. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Club. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sir Roger on Fashion 
 
 XXII. 
 
 
 and Virtue. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Club Again. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 V. 
 
 A Lady's Library. 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 Coverley Hall. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Coverley Household. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Will Wimble. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Family Portraits. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 X. 
 
 The Coverley Ghost. 
 
 XXIX, 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sunday with Sir Roger. 
 
 
 XIL 
 
 Sir Roger in Love. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 xin. 
 
 The Coverley Economy. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Sir Roger and the Hunt. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Hunting Field. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Moll White 
 
 
 XVIL 
 
 The Wooing. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Polite World. 
 
 Chronolc 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The Coverley Poultry. 
 
 GliOSBARY 
 
 Sir Roger at the Assizes. 
 
 Florio and Leonilla. 
 
 Party Feeling, 
 
 Whigs and Tories. 
 
 Sir Roger and the Gyp- 
 sies. 
 
 A Summons to London. 
 
 The Coach to London. 
 
 Sir Andrew on Trade. 
 
 Sir Roger in London. 
 
 A Selection from a Spec- 
 tator. 
 
 In Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Sir Roger at the Play. 
 
 Will Honeycomb. 
 
 Sir Roger at Spring 
 Garden. 
 
 The Death of Sir Roger. 
 
36 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 The Spectator: 
 
 In what form were the Sir 
 Roger de Coverley Papers 
 published (p. 13)? 
 
 Who were the chief contribu- 
 tors to the Spectator? 
 
 Who was the originator of the 
 plan (p. 43)? 
 
 What is its share in the devel- 
 opment of the modern news- 
 paper? 
 
 What was the state of journal- 
 ism in England previous to 
 its publication (p. 36)? 
 
 Make a comparison of the 
 Spectator and any news- 
 paper of to-day. 
 
 What was the purpose of the 
 Spectator (p. 87)? Did it ac- 
 complish its purpose to any 
 extent? 
 
 What kind of satire would you 
 call it? 
 
 Write a comparison of it and 
 any other satire that you 
 know. 
 
 Addison and Steele: 
 
 Write in parallel columns the 
 main facts of the lives of 
 Addison and Steele (pp. i38- 
 45). 
 
 How would you characterize 
 Addison? Steele? 
 
 How was the lifelong friend- 
 ship between them termi- 
 nated? 
 
 Wlio seems to have been at 
 fault? 
 
 Can you characterize Addi- 
 son's style? Steele's? 
 
 If the papers were not signe'3' 
 could you tell which were 
 by Steele and which by 
 Addison? 
 
 Whose style is the more hum- 
 orous and lively, whose the 
 more finished and polished? 
 
 How does the style of thel 
 Spectator differ from that of 
 the prose of to-day? 
 
 Are there many unusual 
 words? 
 
 Compare the syntax, sentence 
 length, and stru(5ture with 
 the best modern usage. 
 
 The Sir Roger de Coverley 
 Papers : 
 
 Describe the Spectator Club 
 and characterize three of its 
 members (p. 55)? 
 
 How many of them are unim- 
 portant figures? 
 
 Do you think that Addison 
 was drawing a portrait of 
 himself when he wrote the 
 description of the Spectator 
 (p. 49)? 
 
 What kind of places were the 
 coffee-houses mentioned on 
 page 52 (pp. 23-24)? 
 
 What was Addison's favorite 
 coffee-house? 
 
 What does Sir Roger think of 
 fashion and of real worth (p. 
 63)? 
 
 What characteristic of all hu- 
 man nature is represented in 
 the paper on page 68? Is 
 this paper a good example of 
 Addison's power of satire? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 37 
 
 Describe the Spectator's visit 
 to Coverley Hall (pp. 79 ff. — 
 see p. 28). 
 
 ^Vas the condition of Sir 
 Roger's household different 
 from that of other country 
 gentlemen? 
 
 Eow did the small country 
 gentleman live? What was 
 his favorite sport (p. 29)? 
 What duties did he have (p. 
 30)? Is Sir Roger a typical 
 example of his class? 
 
 What kind of person was the 
 woman of fashion (pp. 73-78 
 —see p. 16)? 
 
 What was the nature of the 
 books mentioned on page 75 
 (see p. 18)? 
 
 Write a description of Will 
 Wimble (pp. 89 ff.). 
 
 What lament does the Specta- 
 tor make about his condition 
 (p. 92)? 
 
 What characteristic of Sir 
 Roger is brought out by the 
 exhibition of the family por- 
 traits (p. 94)? Describe the 
 scene. 
 
 Was the belief in witchcraft 
 common at this time (p. 
 100)? 
 
 For what does the story from 
 Josephus serve (p. 104)? 
 
 Write a descriptionof the serv- 
 ices in Sir Roger's church 
 on Sunday I p. 106 — see p. 31), 
 
 Did the cha])lain prepare his 
 sermons (p. 32)? 
 
 Describe Sir Roger's love suit 
 (p. 111). 
 
 How often is the widow men- 
 tioned? 
 
 What is meant by "humours" 
 and "vapours" on page 124? 
 
 Describe the hunt (p. 128 — see 
 p. 29). 
 
 Who was Moll White (p. 135)? 
 What was the common belief 
 concerning her? Where is 
 her death mentioned (p. 
 202)? 
 
 How did the manners of a man 
 from the city differ from 
 those of one from the country 
 (p. 146)? 
 
 Describe Sir Roger at the as- 
 sizes (p. 156). 
 
 Why did Sir Roger speak? 
 
 Who was Tom Touchy (p. 
 157)? Where is he again 
 mentioned? 
 
 Relate the incident of the 
 Saracen's Head (p. 159). 
 
 To what particular inconven- 
 ience was the Spectator put 
 on page 178 on account of 
 party prejudice? What does 
 Addison say of the ruinous 
 effects of party spirit (p. 
 170)? What remedy does he 
 propose (p. 175)? 
 
 What were the two parties at 
 this time (p. 33)? What 
 were [^ the chief jDoiuts of 
 difference between them? 
 
 How do you account for Sir 
 Roger being a Tory and Sir 
 Andrew Freeport a Whig 
 (pp. 178, 194— see p. 33)? 
 
 Why were the Whigs anxious 
 to continue the war against 
 
88 
 
 teacher's makual 
 
 France and the Tories to end 
 it (p. 34)? 
 
 Was Addison a Whig or a Tory? 
 
 Describe the Spectator's trip 
 to London (p. 190). 
 
 What was the attitude toward 
 the Puritans at this time (p. 
 195)? 
 
 What is Sir Andrew's defense 
 of themerchant class on page 
 196? What was the position 
 of the merchants at this time 
 (p. 26)? 
 
 Was Sir Roger pleased with his 
 visit to London (p. 200)? 
 
 Write a description of Sir 
 Roger at the play (p. 214)? 
 
 Why was the theatre so popu- 
 lar (p. 19)? At what time 
 did the play begin (p. 20)? 
 What was the pit? Where 
 did the lords and ladies sit 
 (p. 21)? 
 
 What preparation did Captain 
 Sentry make against the 
 Mohocks? Why was it nec- 
 essary (pp. 14-15)? 
 
 Write a short synopsis of what 
 is said of London in the 
 eighteenth century (Intro- 
 duction). 
 
 Describe Sir Roger's visit to 
 
 Spring Garden (p. 223)? 
 For what reason is the death 
 of Sir Roger announced by a 
 letter from his butler? 
 With what touching incident 
 
 is the paper closed (p. 231)? 
 For what fates are the other 
 members of the Club re- 
 served (p. 232)? 
 Describe Sir Roger's death. 
 What do the De Coverley Pa- 
 pers lack to be a complete 
 story? 
 Do you find a similar lack in 
 Irving' s Tales of a Traveller, 
 either in the single tales or 
 in the groups of tales? 
 In what respect are the De 
 Coverley Papers more like 
 parts of a novel than like 
 essays? That is, what ele- 
 ments of a novel do they 
 contain (plot, character, set- 
 ting, purpose)? 
 To what extent does it seem to 
 you right to say that the De 
 Coverley Papers were the 
 forerunner of the English 
 novel? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 39 
 
 rHE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Samuel Taylor Coleridge- 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. James Russell Lowell. Edited by 
 William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor in English, the 
 University of Chicago. Chicago; Scott, Foresman land Company, 
 pp. 103. 35 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The Vision of Sir Launfai* 
 
 [NTRODUCTION. 
 
 Life of Coleridge. 
 Critical Comment. 
 rEXT. 
 
 Notes. 
 
 Life of Coleridge : 
 
 Where was he born and when? 
 
 What was his father's occupa- 
 tion and character? 
 
 Where was Coleridge educated? 
 
 What important person did he 
 meet at this school? 
 
 What characteristic does the 
 incident related on p. 7 
 show, which was prominent 
 later in Coleridge's poetry? 
 
 What was his reputation at 
 school? 
 
 Whose poetical influence came 
 over him at an early age, 
 and of what advantage was 
 it (p. 8)? 
 
 Tell about Coleridge's uni- 
 versity career? 
 
 What important person did he 
 meet at the university? 
 
 What important historical 
 event had influence over him 
 at this time? 
 
 In what great scheme were 
 
 - Coleridge and Southey asso- 
 ciated together (p. 9)? 
 
 How did Coleridge attempt to 
 make a living after leaving 
 the university? 
 
 Give a brief account of his re- 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Text. 
 
 Notes. 
 
 lations with Wordsworth (p. 
 
 12, etc.). 
 
 When did Coleridge do most of 
 his best poetical work? 
 
 What foreign visit did he 
 make, and what was its 
 effect on his literary aspira- 
 tions? 
 
 What dangerous habit affected 
 his achievement, and for 
 how long? 
 
 Name a great contemporary of 
 Coleridge who had the same 
 trouble. 
 
 What was Coleridge's occupa- 
 tion during the latter part of 
 his life? 
 
 When did he die? 
 
 Can you find out anything 
 about Coleridge's children? 
 
 Tell something as to the im- 
 portance in literary history 
 of the volume in which Tlie 
 Ancient Mariner was first 
 published. 
 
 In what two different ways 
 was the "return to nature" 
 illustrated in the contents 
 of The Lyrical Ballads (p. 
 15)? 
 
 Distinguish carefully between 
 
40 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 the work of Wordsworth 
 and that of Coleridge. 
 Do you find the cliaracteristics 
 attributed to Wordsworth in 
 tlie lines he is said to have 
 suggested for The Ancient 
 Mariner? 
 
 The Ancient Mariner: 
 
 Describe how this poem came 
 to be written (p. 13, 14). 
 What was Wordsworth's 
 share in it? In what impor- 
 tant volume was it first pub- 
 lished? 
 
 What is its main lesson (p, 19)? 
 
 What two kinds of torture does 
 tiie Mariner have to endure? 
 
 How is the spell over him 
 broken? 
 
 Point out ways in which the 
 poem is given a supernatural 
 atmosphere (note p. 61). 
 
 Who are the speakers in stan- 
 zas I, II, and III? 
 
 What are the antecedents of 
 the pronouns in III and IV? 
 
 Point out indications of direc- 
 tions and localities in VII, 
 VIII, XXI, and anywhere 
 else you find them in the 
 poem. 
 
 Point out striking examples of 
 dramatic suggestion as to the 
 appearance or action of the 
 Mariner (XX, etc.). 
 
 Are we told directly who are 
 the occupants of the phan- 
 tom ship (XLIV, etc.)? 
 What method is used? Is it 
 effective? Why? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 wedding guest's interrup- 
 tions (LII, LXXIX)? 
 
 The purpose of the Mariner's 
 reference in CXXXV to the 
 wedding? 
 
 Narrate in the briefest possible 
 form the actual happenings 
 of the poem. 
 
 What is tlie measure of the 
 poem? 
 
 Describe the commonest varia- 
 tions from the normal line 
 (p. 23) and give examples of 
 each, chosen from your own 
 reading. 
 
 What variations of stanza do 
 you find? Give examples. 
 
 What is the effect of the 
 rhymes in XII? 
 
 Comment on metrical effectsi 
 in stanzas XXXV, XLVIII, 
 LVIII, LXXXVII. 
 
 Select other stanzas in whichi 
 you find striking metrical 
 effects. 
 
 Point out several good exam- 
 ples of alliteration. 
 
 What is the purpose and effect 
 of the old words? 
 
 Make a list of the obsolete 
 words you find? 
 
 What strikingly commonplace, 
 almost vulgar words do you 
 find? 
 
 Point out some extremely sim- 
 ple figures, taken from com- 
 mon life. 
 
 Are they effective? 
 
 Comment on XLVII and the 
 gloss, with special reference 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 41 
 
 to the effect of the verbs and 
 
 figures. 
 Comment on the figures and 
 
 sound effects in LXXXII-IV. 
 Point out good examples of the 
 
 use of specific words. 
 From references to sounds and 
 
 from the meter of this poem 
 
 what should you say as to 
 
 Coleridge's musical sense? 
 What conclusion do you reach 
 
 as to his imagination? 
 
 Life of Lowell : 
 When was he born? 
 Where was he educated? 
 What profession did he study 
 
 for after graduation? 
 How did he make his start in 
 
 hterature (p. 67)? 
 What was his literary success? 
 Where did he live during most 
 
 of his life? 
 What diplomatic positions did 
 
 he hold? 
 What two important works 
 
 appeared in 1848? 
 Describe briefly The Bigloiv 
 
 Papers (p. 70). 
 What has been the popularity 
 
 of Tlie Virion of Sir Launfalf 
 Why was Lowell particularly 
 
 well suited to enforce the 
 
 moral of this poem (pp. 
 
 73-74)? 
 What important work, not 
 
 poetical, did he do? 
 
 The Vision of Sir Launfal : 
 Wliat was the Holy Grail? 
 What was the cause of its 
 
 di[s appearance? Who 
 searched for it, and — accord- 
 ing to the common story — by 
 whom was it found (p. 71)? 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 antiquity and literary im- 
 portance of this legend? 
 
 In what ways did Lowell en- 
 large the "circle of compe- 
 tition"? And what addi- 
 tional conditions to success 
 did he impose? 
 
 Outline the changes wrought 
 in Sir Launfal during his 
 search for the Grail (pp. 
 72-73)? 
 
 What, then, is the essential 
 moral lesson of this poem? 
 
 What is the purpose and effect 
 of the first stanza in relation 
 to the rest of the poem? 
 
 Where does the "Vision" begin 
 and where does it end? 
 
 Note the editor's questions on 
 p. 79, Introduction. 
 
 In what two ways does Sir 
 Launfal see himself in his 
 dream (note, p. 100)? Point 
 out instances of each. 
 
 What is the poet's purpose in 
 introducing the caravan in 
 Part II, stanza III? 
 
 What is the most prominent 
 poetical quality in this poem 
 (pp. 7G-77)? Choose for your- 
 self several of the most strik- 
 ing examples of it. 
 
 Trace out in detail the figure 
 begun by the word "out- 
 post," p. 88, 1. 1. 
 
 Notice how architectural terms 
 
42 
 
 teachee's makual 
 
 run through the Prelude to 
 Part II. 
 
 Note questions on pp. 101, 103, 
 as to figures, and on p. 99 as 
 to the metrical effect of the 
 first stanza. Scan 1. 6, p. 98. 
 
 Point out some good examples 
 of alliteration. 
 
 How does this poem compare 
 with The Ancient Mariner in 
 imagination? In metrical 
 effects? In musical effect? 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edited 
 by Robert Herrick, A.B., Associate Professor of English, the University 
 of Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Poresman and Company, pp. 367. 35 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Biographical Sketch. 
 
 New England Influence. 
 
 Ancestry. 
 
 Salem. 
 
 Early Life. 
 
 Twelve Years of Waiting. 
 
 First Stories. 
 
 Brook Farm. 
 
 The Old Manse. 
 
 The Scai'let Letter. 
 
 Europe, 1853-1860, and Last 
 
 Years. 
 Personal Qualities. 
 
 Hawthorne's Life: 
 
 Tell the most important facts 
 regarding Hawthorne's an- 
 cestors (pp. 3-4). 
 
 What stories told of an}^ of 
 them has he apparently used 
 in The House of the Seven 
 Gables? 
 
 Where did the family live? 
 
 What important influences did 
 Hawthorne's ancestry and 
 his early home have upon 
 his work? 
 
 Where was he educated? 
 
 II. The Tales and Romances. 
 Small Body of Literary 
 
 Work. 
 Children's Stories. 
 The Romances. 
 
 III. The House of the Seven Oor 
 
 bles. 
 The Pyncheons and the 
 
 Hawthornes. 
 Essentially a Romance. 
 
 IV. Suggestions for Studying 
 
 The House of the Seven 
 Gables, 
 Style. 
 
 Composition. 
 Construction. 
 Additional Reading. 
 Author's Preface. 
 Text. 
 
 What persons afterward fa- 
 mous were his schoolmates in 
 college at Bowdoin? 
 
 What did Hawthorne do after 
 graduation from college? 
 
 Under what name were his 
 early stories collected? 
 
 What small government posi- 
 tion did he hold? (Compare 
 Burns's position as excise 
 commissioner. ) 
 
 In what interesting communis- 
 tic experiment did Haw- 
 thorne have a share? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 43 
 
 What book later resulted from 
 
 this? 
 After his marriage where did 
 
 he live (p. 9)? 
 What book is the product of 
 
 these next years? 
 Name some important literary 
 
 men who were friends of 
 
 Hawthorne at this time. 
 Wliat was Hawthorne's first 
 
 long romance? The result of 
 
 its publication? 
 Name his other novels written 
 
 in America in the order of 
 
 their publication. 
 What diplomatic position did 
 
 Hawthorne hold? 
 What romance resulted from 
 
 his sojourn in Italy? 
 Did he do any literary work 
 
 after returning to America? 
 VvHien did he die? 
 Describe his most noteworthy 
 
 personal qualities. 
 
 His Work. 
 
 What is Hawthorne's rank 
 
 among American authors as 
 
 to style and workmanship (p. 
 
 14)? 
 What is the literary value of 
 
 his Note-Books (p. 13, etc.)? 
 Characterize briefly his short 
 
 stories. His children's sto- 
 ries (pp. 15-16). 
 Which are regarded as the 
 
 greatest of his romances? 
 
 Which the more pleasant? 
 What is said to be the special 
 
 theme of his imagination (p. 
 
 8)? 
 
 The House of the Seven Ga- 
 bles — Development op the 
 Plot: 
 
 Nearly all the events re- 
 ferred to in Chapter I pre- 
 cede by many years this 
 story. What, then, does this 
 chapter do for the plot? 
 
 What effect is prominent in the 
 account of the events pre- 
 ceding Colonel Pyncheon's 
 death? Why should they 
 be described at such length? 
 
 Summarize briefly the situa 
 tion (as given on pp. 48-50) 
 regarding the descendants of 
 Colonel Pyncheon and Mat- 
 thew Maule and their worldly 
 condition. 
 
 Describe the house of the seven 
 gables. 
 
 How does Hawthorne excuse 
 the slowness with which he 
 gets his story in motion in 
 Chapter II (p. 60)? 
 
 Describe Hepzibah's shop. 
 
 Does Chapter III develop prin- 
 cipally plot or character? 
 
 What important facts are re- 
 vealed in Chapter IV regard- 
 ing Hepzibah's relations 
 with the Judge? 
 
 Why are we told of the Judge's 
 resemblance to the old Col- 
 onel? 
 
 Trace in Chapter V the prog- 
 ress of Phoebe's relations 
 with Hepzibah. 
 
 What acquaintance of impor- 
 tance has its beginning in 
 Chapter VI? 
 
44 
 
 teacher's MAl^UAL 
 
 How are we prepared through 
 the previous chapters for 
 the return of Clifford in 
 Chapter VII (pp. 46, 94, 98, 
 104-5, 126-27, etc.)? 
 
 Are we prepared in any way 
 for his personal characteris- 
 tics? 
 
 Notice how in Chapter VIII 
 the Judge's resemblance to 
 the old Colonel is accen- 
 tuated again. 
 
 Why does Clifford show such 
 horror of the Judge? 
 
 What progress does the story 
 make in Chapters IX, X, and 
 XI? 
 
 What is the explanation of 
 Clifford's strange action 
 when the political procession 
 passes (p. 200)? 
 
 What is the main purpose of 
 Chapter XII? Of the story 
 of Alice Pyncheon (Chapter 
 XIII)? 
 
 Why should Holgrave be given 
 mesmeric power in Chapter 
 XIV? 
 
 Why should the author have 
 Phoebe go away at this time? 
 
 What important revelations 
 as to the relations between 
 Judge Pyncheon and Clif- 
 ford are made in Chapter 
 XV? 
 
 Is there anything significant 
 in the natural background of 
 this chapter, ^ — the storm? 
 
 What effect is prominent in 
 Chapter XVI (suspense) ? 
 Show how it is produced. 
 
 Why does Clifford act as he 
 does? 
 
 Why do he and Hepzibah run 
 away? 
 
 When and where are we first 
 told definitely that the Judge 
 is dead? 
 
 Trace out in 'previous chapters 
 the various kinds of prepara- 
 tion for his fate (pp. 86, 156, 
 etc.). 
 
 Why is Chapter XVIII pro- 
 longed to such length? 
 
 Show by a summary the cli- 
 mactic arrangement of Chap- 
 ter XIX. 
 
 What is the effect in this 
 chapter of the contact with 
 the everyday world after 
 the horror of the preceding 
 chapter? 
 
 What is Holgrave's explana- 
 tion of the Judge's death 
 (Chapter XX)? 
 
 What preparation has there 
 been for the love of Hol- 
 grave and PhoebeT 
 
 What preparation for the reve- 
 lation of Holgrave's personal 
 identity in Chapter XXI (pp. 
 190, 221-22, 249 etc.)? 
 
 How is poetic justice done in 
 the conclusion of the story? 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Do you find the characters 
 
 dimly outlined, typical, as 
 
 indicated on p. 19? 
 Whicli of tliem seems most 
 
 real and individual? 
 Do any of them show develop- 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 45 
 
 ment during the progress of 
 the story? If you find any 
 such, show the different 
 stages of development. 
 
 Write character sketches of 
 H e p z i b a h, the Judge, 
 Phoebe, Clifford, and Hol- 
 grave. 
 
 Did Hawthorne intend us to 
 regard Clifford as partly 
 insane? 
 
 Style: 
 
 Point out striking examples of 
 Hawthorne's fine discrimin- 
 ation in the choice of famil- 
 iar words and phrases. 
 
 Look up unfamiliar words and 
 comment on their appropri- 
 ateness. 
 
 Do you find any bad sentences? 
 
 Pick out complex sentences 
 at haphazard and try differ- 
 ent ways of arranging the 
 clauses. Can you improve 
 on any of them? 
 
 Do you find much use of fig- 
 urative language? 
 
 Are the figures chiefly charac- 
 
 terized by beauty or by 
 
 strength? 
 Show examples in which each 
 
 quality is prominent. 
 Is there any humor in the 
 
 story? Point out the best 
 
 examples of it which you 
 
 find. The best examples of 
 
 irony or sarcasm. 
 
 General Comment 
 
 State in your own words what 
 Hawthorne means by a "ro- 
 mance" (see his Preface). 
 
 Does he intend this story to 
 teach any lesson? 
 
 In what way does he think 
 stories should teach, if they 
 teach at all (pp. 24-25)? 
 
 Does he ever offend against 
 this principle? 
 
 How is the supernaturalism 
 introduced into The House of 
 the Seven Gables, — directly 
 or by implication? Does the 
 author express his belief in 
 it, or does he suggest the 
 possibility of natural causes? 
 Give examples. 
 
46 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. Sir Walter Scott. With %^ 
 Introduction by William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor oi 
 English, the University of Chicago, and a Glossary and Notes by Mary 
 R. Willai'd, Instructor in English, High School, Jamestown, N. Y, 
 Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 211. 25 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 Text. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Life of Scott. 
 
 II. Scott's Place in the Roman- 
 tic Movement. 
 III. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 For a list of questions and sug- 
 gestions on the life of Scott 
 and his place in the Romantic 
 movement see TJie Lady of 
 ^/ieZ/aA;e(p. 32 of this Manual). 
 
 What was the date of publica- 
 tion of this poem (pp. 21, 22)? 
 
 What chronological place does 
 it hold in the order of Scott's 
 works? 
 
 What was its success? Why ? 
 
 How was the story suggested 
 to Scott? 
 
 Are there any evidences that 
 Scott was trying to draw a 
 resemblance between his 
 relations with the Countess 
 of Dalkeith and those of the 
 ancient Minstrel with the 
 Duchess of Buccleugh? 
 
 Introduction : 
 
 What is the framework of tlie 
 whole story? Where is it 
 stated? Is it a happy device 
 (p. 20)? 
 
 Is there any significance in 
 Scott's putting the story in 
 the mouth of a Minstrel? 
 
 Notice the Interludes at the 
 end of each Canto. What 
 
 Map— The Borderland of England 
 
 and Scotland. 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 purpose do they serve? (Pre- 
 vent us from forgetting that 
 it is the Minstrel who is 
 speaking. ) 
 
 Are there other passages where 
 the Minstrel speaks in his 
 own person? 
 
 What is the fate of the Min- 
 strel? 
 
 Is it probable that one in hig 
 condition (p. 63) could have 
 sung sucii a song as this? 
 Does this consideration mat- 
 ter? 
 
 Point out the influences of 
 ballad literature on the 
 poem. 
 
 I. Where is the first hint that 
 the Ladye was addicted to 
 Magic (p. 65)? 
 
 Is your first impression one of 
 reality or are you carried at 
 once into a land of the imag- 
 ination? 
 
 What events happening before 
 the opening of the poem are 
 described here? 
 
 Where are v/e told of Lord 
 Cranstoun's love for Lady 
 Margaret? Why was he not 
 acceptable to her mother? 
 
POK THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 47 
 
 Is the dialogue of the Spirits 
 (p. 71) necessary to the plot? 
 What is the prophecy? How 
 will the Ladye evade it? 
 
 How has the plot been ad- 
 vanced in this Canto? 
 
 How much space is taken up 
 with the description of the 
 castle? 
 
 II. How did William of Delor- 
 aine obtain the book of St. 
 Michael? 
 
 Who was the lonely watcher 
 at the tomb? 
 
 Is there justification for devot- 
 ing as much space as this to 
 this episode? Why do you 
 call this an episode? Note 
 its connection as the plot 
 advances. Is the book of St, 
 Michael necessary (p. 55)? 
 
 Where is the first mention of 
 the Dwarf? 
 
 Does this introduction of 
 another supernatural ele- 
 ment increase the unreal- 
 ity? 
 
 We are told that Scott began 
 with the intention of making 
 the Dwarf (Gilpin Horner) 
 the principal character in 
 the poem. What are the 
 evidences of this? 
 
 III. What is the necessity of 
 having the young lord en- 
 ticed away from the castle 
 by the Dwarf? Note what 
 use is afterwards made of 
 this (Canto IV). 
 
 Note the continual tricks of 
 the Dwarf. 
 
 What other incidents are con- 
 tained in this Canto? 
 
 IV. Why is the rising of the 
 Border described so fully? 
 
 Does this furnish a good pic- 
 ture of the mediaeval border 
 life? 
 
 Where does the Dwarf appear 
 in this Canto? 
 
 What was the difference in 
 disposition between the two 
 English commanders (p. 
 133)? 
 
 How does the Ladye's Magic 
 aid her here? 
 
 V. Discuss the truce between 
 the two armies (p. 141) — 
 its probability, etc. (see 
 Stanza VII). 
 
 How was Lord Cranstoun 
 knowm to Lady Margaret '^in 
 his disguise? When do we 
 first recognize him? 
 
 Com.pare the descriiDtion of the 
 combat (p. 150) with a sim- 
 ilar description in any one 
 of Scott's novels. 
 
 When is the prophecy ful- 
 filled? 
 
 Is the poem completed at the 
 end of this Canto? 
 
 VI. What are the main inci- 
 dents of this Canto? What 
 have they to do with the 
 plot? 
 
 Could this Canto have been 
 dropped without harm to 
 the poem? 
 
 Where is the last mention of 
 the Goblin (p. 175)? 
 
 As the poem stands, is the 
 
48 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 author justified in devoting 
 as much space as he does to 
 the Goblin's pranks? 
 
 Could the young boy have been 
 enticed away from the castle 
 in any other manner than 
 the one employed? Could 
 the Lord Cranstoun have 
 counterfeited the likeness 
 of William of Deloraine in 
 any other way? 
 
 Discuss the employment of the 
 supernatural in this poem 
 (see pp. 56 ff . ) and contrast it 
 with its use in The Lady of 
 the Lake. 
 
 Plot in General: 
 
 Do you find in the poem a 
 well-defined and regularly 
 developed plot, or is it a 
 patchwork of incidents? 
 
 Write the plot in detail, 
 avoiding unimportant de- 
 tails, and find out in how few 
 words you can do it. 
 
 Describe the main incidents. 
 What ones are necessary to 
 the plot? State exactly how. 
 
 Character : 
 
 Are there good studies of char- 
 acter in the poem? 
 
 Do the figures seem indistinct 
 and dimly drawn to you? 
 
 Compare the characters with 
 those of The Lady of the 
 Lake. 
 
 Description . 
 
 Are the descriptions vivid'r 
 Note the description of Mel- 
 rose Abbey by moonlight (p. 
 80) ; the extended description 
 of the castle in Canto I ; the 
 rising of the Border; the 
 combat, and the pledging of 
 the vows of the lovers. 
 
 Compare the treatment of 
 landscape in the Lay with 
 that in The Lady of the 
 Lake. 
 
 Also compare the combat (p 
 150) with the fight of Rod 
 erick Dhu and James Fitz- 
 James. 
 
 Style: 
 
 What poem influenced the 
 verse form of the Lay? 
 Compare the two. 
 
 Why did Scott want to escape 
 the responsibility of intro- 
 ducing a new verse form (p. 
 21)? 
 
 How many accents are there 
 in each line? How many syl- 
 lables? Is the number of syl 
 lables uniform? What gen 
 eral effect has this metre? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 49 
 
 JULIUS CAESAR. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Neilson, 
 
 M.A., Ph.D., Harvard Univ^ersity. 
 pany. pp. 194. 35 cents. 
 Preface. 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Shakspere and the English 
 Drama. 
 The Drama Before Shak- 
 spere. 
 Shakspere's Early Life. 
 The Elizabethan Theatre. 
 Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
 velopment. 
 Shakspere's Last Years. 
 
 The Drama: 
 
 In what did the drama origin- 
 ate? 
 
 Describe briefly the miracle 
 plays.tellingwhere they were 
 performed, by whom, and 
 what, in general, was their 
 subject matter (pp. 12, 13). 
 
 What elements were contained 
 in the miracle plays that 
 had an influence toward the 
 development of comedy? 
 
 What were moralities? Inter- 
 ludes? 
 
 What foreign influences con- 
 tributed to the development 
 of the Elizabethan drama? 
 
 Name several of Shakspere's 
 predecessors in the drama. 
 Who was the greatest of 
 them? 
 
 Describe briefly the theatre of 
 Shakspere's day (pp. 22-23). 
 The characteristics of a 
 ShaksiDerean audience. 
 
 Shakspere's Career: 
 When and where was Shak- 
 spere born? 
 
 Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Com- 
 
 II. Julius Caesar. 
 Date. 
 
 Source of the Text. 
 Source of the Plot. 
 Metre. 
 Language. 
 
 Comparison of Julius Cae- 
 sar and North's Plu- 
 tarch. , 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Word Index. 
 
 What can you say as to his 
 education (p. 18)? His occu- 
 pations before he went to 
 London? 
 
 What do we know about his 
 early years in London? 
 
 What were his first dramatic 
 efl"orts (p. 20)? What other 
 literary work, besides the 
 writing of plays, did he 
 do? 
 
 Learn the general characteris- 
 tics of Shakspere's work dur- 
 ing each of the four periods 
 into which it is divided, and 
 the names of representative 
 plays of each period. 
 
 What can you say of Shaks- 
 pere's last years (p. 28)? 
 
 Julius Caesar — External 
 Facts : 
 
 What is the probable date of 
 composition of Julius Cae- 
 sar? Its chronological rela- 
 tion to the series of Shaks- 
 pere's greatest tragedies? 
 
 When was it first published? 
 
 What is the source of its plot? 
 
50 
 
 teacher's MAITUAL 
 
 Describe Shakspere's general 
 method in handling this 
 source (pp. 31-33). 
 
 Progress of the Plot: 
 
 What is the dramatic purpose 
 of I, i, (note, p. 159)? 
 
 In I, ii, what is the effect of the 
 soothsayer's warning? 
 
 What is the purpose and effect 
 of the flourishes and shouts 
 while Brutus and Cassius are 
 speaking? 
 
 What does Antony's appear- 
 ance at the beginning of the 
 scene indicate as to his im- 
 portance in the play? 
 
 Is Cassius supposed to hear 
 Caesar's remarks about him 
 
 ' (11. 192 ff.)? 
 
 How should the characters be 
 arranged on the stage at this 
 time? 
 
 State in outline what is accom- 
 plished in I, iii. 
 
 What is the dramatic purpose 
 and effect of the portents? 
 
 In II, i, what is the purpose of 
 11. 101-111 (note, p. 170)? 
 
 Whose judgment is best as to 
 Antony, Cassius's or Brutus's 
 (p. 77)? 
 
 What later conflict of judg- 
 ment resembles this (III, i, 
 232)? 
 
 Why is it intimated' in lines 
 193-94 that Caesar may not 
 come to the Capitol on the 
 Ides of March? 
 
 In II, ii, why is a second ac- 
 count of the prodigies given? 
 
 What striking bit of dramatic 
 irony and blindness is there 
 near the end of this scene? 
 
 What is the effect on an audi- 
 tor of Caesar's attitude 
 toward the conspirators? 
 
 What is the dramatic effect of 
 II, iii (note, p. 175)? 
 
 What two purx)oses does II, iv, 
 serve? 
 
 For III, i, plan an arrangement 
 of characters on the stage 
 (up to the assassination) and 
 decide what persons are ad- 
 dressed in the different short 
 speeches at the beginning 
 (pp. 94-95). 
 
 Are the speeches of Cassius and 
 Brutus (11. 111-16) natural 
 at that time? Why did 
 Shakspere write them? 
 
 In III, ii, what does Brutus try 
 to do in his speech? 
 
 Trace out the main divisions 
 of Antony's speech, show- 
 ing what he accomplishes in 
 each. 
 
 When does his voice first be- 
 come sarcastic in referring 
 to the conspirators as "hon- 
 ourable men"? 
 
 How are we prepared before 
 this scene for the eloquence 
 he shows here? 
 
 Describe Antony's course with 
 regard to Caesar's will. Was 
 it more effective than if he 
 had read the will directly? 
 
 From this scene what do you 
 decide as to Shakspere's opin- 
 ion of the common people? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 51 
 
 What purpose can you assign 
 for III, iii (note p. 182)? 
 
 What is the purpose of IV, i? 
 Of IV, ii? 
 
 How is the plot advanced by 
 the trouble between Brutus 
 and Cassius in IV, iii? 
 
 State clearly the reasons for 
 the trouble and the reasons 
 for the reconciliation. 
 
 Is Cassius convinced by Bru- 
 tus's reasons for meeting 
 their opponents at Philippi? 
 Why does he yield? 
 
 What dramatic device in this 
 scene shows that Caesar's 
 spirit dominates the action 
 which is to result in the fall 
 of the conspirators? 
 
 In V, i, what does the first 
 speech of Octavius indicate 
 as to the wisdom of Brutus's 
 decision in the previous 
 scene? 
 
 Trace as clearly as possible the 
 progress of the battle 
 through this act. 
 
 Is there any point where the 
 play could very well end 
 before it does? 
 
 The Plot as a whole : 
 What incident begins the real 
 complication of the play? 
 How does Shakspere point 
 out this incident? 
 What incident (in this case a 
 speech) begins the resolution 
 of the play, — marks the be- 
 ginning of the fall of the 
 conspirators? 
 
 Is that part of the play which 
 precedes the speech of An- 
 tony, or that which follows 
 it, the more interesting? 
 
 What are the real causes of 
 Caesar's downfall? Of Bru. 
 tus's? 
 
 Criticise or justify the naming 
 of the play. 
 
 What dramatic use is made of 
 the supernatural? 
 
 Point out examples of dra- 
 matic irony and dramatic 
 blindness. 
 
 The Characters: 
 
 What characteristics of Bru- 
 tus and Cassius respectively 
 are shown in I, ii? 
 
 What idea do you get of Casca? 
 
 What attitude of Ri-utus to- 
 ward Caesar is indicated in 
 II, i? 
 
 What is indicated as to Bru- 
 tus's character in his rela- 
 tions with his servant and 
 his wife? 
 
 Is Brutus 's action when he 
 hears of the death of his 
 wife unfeeling? How can 
 you account for it? 
 
 Describe the character of 
 Portia? 
 
 Contrast the relations of Bru- 
 tus and Portia with those of 
 Caesar and Calpurnia. 
 
 Point out the various ways in 
 which the character of Cae- 
 sar is belittled. 
 
 Does this belittlement indi- 
 cate Shakspere 's real atti- 
 
52 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 tude toward Caesar, or is 
 there a dramatic purpose 
 in it? 
 
 What indication do we find as 
 to Cicero's character in II, i? 
 
 Is there any truth in Antony's 
 characterization of himself 
 (III, ii, 225 ff.)? Does he 
 mean it to be taken as true? 
 
 Which appears to greater ad- 
 vantage in the quarrel of 
 Brutus and Cassius? 
 
 How is Cassius 's superiority to 
 Brutus as a man of affairs 
 show^n in the play? 
 
 What groups of characters are 
 there in this play? 
 
 What character do you find 
 who is portrayed chiefly by 
 
 the influence which 
 exerts on others? 
 
 he 
 
 The Form of the Play : 
 
 What is the regular metre of 
 Julius Caesar? 
 
 Find examples for yourself of 
 each of the variations de- 
 scribed on pp. 34-35. 
 
 In wdiat places do you find 
 rhyme used? 
 
 In I, i, why do the tribunes 
 speak in verse, the common- 
 ers in prose? 
 
 Why does Casca speak in f>rose 
 in I, ii ; in verse in I, iii? 
 
 In III, ii, why does Brutus 
 speak in prose, Antony in 
 verse? 
 
 CARLYLE'S ESSAY ON BURNS. Edited by George B. Alton, State 
 Inspector of High Schools, Minnesota. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and 
 Company, pp. 147. 25 cents. 
 Preface. Comments on the Essay. 
 
 Introduction. Bibliography. 
 
 Map. Text. 
 
 Carlyle. Notes. 
 
 Burns. Glossary. 
 
 Life of Carlyle: 
 
 What can you say as to tlie 
 characteristics of the Car- 
 lyle family? 
 
 When and where was Thomas 
 Carlyle born? 
 
 Where was he educated? 
 
 What was his success as a 
 student? 
 
 What occupation was he edu- 
 cated for at first? 
 
 What occupation did he ac- 
 
 tually follow after complet- 
 ing his university course? 
 
 What important change in 
 his plans for the future did 
 he soon make (p. 15)? 
 
 What was now his condition 
 and what his attitude to- 
 ward life? 
 
 What was the first literary 
 work he did (p. 16)? And 
 what kind of work followed 
 for several years? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 53 
 
 )escribe briefly Carlyle's rela- 
 tions with Jane Welsh (pp. 
 18, 19). 
 
 Vhat important critic became 
 his friend? 
 
 Vhither did the Carlyles move 
 shortly before 1828 (p. 21)? 
 
 Vhen and where was the 
 Bums essay written? When 
 and where published? 
 
 Vhere did Carlyle live during 
 the greater i^art of his life? 
 
 [ame some of his most impor- 
 tant works? 
 
 Vhat is said of his general in- 
 fluence (p. 23)? What of the 
 particular influence of this 
 
 '~ essay (p. 37)? 
 
 Vhen did Carlyle die? 
 
 Describe his personal character 
 as fully as possible. 
 
 ^hy was he particularly fitted 
 to write about Burns? 
 
 l,iFE OF Burns: 
 
 ^hen and where was Burns 
 born? 
 
 vVhat were the circumstances 
 of his family? 
 
 What educational advantages 
 did he have? 
 
 Bow early in life did he begin 
 poetical com^wsition? 
 
 Where and under what cir- 
 cumstances was most of his 
 best work done (p. 25)? 
 
 Where and when was his first 
 volume published ( p. 27)? 
 What was its success? 
 
 What government position did 
 Burns hold? 
 
 Describe briefly his manner of 
 life during his later years. 
 
 When and at what age did he 
 die? 
 
 Prepare an outline of the 
 points of contrast between 
 the lives of Carlyle and 
 Burns, as stated on p. 29. 
 
 Content of the Essay: 
 
 What does this essay purport 
 to be? 
 
 What proportion of it is de- 
 voted to discussion of the 
 book that suggested it? 
 
 Compare it with the present- 
 day review, e. g., in a city 
 daily paper. 
 
 What does Carlyle consider 
 the requirements of the ideal 
 biography (pp. 47-48)? 
 
 Does this essay, in so far as it 
 is biographical, fulfill these 
 requirements? 
 
 Do you agree in all respects 
 with Carlyle's estimate of 
 Burns's poetical disadvan 
 tages (see notes, i^p. 132- 
 33)? 
 
 What does Carlyle say or imply 
 concerning the function and 
 nature of literary criticism 
 (p. 51 and elsewhere)? 
 
 What is Carlyle's estimate of 
 the value to the world of a 
 true poet (p. 52 and else- 
 where)? 
 
 What is the first rare excel- 
 lence which Carlyle finds in 
 Burns? 
 
 What poet who did not usually 
 
54 
 
 teachee's manual 
 
 possess this excellence does 
 he contrast with Burns? 
 
 When is Burns not sincere? 
 And why? 
 
 What is the second peculiar 
 merit Carlyle finds in 
 Burns'spoetry (p. 61)? (Note 
 how this agrees with 
 Wordsworth's theory of po- 
 etry.) 
 
 What does Carlyle say of 
 Burns's intellectual power? 
 Of the range of his sym- 
 pathy? 
 
 WJuit does Carlyle regard tlie 
 most strictly poetical of all 
 Burns's poems, not including 
 the songs? 
 
 What rank does he assign to 
 the songs? 
 
 Summarize the excellencies 
 which he points out. 
 
 What is the essence of Carlyle's 
 comment on the influence of 
 Burns on the nationality of 
 literature (pp. 85 ff . )? 
 
 Do you think a university 
 training v/ould have aided 
 Burns in w^riting his kind of 
 poetry (compare p. 94 with 
 note, p. 139)? 
 
 What on the whole w^as the 
 effect, according to Carlyle, 
 of Burns's visit to Edin- 
 burgh? 
 
 What was the crisis in Burns's 
 life? 
 
 Do j'^ou agree that there were 
 for him only the three possi- 
 bilities that Carlyle mentions 
 (p. 113)? 
 
 What were the chief causes of 
 Burns's failure? 
 
 Note carefully the points of 
 resemblance and difference 
 which Carlyle points out be- 
 tween Burns and Byron. 
 
 Note other literary references 
 in the essay, besides those 
 to Byron. 
 
 Show the unfairness of the 
 reference to Keats (p. 71). 
 
 What conclusions do you 
 reach from this essa}^, as to 
 Carlyle's insight into char- 
 acter, his attitude toward 
 morality, his enthusiasm? 
 
 Style of the Essay: 
 
 What can you say in general 
 as to the range of Carlyle's 
 vocabulary? 
 
 jDoes he use predominatingly 
 long or short, Anglo-Saxon 
 or Latin words? 
 
 Note in this connection that 
 critical terms are generally 
 of classic origin. 
 
 Are Carlyle's words aptly 
 chosen? 
 
 Point out a number of unusual 
 words which, w^hen thor- 
 oughly understood, seem es- 
 pecially appropriate. 
 
 What language, possibly, in- 
 fluenced Carlyle in his use of 
 capitals? 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 length of Carlyle's sentences? 
 
 Do you find any of them which 
 are not clear after you have 
 looked up all unusual words 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 55 
 
 and all references unknown 
 to you? 
 
 "^^ote any which seem to lack 
 coherence or unity. 
 
 )o you find the sentences gen- 
 erally emphatic? 
 
 'oint out as many ways as 
 you can by which emphasis 
 is secured. 
 
 )oes Carlyle seem to be talking 
 at you, or to a congregation, 
 or simply expressing his 
 views in writing? 
 
 )o his attitude and feeling 
 seem like those of an earnest 
 preacher? Illustrate. 
 
 )o you find any paragraphs 
 which lack unity? 
 
 *oint out two or three good 
 examples of coherence be- 
 tween paragraphs. 
 
 )o you find any confusingly 
 
 abrupt transitions from par- 
 agraph to paragraph? 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 frequency of Carlyle's de- 
 velopment by specific illus- 
 tration? Its effectiveness? 
 
 Select and explain in detail 
 several of the most appropri- 
 ate illustrations and refer- 
 ences. 
 
 Do you find much figurative 
 language in this essay? Is 
 it highly imaginative? 
 
 From what realm are the fig- 
 ures most often taken? 
 
 Select some of the best figures 
 and show wherein they are 
 effective. 
 
 Point out all examples of irony 
 or sarcasm which you find. 
 Can you tell wherein they 
 are effective? 
 
 'ALAMON AND ARCITE or The Knight's Tale from Chaucer by John 
 Dryden. Edited by May Estelle Cook, A.B., Instructor in English, 
 South Side Academy, Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Com- 
 pany, pp. 173. 25 cents. 
 
 iONTENTS. 
 
 •rbfacb. 
 ntroduction. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 The Story of Palamon and Ar- 
 cite. 
 
 Dryden's Style. 
 
 /HAUCER : 
 
 Recount the facts of Chaucer's 
 
 life. 
 Vas he exclusively a man of 
 
 letters (p. 10)? 
 
 Dryden's Estimate of Chaucer. 
 
 Suggestions to Teachers. 
 
 Bibliography. 
 Dbydkn's Dedication to Her 
 Grace the Duchess of Obmond. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 What official position did he 
 hold? 
 
 Who was his greatest contem- 
 porary (p. 15)? 
 
 What is his best known poem? 
 
56 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Who were the kings of Eng- 
 land during his lifetime? 
 
 Did the English precede the 
 French and Italians in ap- 
 preciating the fact that the 
 knight was a fit subject for 
 song and story'? 
 
 Chaucer's Language: 
 
 What was the state of the 
 English language at Chau- 
 cer's birth? 
 
 When did the union of the 
 Anglo-Saxon and the Nor- 
 man - French become the 
 speech of the English nation? 
 
 What is Chaucer's share in the 
 development of the language 
 
 (p. 15)? 
 
 Did Chaucer's language differ 
 greatly from that of the 
 other writers of the day? 
 Does it differ in a great de- 
 gree from the language of to- 
 day (p. IC)? 
 
 Write in modern prose the ex- 
 tract from Chaucer given 
 on pages 129-30. 
 
 Dryden : 
 
 Recount the facts of Dryden's 
 
 Hfe. 
 What position did he hold that 
 
 Chaucer had held? 
 What was Dryden's position 
 
 among the literary men of 
 
 the day (p. IT)? 
 Was he consistent in his politi- 
 cal and religious views (p. 
 
 18)? 
 What different literary species 
 
 did he undertake? 
 
 Name six of his poems. 
 
 What qualities of his prose 
 style are mentioned? 
 
 What is his share in the devel- 
 opment of English prose (p. 
 20)? 
 
 Why did he fail as a writer ofl 
 comedies (p. 20)? 
 
 Chaucer and Dryden : 
 
 From what one of Chaucer's 
 poems is the story of Pala- 
 mon and Arcite taken? 
 
 State the general plan of the 
 Canterbury Tales (p. 22)? 
 
 From whom did Chaucer take 
 the story of the Knighfs 
 Tale? Is it merely a trans- 
 lation? 
 
 Is Dryden's version a strict 
 translation of Chaucer (p. 
 24)? 
 
 Is the poem more Chaucer's or 
 Dryden's? 
 
 What was the estimate of 
 Chaucer in the "Classic Age" 
 of English literature? 
 
 What did Dryden think of 
 Chaucer? Why did he re- 
 write his poems (p. 32)? 
 
 What did the age think of 
 Dryden's translations? 
 
 Do the two poets use the same 
 versification in this poem? 
 
 What is the difference between 
 the romantic couplet and the 
 classical couplet? Does the 
 sense end with the couplet 
 more often in Dryden than 
 in Chaucer? 
 
 Compare any number of lines 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 57 
 
 of Chaucer with any number 
 of Dryden and write out your 
 reasons why you think that 
 Ghaucer's verse is the more 
 musical. 
 
 How do the two poets differ 
 in their use of words? 
 
 J^ote all the differences in style 
 that you can discover and 
 give illustrations. 
 
 Chaucer's style is simple and 
 condensed, Dryden's artifi- 
 cial and indirect: find con- 
 trasts in these characteristics 
 in the extracts from Chaucer 
 furnished and in Dryden's 
 poem. 
 
 •Compare the treatment of 
 external nature by each poet. 
 Take the description of the 
 lark on page 73, the descrip- 
 tion of Emily on page 54, 
 and the account of Arcite's 
 death on page 129 (particu- 
 larly Arcite's last words) and 
 state definitely why Dry- 
 den's description is inferior. 
 
 Dryden's Style: 
 
 Write out fifty words used by 
 Dryden that are used to-day 
 with a different meaning. 
 
 Is his syntax always correct? 
 Have the pupils collect in- 
 stances of his faulty syntax 
 and rewrite them with a 
 view to correcting them. 
 
 Give examples of alliteration. 
 
 Is its use effective? 
 
 Note particularly Dryden's use 
 of balanced sentences. How 
 
 many examples do you find 
 on page 12b? Do they be- 
 come monotonous? 
 
 Are his personifications effect- 
 ive, or merely "capital let- 
 ter personifications"? 
 
 Scan twenty-five perfect lines. 
 
 Collect and tabulate instances 
 of his variation of the 
 rhythm. Of triple rhymes. 
 Of Alexandrines. Of imper- 
 fect rhymes. 
 
 What do you think of Dry- 
 den's power of reasoning in 
 rhyme (p. 140)? 
 
 Characters : 
 
 Can you distinguish clearly 
 between the figures of 
 Palamon and Arcite? Are 
 they real figures or only 
 types? Characterize each of 
 them. Which one deserves 
 Emily best (right of priority ; 
 difference in their prayers; 
 efforts to gain her)? 
 
 Does Emily seem a strong 
 character? Are her actions 
 consistent? 
 
 How does she help'the plot? 
 
 What sort of a character do 
 you call this? 
 
 Do you have a vivid picture of 
 her in your mind? How old 
 is she? Write a characteri- 
 zation of her. 
 
 Is the character of Theseus 
 pictured plainly enough for 
 you to characterize him? 
 
 What other background figures 
 are there in the poem? 
 
58 
 
 TEACHER'S MANUAL 
 
 What do you think of Dryden's 
 power of characterization? 
 
 Description : 
 
 The following subjects will 
 serve for descriptive themes: 
 Emily's first appearance in 
 the garden and the ensuing 
 scene between Palamon and 
 Arcite (pp. 56 ff . ) ; the meet- 
 ing of Palamon and Arcite 
 in the grove (pp. 75 ff . ) ; the 
 tournament grounds (p. 90); 
 the temple of Venus (pp. 91 
 ff.); the temple of Mars (i^p. 
 93 ff.); the temple of Diana 
 
 (p. 97) ; the tournament — i 
 preparation, the battle, i 
 victory, and the overthr( 
 of the victor (pp. 116 ff.) ; t 
 death and burial of Arcite 
 In writing these descriptic 
 and characterizations t 
 pupil should use his o^ 
 words and not Dryden 
 This rewriting of these pai 
 of tlie poem is asked th 
 the pupil may 'discover f 
 himself the qualities of Di 
 den's style and obtain 
 clear comprehension of t 
 story. 
 
 THE ILIAD OP HOMER. Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV. Translated 
 Alexander Pope. Edited by Wilfred Wesley Cressy, A.M., Professor 
 English inOberlin College, and William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assista 
 Professor of English in the University of Chicago. Chicago: Sco 
 Foresman and Company, pp. 203. 25 cents. 
 
 Preface. III. 
 
 Content.'?. IV. 
 
 Introduction. Text. 
 
 I. Life of Pope. Notes. 
 II. Pope and his Times. 
 
 Pope's Iliad. 
 
 The Story of the Iliad. 
 
 Life of Pope: 
 
 When and where was Pope 
 
 born? 
 What was his religion and 
 
 v/hat effect did this have on 
 
 his education? 
 What English poet was his 
 
 early master? 
 What famous dramatist was he 
 
 influenced/by later on (p. 13)? 
 After he reached maturity 
 
 what three prose writers 
 
 successively influenced him 
 
 (p. 14)? Characterize briefly 
 
 the nature of the influence ( 
 
 each. 
 WJiat is said of each of tl 
 
 tv70 most important origin 
 
 poems of Pope's first peric 
 
 (pp. 15- IG)? 
 Wliat advice was Pope endea 
 
 oring to follow in his writir 
 
 (p. 13)? 
 During what years 'did Pope 
 
 Iliad appear? What wj 
 
 its success? The result f( 
 
 Pope's literary standing? 
 What personal quarrel wj 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 59 
 
 brought to a crisis after the 
 publication of the Iliad? 
 
 Where did Pope remove to 
 after his success? 
 
 How long did he live there? 
 
 Characterize briefly the Dun- 
 ciad (p. 19). 
 
 Whose influence is most prom- 
 inent in it? 
 
 Upon what important work 
 was the influence of Boling- 
 broke prominent? 
 
 Tell what you can of Pope's 
 personality. Of his disposi- 
 tion and character. 
 
 Characterize in general the 
 times in which Pope lived 
 (pp. 24-26). 
 
 The Iliad— Subject Matter: 
 Narrate briefly the course of 
 
 events leading up to the 
 
 Trojan War. 
 How long did the war last? 
 What is the duration in time 
 
 of the events narrated in the 
 
 Eiad? 
 About how long after the be- 
 ginning of the war did they 
 
 take place? 
 What is the state of hostilities 
 
 when the Iliad begins? 
 Trace out carefully in each 
 
 book the progress of the 
 
 main events, ignoring mere 
 
 matters of detail. 
 From these books whom should 
 
 you take to be the hero of 
 
 the Iliad, Achilles or Hector? 
 
 Present arguments on both 
 
 sides. 
 
 Which character do you aa- 
 mire more? 
 
 In what relations and actions 
 does Achilles appear noblest? 
 
 Can you mention any friend- 
 ships in history which seem 
 to you to resemble that be- 
 tween Achilles and Patro- 
 clus? 
 
 Characterize briefly, from the 
 hints you get in these four 
 books, Agamemnon, Ulysses, 
 Nestor, Diomedes, Paris, 
 Priam, Andromache, Helen. 
 
 Describe the function of the 
 gods in the Iliad. 
 
 Are mortals permitted to per- 
 form any important action 
 without interference from 
 the gods? 
 
 Are the gods made to seem 
 god-like, or only like human 
 beings with greater than 
 human power? 
 
 Which are on the side of the 
 Trojans? Which on the side 
 of the Greeks? 
 
 Are any inconsistent in their 
 attitude? 
 
 Manner op the Transla- 
 tion: 
 
 What are the four predominant 
 qualities of Homer, accord- 
 ing to Matthesv Arnold (p. 
 27)? 
 
 Show by several examples 
 whicli you pick out for your- 
 self, wherein and how Pope's 
 translation lacks simplicity 
 and directness of thought. 
 
60 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Pick out a number of places in 
 which Pope's translation 
 lacks simplicity of expres- 
 sion. 
 
 How many times in Book I do 
 you find a woman referred 
 to as "the fair"? 
 
 Point out all the other artificial 
 terms you find in this book. 
 
 How many different expres- 
 sions do you find for the sea? 
 
 Criticize for simplicity of 
 thought and expression the 
 following passages : I, 634-39, 
 712-13; VI, 67-76, 290-91, 329- 
 33, 475-79, 594-601; XXIV, 
 105-108. 
 
 What conventionalities of 
 eighteenth century verse 
 interfered with rapidity of 
 movement (p. 33)? 
 
 Find as many examples as you 
 can of excessive antithesis, — 
 that is of antithesis which is 
 unnatural to the sj^eech or 
 action described. 
 
 What is "run-on verse," re- 
 ferred to at the top of p. 35? 
 Find as many examples of 
 it as you can. 
 
 Does Pope convey an adequate 
 idea of the nobility of Homer 
 (p. 36)? 
 
 What merits does your editor 
 assign to Pope's Iliad (pp. 
 37-39)? 
 
 Can you make any additions 
 to the list? 
 
 What are the prominent char- 
 
 acteristics of the Homer 
 simile? Pick out several 
 the most striking ones yc 
 find.. 
 
 Note the way in which pa 
 sages are sometimes repeatt 
 almost verbatim. How mar 
 such examples do you find 
 these books? Are they effec 
 ive? Note Tennyson's im 
 tation of this in Enoch A 
 den and Morte d' Arthur. 
 
 Lessing, in his Laocoon, a 
 essay to show the limitatioi 
 of painting and poetry, cit< 
 Homer as describing 
 thing by telling how it 
 made (of. Iliad, Book I, 3( 
 ff.)> not by trying to v: 
 with drawing or painting 
 Can you find examples c 
 this? 
 
 What is the regular metre c 
 this poem? 
 
 What variations of this metr 
 are illustrated by the follo^^ 
 ing lines: I, 8; I, 355-57; V] 
 279-81? Find as many othe 
 examples as you can of eaa 
 of these variations. 
 
 Point out several examples o 
 effective alliteration. D 
 you find any which soei 
 to be overdone? 
 
 Do you notice any imperfec 
 rhymes? 
 
 In what way can you accoun 
 for some of them? 
 
 Can you thus account for all? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 61 
 
 MACAULAY'S ESSAYS on Milton and Addison. Edited by Alphonso G. 
 Newcomer, Associate Professor of English in the Leland Stanford Junior 
 University. Chicago: Scott, Poresman and Company, pp. 272. 30 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction, 
 
 Macaulay's advent in the Edin- 
 burgh Review. 
 
 Effect on prose. 
 
 The man. 
 
 His work. « 
 
 History of England. 
 
 Essays. 
 
 Organizing faculty. 
 
 Illustrating faculty. 
 
 Memory. 
 
 Clearness and simplicity. 
 
 Force. 
 
 MacaulaY: 
 
 .What is the date of Macaulay's 
 first contribution to the 
 Edinburgh Review? 
 
 How old was he at this time? 
 
 Who was the editor of this 
 magazine? 
 
 How long did Macaulay con- 
 tinue to contribute to it (p. 
 15)? 
 
 Into what divisions do the 
 writings of Macaulay fall (p. 
 19)? 
 
 Name six of Macaulay's best 
 essays. 
 
 What is their literary signifi- 
 
 . cance (p. 38)? , 
 
 What change did Macaulay 
 bring about in the prose 
 style of the first quarter of 
 the nineteenth century (p. 
 If))? 
 
 What has been the influence 
 of Macaulay's style on mod- 
 ern journalism (p. 39)? 
 
 Concreteness. 
 
 Exaggeration. 
 
 Antithesis and balance. 
 
 Minor devices. 
 
 Dogmatism. 
 
 Ornament, rhythm. 
 
 Temperamental defects. 
 
 Literary significance. 
 
 Influence on journalism. 
 
 Real greatness. 
 Chronology and Bibliography. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 His Style : 
 
 Are the leading traits of Ma- 
 caulay's character — brusque- 
 ness, precision without 
 fastidiousness, and self-con- 
 fidence — illustrated in his 
 style? 
 
 His style is noted for clear- 
 nesSj simplicity, force, bal- 
 anced and antithetical 
 structure, use of illustration, 
 and use of exaggerations: 
 collect illustrations of all 
 these qualities from partic- 
 ular passages from each 
 essay. 
 
 Note Macaulay's use of words. 
 Are they long, short, com- 
 mon, unusual, scientific, 
 newly-coined, foreign, con- 
 crete, general, pictorial, sug- 
 gestive, of Latin or Saxon 
 origin? 
 
 What would you say of his use 
 of words on p. 98? On p. 161? 
 
62 
 
 teacher's MAISrUAL 
 
 Examirke any ten consecu- 
 tive pages for his use of 
 words and tabulate your 
 conclusions. What is the 
 average length of his 
 words? 
 
 Note his sentence length and 
 structure. 
 
 Are any of his sentences too 
 short for unity? Any too 
 long for unity? Are they 
 loose or periodic? 
 
 Write down all the examples 
 of loose sentences that you 
 can find. 
 
 Are his sentences effective, 
 artistic, overworked? 
 
 Examine any fifteen consecu- 
 tive pages and write out 
 your conclusions as to the 
 average number of words 
 in each sentence. 
 
 How many sentences have 
 fewer than fifteen words? 
 
 How many more than thirty? 
 
 How many violate the normal 
 order? 
 
 How does he obtain emphasis? 
 
 What of his sentence length 
 on page 97? 
 
 Note the short sentences on p. 
 165. Do you think it possible 
 to connect these short sen- 
 tences? 
 
 On any two pages you may 
 choose, how many complex 
 sentences are there? How 
 many compound? 
 
 Is it possible to convert any of 
 his complex sentences into 
 compound ones? 
 
 How does he connect para- 
 graphs? 
 
 Illustrate his unity of para- 
 giapli structure from any 
 six pages you choose. 
 
 What is the topic sentence of 
 the second paragraph on 
 page 137? 
 
 Select ten paragraphs, pick 
 out and write down in your 
 own words the topic sen- 
 tence of each paragraph. Is 
 it the first, the last, or the 
 one in the middle of the 
 paragraph? 
 
 What relations do the other 
 sentences bear to it? 
 
 Does he use an abundance of 
 figures of speech? Write 
 out as many as you can find. 
 
 What is the source of his il- 
 lustrations? Do they seem 
 forced (p. 36)? 
 
 Does he presume the reader to 
 be well informed? 
 
 Does it seem true that he read 
 everything and was incajja- 
 ble of forgetting anything 
 (p. 27)? 
 
 Notice his use of rhetorical 
 questions on pp. 92 and 100. 
 What effect do they have? 
 
 Does he ever sacrifice truth to 
 brilliancy? 
 
 Collect glaring instances of 
 hyperbole. 
 
 Essay on Milton: 
 
 What proportion of this Essay 
 is taken up by Milton's life 
 and writings and what by the 
 
FOR THE LAKE EN"GLISH CLASSICS 
 
 63 
 
 Civil War and Macaulay's 
 theory of poetic composition? 
 
 What is his plan in taking up 
 these topics in the order 
 which he observes? 
 
 Does this illustrate his faculty 
 of organization (p. 24)? 
 
 How does he proceed to his 
 subject? 
 
 Summarize Macaulay's esti- 
 mate of Milton's minor 
 poems (pp. 61 ff.)- 
 
 Write a synopsis of Macaulay's 
 reasons for holding that a 
 great poem produced in a civ- 
 ilized age is a more marked 
 proof of genius than one writ- 
 ten in an earlier age (pp. 50- 
 51). 
 
 What does he say of the enjoy- 
 ment of poetry? Of the 
 qualifications of a poet (p. 
 56)? Of the general relation 
 of poetry to civilization? 
 
 Paraphrase in as few words as 
 possible the comparison be- 
 tween Dante and Milton (pp. 
 67 ff.). 
 
 Summarize the moral that 
 Macaulay attempts to point 
 from the excesses of revolu- 
 tion (p. 99). 
 
 Is Macaulay open to the same 
 charge he prefers against 
 Hume (p. 94)? Write out 
 your reasons. 
 
 Does the digression treating of 
 the Civil War seem out of 
 proportion (pp. 86-105)? 
 
 Characterize the conclusion of 
 the Essay. 
 
 Why does Macaulay reserve for 
 the end wdiat he says of 
 Milton's personality? 
 
 Essay on Addison: 
 
 Compare the opening with that 
 of the Essay on Milton. 
 
 What is the purpose here (p. 
 125)? 
 
 What high praise does Ma- 
 caulay give Addison (p. 128)? 
 Note and justify these points 
 as you read the Essay. 
 
 Notice the general divisions of 
 the Essay (pp. 125-129; 130- 
 142; 143162; 163-188; 189- 
 219; 220-239; 240-248). 
 
 Summarize in a few words the 
 main topics treated under 
 each division. 
 
 Which are the more important 
 divisions? Which seem out 
 of proportion? 
 
 Is tlie order in which Macaulay 
 takes them up a good one? 
 
 Systematize under appropriate 
 headings what Macaulay 
 says of Addison's life, his 
 character, and his writings. 
 
 Write a sketch of Steele and 
 his connection with Addi- 
 son. 
 
 Is Macaulay fair to Steele's 
 character (pp. 184 ff.)? (See 
 Introduction to the De Cover- 
 ley Papers, Lake Classics. ) 
 
 Note how Macaulay continues 
 to emphasize the contrast 
 between Addison and Steele 
 (p. 224). 
 
 Can you justify the space and 
 
64 
 
 TEACHER'S MANUAL 
 
 detailed treatment given to 
 
 the Pope episode? 
 Note how skillfully Macaulay 
 
 reiterates Addison's virtues 
 
 at the end (p. 248). 
 Are there any new character- 
 istics of Addison introduced 
 
 here? 
 Show where each one not new 
 
 has been introduced before. 
 Characterize the conclusion. 
 
 Compare it with the conclu- 
 sion of the Essay on Milton. 
 
 Which of the two Essays illus- , 
 t rates Macaulay 's style toj 
 the better advantage? 
 
 Summarize the chief points of 
 difference in style between 
 the two Essays. 
 
 In which is there a greater 
 proportion of short sen- 
 tences? 
 
 MILTON'S MINOR POEMS. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, and Lycidas. 
 Edited by William Allan Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Instructor in Eng- 
 lish, Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
 pp. 165. 25 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. England in Milton's Youth. 
 II. The Life of Milton. 
 III. L' Allegro and II Penseroso. 
 
 IV. Comus. 
 V. Lycidas. 
 
 VI. Milton's Puritanism. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Word Index. 
 
 Life and Works: 
 
 For what particular reason are 
 the writings of Milton to be 
 studied in connection with 
 the history of his own times 
 
 (p. 11)? 
 
 Is there anything peculiar in 
 the fact that the natural 
 j)eriods into which his life is 
 divided coincide with the 
 periods of English history of 
 the seventeenth century? 
 
 What are the dates of the 
 periods into which his life is 
 divided? 
 
 What were his chief works in 
 each period? 
 
 Write summaries of the life of 
 Milton for each period, with 
 
 particular attention to the 
 first. 
 
 What was Milton's concep- 
 tion^^of the life of a poet (p. 
 24)?" 
 
 Did he" always live up to this 
 ideal? 
 
 What was the "Grand Tour" 
 (p. 25)? 
 
 Outline the"! religious contro- 
 versies after the execution 
 of Charles I. To which 
 party did Milton belong (p. 
 29)? 
 
 What position did he hold with 
 the Commonwealth (p. 30)? 
 
 What was the theme of his 
 most important prose writ- 
 ings (p. 28)? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 65 
 
 L'Allegro and II Penseroso : 
 
 Who is supposed to have in- 
 fluenced Milton in the com- 
 position of these twin poems 
 (p 34)? 
 
 Make a comparison of, the two 
 poems as to introduction 
 and invocation, plan and 
 structure, versification and 
 use of words, dramatic back- 
 ground and picture painting, 
 and conclusion. 
 
 What two different attitudes 
 toward life are represented? 
 
 Which poem do you think rep- 
 resents Milton's genuine 
 attitude? 
 
 Give the rhyme schemes for 
 the introductions and the 
 main parts of both poems. 
 
 Scan U Allegro, 11. 4, 7, 16, 
 46, 48, 53, 98. 118; II Pense- 
 roso, 11. 5, 9, 17, 49, 64, 81, 83. 
 
 What is the effect of the short 
 lines, as 11. 98, 118 (pp. 56, 57)? 
 
 Work out in detail the plan 
 and structure of both poems 
 (see page 33). 
 
 Visualize "with care the series 
 of pictures in L'Allegro— the 
 morning, the noon-day, and 
 the evening scenes. Those 
 in II Penseroso — the night 
 and morning scenes. 
 
 Why does the hero of L'Allegro 
 invoke the lark and that of 
 II Penseroso the nightingale? 
 
 Why does the series of pictures 
 in U Allegro begin^ with the 
 morning and that in II 
 Penseroso with the evening? 
 
 How do you harmonize Mil- 
 ton's Puritanism with his 
 evident delight in the pleas- 
 ures mentioned in 11. 33, 
 34, 39, 40 (p. 54) or 11. 95 
 ff. (p. 62)? (Seep. 47.) 
 
 What can you say of the fig- 
 ures in 11. 42, 43, 50 (p. 54); 
 11. 63, 73 (p. 55)? Note the 
 epithets on pp= 57 and 59. 
 
 COMUS: 
 
 What authors seem to have 
 given Milton hints in the 
 composition of Comus (p. 
 41)? 
 
 Describe the masque. In 
 whose hands did it first take 
 rank as literature (p. 37)? 
 
 Taking Comus as an example, 
 point out the characteristics 
 of the masque (p. 38). 
 
 How does Milton differ in pur- 
 pose from the other writers 
 of the'masque (p. 40)? 
 
 What is the moral lesson he 
 seeks to teach? 
 
 Is this didacticism character- 
 istic of Milton (p. 49)? 
 
 Summarize the circumstances 
 of the composition of Comus 
 (p. 36). 
 
 Collect all the references to 
 the Earl of Bridgew^ater and 
 his family that you can find 
 (see p. 39). 
 
 Outline with some fullness the 
 plan of the poem, taking 
 note of the digressions and 
 the lyrics. 
 
 For what purpose is the speech 
 
66 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 of the Attendant Spirit on 
 pp. 66-70? 
 
 Is the genealogy of Comus (p. 
 68) from classical authorities? 
 
 To whom is the reference in 11. 
 86 ff. (p. 69)? Are there any 
 other references to the same 
 person (p. 39)? 
 
 Does 1. 15, p. 67, express Mil- 
 ton's own poetic purpose? 
 
 Compare the sentiment in 11. 
 310-233, 373-475, 585-608, and 
 663-665. 
 
 Write a summary of the theme 
 stated in these lines. Is it ,a 
 Puritan conception? 
 
 Is there anything inappropri- 
 ate in calling in the aid of a 
 mythological being (Sabrina) 
 and in the boast of the Elder 
 Brother in 1. 373? 
 
 What can you say of the char- 
 acter of the two brothers? 
 
 What reasons or persuasions 
 does Comus use, 11. 706-755 
 (pp. 94-95)? 
 
 What is the answer of the 
 Lady (p. 96)? 
 
 Do her arguments seem as con- 
 vincing to you as they did to 
 Comus (p. 97)? 
 
 Characterize the conclusion. 
 
 Note the versification of the 
 main part of the poem, and 
 scan lines 1-15, 730-738. 
 
 In what metre is the speech of 
 Comus on p. 70? 
 
 Compare it with anj^ like metre 
 that you can find in L' Alle- 
 gro or II Penseroso. 
 
 What is the rhyme scheme and 
 
 scansion of the song on p. 75 
 
 or of those on pp. 100, 101 
 
 103 (see p. 43)? Of 11. 495-51; 
 
 (see p. 85)? 
 Lycidas : 
 What were the circumstance: 
 
 of the composition of thi; 
 
 poem (p. 43)? 
 Note the divisions of the poen 
 
 (p. 45). 
 Expand these and outline th« 
 
 poem. 
 Is the lament for King an ex 
 
 pression of genuine feeling 
 
 or is it only conventional? 
 Is this lament the main theme 
 Point out the pastoral ele 
 
 ments in Lycidas (see p. 44) 
 Collect examples of lapses f ron 
 
 the pastoral form. 
 With what does Milton re 
 
 proach the Muses in 11. 04 fl. 
 Do lines 70 ff. illustrate Mil 
 
 ton's own spirit in taking uj 
 
 the poetical career (p. 45)? 
 Describe the procession ol 
 
 mourners for Lycidas(pp. 110' 
 
 111). Is it a mixed collection' 
 Why is the attack on the cor 
 
 ruption in the church (p. lllj 
 
 appropriate? Is this an ele 
 
 ment of Puritanism(see p. 47)' 
 Contrast the conclusion v/itt 
 
 the opening. 
 What is the prevailing metre' 
 Scan fifteen regular lines, 
 
 twenty-five irregular ones. 
 Pick out five lines of blanl 
 
 verse. 
 What effect does this irregulai 
 
 metre produce? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 67 
 
 REVOLT OF THE TARTARS, or Flight of the Kalmuck Khan and his 
 PeoBle from the Russian Territories to the Frontiers of China. Thomas 
 De Qulncey. Edited by Charles W. French, Principal of the Hyde Park 
 High School, Chicago, 111. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
 pp. 127. 25 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Biographical Sketch of De Quln- 
 cey. 
 
 Chronological Table. 
 
 De Quincey's Characteristics as 
 a Writer. 
 
 Map illustrating the flight of 
 the Tartar Tribe, showing 
 supposed route. 
 
 Life of De Quincey. 
 
 Write a brief biography of De 
 Quincey. (pp. 5-16). 
 
 Were the eccentricities that 
 marked him in later life 
 displayed in his boyhood? 
 
 Was his genius precocious? 
 How was it exhibited? 
 
 Has it been frequent with men 
 who afterwards became 
 great, to object to the routine 
 duties of school? Have they 
 been understood at the time 
 any better than De Quincey 
 was? 
 
 Was De Quincey's learning 
 general or specialized (p. 17)? 
 Look out for passages in the 
 Flight of a Tartar Tribe that 
 illustrate the wide range of 
 his knowledge. 
 
 What effect on his writings did 
 the constant use of opium 
 have? 
 
 With what great literary men 
 was he associated (p. 12)? 
 
 In what form did his writings 
 appear (pp. 14, 18)? 
 
 The Revolt of a Tartar Tribe. 
 Bibliography of Biographical 
 and Critical Works relating 
 to De Quincey. 
 Suggestive Questions. 
 Text. 
 Glossary 
 
 What importance have recent 
 literary critics attached to 
 his writings (pp. 19, 20)? 
 
 Flight of a Tartar Tribe: 
 
 Explain the use of the word 
 
 Tartar and relate the history 
 
 ^of the Tartars and of the 
 
 Kalmucks previous to their 
 
 migration (pp. 28 ff . ). 
 
 What was their position in the 
 Russian empire at this time? 
 
 In what delicate position was 
 the Khan placed (p. 39)? 
 
 What was Russia's chief ob- 
 jection to the migration? 
 
 Summarize briefly the his- 
 tory of the revolt — the prep- 
 arations, the march, the end 
 of the wandering. 
 
 Note on the map on page 24 
 the direction of the march 
 and the various halts made. 
 What was the exact date 
 (p. 51)? 
 
 Who governed Russia at this 
 time? 
 
 What advantage was it to the 
 
68 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Kalmucks that Russia was 
 engaged in war with Turkey 
 at this time? 
 
 Who is the principal personage 
 in the narrative? Describe 
 his character. How did it 
 appeal to De Quincey? What 
 of the character of Ouba- 
 cha? 
 
 Why did the history of this 
 obscure tribe of Tartars, not 
 of such great historical im- 
 portance, appeal so strongly 
 to De Quincey? 
 
 What did he think of its 
 dramatic capabilities (p. 
 36)? 
 
 How does he treat it — dramat- 
 ically or historically? 
 
 Is it to be classed with his im- 
 aginative or scientific writ- 
 ings? 
 
 What is the most unscientific 
 thing in the method of treat- 
 ment? 
 
 Does he distort or over-empha- 
 size facts to obtain the de- 
 sired effects? Note as an 
 example the concluding 
 scene (pp. 101 ff.). Find 
 other examples. Without a 
 thorough knowledge of the 
 historical facts, could you 
 detect this? Notice De 
 Quincey's own warning (p. 
 35, 1. 4). 
 
 Write your impressions of the 
 essay. Have you been in- 
 structed — do you remember 
 the facts — or have you been 
 entertained and amused? 
 
 De Quincey's Style: 
 
 (For a list of suggestive ques- 
 tions see pp. 32-34. Some of 
 them are repeated here with 
 more particular reference.) 
 
 Is this essay a good example of 
 proportion in the whole 
 composition? 
 
 Are the more important facts 
 treated of at great length or 
 are the unimportant details 
 given too great space? 
 
 Are there passages thrown in 
 merely for effect? 
 
 How much space is devoted to 
 the schemings and plottings 
 of Zebec-Dorchi before the 
 migration began? 
 
 Is this an important part of the 
 story? Is it interesting? 
 
 What purpose does the intro- 
 duction serve? 
 
 Note De Quincey's use of 
 words. Take pages 40, 41, 
 76, 77, and 103 to, illustrate. 
 Are his words simple or or- 
 nate, short or long, of Latin 
 or Saxon origin? Do you 
 notice any words used in 
 their primary meaning, dif- 
 fering from the ordinary 
 usage (note p. 76)? 
 
 Have the second paragraph on 
 page 41 rewritten in a more 
 simple diction, substituting 
 as far as possible short Saxon 
 words for the longer words 
 of classical origin, omitting 
 everything that seems un- 
 necessary, still taking care 
 to creserve the meaning. 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 69 
 
 Compare the result with any- 
 other passage and by this 
 comparison note the chief 
 qualities of De Quincey's 
 diction. What qualities in 
 his style are thus destroyed? 
 
 Classify the figures of speech 
 used pp. 59-70. Are they ar- 
 tistic or labored? Are they 
 appropriate in an historical 
 essay? 
 
 How many words are there in 
 the third sentence on p. 103 
 and in the one on p. 57 begin- 
 ning with 1. 23? Is this an 
 average sentence length? 
 
 Are the sentences loose or 
 periodic? 
 
 Try to break up into several 
 shorter ones any one of his 
 long sentences. What is the 
 effect? 
 
 Do the long sentences become 
 involved in meaning, or are 
 they always clear? 
 
 Do the sentences run smoothly? 
 
 Do you note any examples of 
 the simple style (p. 38)? 
 
 Note the Latin construction, 1. 
 17, p. 49. Are his sentences 
 often influenced by Latin 
 constructions? Pick out as 
 many as you can find. Was 
 this a result of his classical 
 training (p. 10)? 
 
 In paragraph structure does 
 he observe unity and coher- 
 ence? 
 
 Examine the long paragraph 
 on p. 64 for analysis. Is 
 there one dominant sen- 
 tence, containing the main 
 idea of the paragraph? If 
 so, where is it placed? Is 
 there an introductory sen- 
 tence? Is there one at the 
 end summing up the matter 
 of the whole paragraph? 
 
 How are the paragraphs con- 
 nected — easily or abruptly? 
 What of their length? 
 
 Do you find any short para- 
 graphs (pp. 74, 91)? 
 
 How is the concluding episode 
 treated? Is it an adequate 
 summing up of the whole 
 essay, or does it by one great 
 effort present the dramatic 
 ending so that your mind is 
 taken from what has gone 
 before? 
 
 Write a comparison of the 
 styles of De Quincey and 
 Macaulay, paying particular 
 attention' to their use of 
 words, use of figures and 
 illustrations, sentence struc- 
 ture, paragraph structure, 
 and the qualities of prose 
 style in general. 
 
70 
 
 teacheb's manual 
 
 MARMION. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by William Vaughn Moody, A I 
 Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago. Glossary ; 
 Notes by Mary R. Willard, Instructor in English, High School, Jamesto 
 (N. Y.). Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.355. SOcer 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction. 
 Map. 
 
 I. Life of Scott. 
 
 II. Scott's Place in the Roman- 
 tic Movement. 
 
 For questions and suggestions 
 on the life and works:of Scott 
 and his connection with the 
 Romantic Movement see The 
 Lady of the Lake (p. 33 of 
 this Manual). 
 
 When was Marmion written? 
 
 How much time was con- 
 sumed in the writing of the 
 poem? Was this Scott's usu- 
 al method of work? 
 
 How did the "hurried frank- 
 ness of the composition" 
 help his work (p. 46)? 
 
 Construction of the Plot: 
 
 What do you think of the de- 
 vice of prefixing a verse-let- 
 ter to each Canto? 
 
 Compare this framework with 
 that employed in Tlie Lay of 
 the Last Minstrel. 
 
 Which is the more formal? 
 The more natural? 
 
 Do these letters distract your 
 attention from the narrative, 
 or do they, by contrasting 
 the pleasant scenes and 
 reminiscences of Scott's own 
 life with the less pleasing 
 ones of the life of Marmion, 
 
 III. Marmion. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 serve as good resting pla( 
 for the mind? 
 
 The letters should be studi 
 in connection with th 
 period of Scott's life spe 
 at Ashestiel. Full explar 
 tions are furnished in t^ 
 Notes. • 
 
 I. For what purpose is Ma 
 mion made to stop at Nc 
 ham Castle? Could the sto 
 have gone on just as w( 
 without it? Is it introduc( 
 merely to give an opportu 
 ity for the grand picture 
 mediaeval pageantry? 
 
 What effect on the mind doi 
 the picture produce, as 
 setting for the followic 
 story? 
 
 Describe Marmion's entranc 
 into the castle (pp. 74 ff.). 
 
 Note the ^time that it require 
 to get him inside. 
 
 Did you pay any attention t 
 the first mention of D 
 Wilton (p. 78)? 
 
 Why was Marmion not able t 
 "brook the harper's barbai 
 ous lay"? 
 
 What effect on Marmion ha 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 71 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron's in- 
 quiry after his former page 
 (p. 81)? 
 
 Did you note the significance 
 of this at the first reading? 
 
 How does Sir Hugh inquire of 
 Marm ion's mission? 
 
 Is Scott sympathetic in his 
 description of the Church- 
 men (pp. 84 ff.)? 
 
 Is there anytliing improbable 
 in tlie meeting of Marmion 
 and the Palmer at the same 
 castle? 
 
 Note the first description of 
 the Palmer (p. 86). 
 
 Is there anything to indicate 
 that ^he is concealing his 
 own identity (stanza 
 XXVIII)? 
 
 II. How is Marmion 's secret 
 revealed in this Canto? What 
 of the means employed? 
 
 Is there any intimation as to 
 who Clare is in stanza V (p. 
 106)? 
 
 Compare stanza XX (p. 117) 
 with stanza XV, Canto I. 
 
 Note'the contrast between the 
 two culprits when they are 
 led to trial, and the excellent 
 contrast between the horror 
 of the punishment and the 
 beauty of the victim. 
 
 How does this reveal the char- 
 acter of Constance? 
 
 Describe this' trial scene 
 
 Note how Marmion 's history is 
 unfolded in the speech of 
 Constance. 
 
 Why is the battle between 
 
 Marmion and De Wilton de- 
 scribed so fully (p. 122)? 
 
 Study this Canto as an excel- 
 lent picture of the power 
 and pride of the mediaeval 
 church. 
 
 Note the fact that the "pres- 
 ence of monks and nuns at 
 Whitby in the reign of 
 Henry VIII, is an anachron- 
 ism. " Does this matter? 
 
 HI. How does this Canto ad- 
 vance the plot? 
 
 Give your reasons for calling 
 it episodic or incidental (p. 
 50). 
 
 Note the description of the Inn 
 (p. 138). 
 
 What significance is there in 
 the Palmer's continued gaz- 
 ing at Marmion? 
 
 What efl;ect is produced on 
 Marmion by the song of 
 Fitz-Eustace? 
 
 Compare 11. 11-15, stanza XIII 
 (p. 144), with the end of 
 Canto II. 
 
 Is the explanation in stanza 
 XV necessary? 
 
 Why is the Host's Tale 'intro- 
 duced? 
 
 In what one of Scott's novels 
 is the English king men- 
 tioned on p. 153 a character? 
 
 Notice the slight description 
 of the midnight fight here. 
 Where is it described? Where 
 is it explained? 
 
 IV. Is there any intimation as 
 to who the Elfin Knight was 
 in 11. 16 and 29 (p. 168)? 
 
72 
 
 teacher's makual 
 
 Why is the halt made at Crich- 
 toun Castle? 
 
 Note the description of it. 
 
 How is Marmion persuaded to 
 tell of' his midnight combat 
 (p. 181)? Does the reader 
 understand all of it? 
 
 Does Marmion believe the 
 Elfin Knight to be De Wil- 
 ton? 
 
 What does the description of 
 the camping j)lace of the 
 Scottish army add to the 
 story? 
 
 V. Note the description of 
 King James in stanza IX (p. 
 210). 
 
 Do you have a better picture 
 of him than you do of some 
 of the more important char- 
 acters in the plot? 
 
 What is the justification of 
 Lady Heron's Song (p. 
 213)? 
 
 Describe the quarrel between 
 the king and Douglas. 
 
 Note the transition from stanza 
 XVII to stanza XVIII. 
 
 Is the arrest of the Abbess 
 of St. Hilda by the Scot- 
 tish soldiers a natural 
 event? 
 
 Describe the interview of the 
 Palmer and the Abbess (pp. 
 223 ff.) 
 
 Note the immediate change in 
 the Palmer. 
 
 How have we been prepared 
 for it? 
 
 Note the second transition (p. 
 231). 
 
 VI. In comparison with thf 
 other Cantos, how do you 
 consider this one as regard 
 poetic value, dramatic situa- 
 tion, and power of descrip 
 tion. 
 
 How is the identity of the 
 Palmer revealed? 
 
 Describe this dramatic situa 
 tion. 
 
 How does Scott fail in the 
 handling of this scene (p. 
 53)? 
 
 In what other way could the 
 history of De Wilton have 
 been given? 
 
 How is the supernatural ele- 
 ment of the battle of the 
 Elfin Knight explained? 
 
 Why did not De Wilton kill 
 Marmion (p. 259)? 
 
 Compare his account of the 
 battle with that of Marmion 
 (pp. 182 ff.) 
 
 Note the change of scene, pp. 
 261, 263. 
 
 Describe the parting of Doug- 
 las and Marmion. 
 
 When does Marmion first take 
 note of the flight of the 
 Palmer (p. 267)? 
 
 How does the introduction of 
 the battle of Flodden Field 
 give the story a dramatic 
 close? 
 
 Note the apology for its inci- 
 dental character (p. 288) ? 
 
 Describe Marmion 's death. 
 Why is the peasant made to 
 occupy his grave, and he the 
 peasant's? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 73 
 
 Comment in General: 
 
 Characterize Scott's method of 
 description, using the inci- 
 dent of Flodden Field in 
 Canto VI as an example of 
 a large descriptive passage 
 and the description of Sir 
 David Lindsay as an in- 
 stance of a more restricted 
 one. 
 
 Compare these with like de- 
 scriptions in Tlie Lay and in 
 The Lady of the Lake. Are 
 they vivid? 
 
 Are they painted with a broad 
 
 hand, or are they minutely 
 drawn? 
 
 "What is, in general, the point 
 of view? 
 
 Are there cases where it is 
 changed? 
 
 Compare the use of the super- 
 natural in Marmion with 
 that in The Lay and in The 
 Lady of the Lake (see p. 55). 
 
 Is concealed identity a favorite 
 device with Scott? 
 
 How many times does he em- 
 ploy it in the three poems? 
 Does he use it in his novels? 
 
 THE PRINCESS, a Medley, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Edited by Charles 
 Townsend Copeland, Lecturer on English Literatiu'e in Harvard Univer- 
 sity, and Henry Milnor Rideout. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Com- 
 pany, pp. 169. 25 cents. 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The Princess. 
 
 Tennyson: 
 
 When and where was Tenny- 
 son born? 
 
 What was his father's occupa- 
 tion? 
 
 What were the natural sur- 
 roundings of his youth (pp. 
 9-10)? 
 
 What university did he attend? 
 
 Who were some of his more 
 important friends there? 
 
 Did he take a degree? 
 
 When did his first notable 
 poetical work appear? 
 
 What personal loss had a 
 
 Text. 
 
 Life of Tennyson; Chronolog- 
 
 ICAIi TABLE. 
 
 Versification. 
 Notes. 
 
 great effect on his poetical 
 genius? 
 
 What long j)oem ultimately 
 resulted from this loss? 
 
 To what position was Tenny- 
 son appointed in 1850? 
 
 Name and characterize briefly 
 the most important of his 
 longer poems (pp. 14-17). His 
 dramas. 
 
 What title did he receive late 
 in life? 
 
 When did he die? 
 
 What is the substance of 
 Saintsbury's estimate of 
 
74: 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Tennyson's position among 
 the poets of his period 
 (quoted on p. 18)? 
 
 The Princess— in General: 
 
 When was Tlie Princess pub- 
 lished (p. 13)? 
 
 What two works may have fur- 
 nished Tennyson with hints 
 for this poem (pp. 20-21)? 
 
 What extent of borrowing 
 seems probable? 
 
 Summarize what Tennyson's 
 son has to say about The 
 Princess (pp. 27-28). 
 
 State in outline the general 
 plan of the poem, — the ma- 
 chinery of its structure. Do 
 you find it confusing? 
 
 Why did Tennyson call the 
 poem a Medley (p. 25 and 
 conclusion of the poem)? 
 
 What is the function of the 
 child (p. 26)? Compare with 
 Silas Marner. 
 
 Is the final effect serious or 
 burlesque? 
 
 What apparent change do you 
 note, as the poem progresses, 
 in the poet's attitude to- 
 wards woman? 
 
 Point out the best examples 
 you find of the characteristic 
 qualities of Tennyson men- 
 tioned on p. 29; namely: (1) 
 "music ... in words and 
 cadences"; (2) "truth and 
 beauty of descriptions of 
 nature"; (3) "sympathy , . . 
 with movements of the 
 time.'* 
 
 The Princess — in Detail: 
 
 Prologue. How early in thai 
 poem is its principal themei 
 hinted at (Prologue, 11. 32- 
 33)? 
 
 How much of the main plot is 
 foreshadowed in the Pro- 
 logue (p. 38, etc.)? 
 
 How soon is its nature as a 
 Medley foreshadowed (Pro- 
 logue, 1. 17 ff . )? 
 
 By what various contrasts are 
 the characteristics of a Med- 
 ley made prominent (1. 102, 
 etc.)? 
 
 Wliy is the account of scien- 
 tific experiments given (p. 
 35)? 
 
 I. Explain what is meant by 
 the "weird seizures." 
 
 What is the purpose of intro- 
 ducing them (p. 28)? 
 
 Note every use made of them 
 in the progress of the poem. 
 
 What significance for the 
 future has the seal described 
 near the end of Part I? 
 
 II. What interest does the 
 Princess show in the Prince 
 (1. 35)? 
 
 Trace through the poem the 
 steps in the growth of her 
 interest. 
 
 How soon is the child intro- 
 duced? 
 
 How is it made prominent? 
 
 What scientific theory is given 
 poetical setting in this part? 
 
 How is Cyril's attitude toward 
 Psyche indicated from the 
 first? 
 
FOR THE LAKE HNQLISH CLASSICS 
 
 75 
 
 What reference seems to 
 change Psyche's intention 
 regarding her brother and 
 his friends (p. 60)? 
 
 What hints are given as to 
 danger from Lady Blanche? 
 
 III. Summarize in order the 
 means which Cyril succes- 
 sively tries to secure the 
 silence of the Lady Blanche? 
 
 What scientific practice is pro- 
 tested against on p. 79? 
 
 ["V . How is the sex of the in- 
 truders discovered by the 
 Princess? 
 
 What reason does the Lady 
 Blanche assign for not tell- 
 
 •^ ing about them? 
 
 [s there any significance in the 
 Princess's determination to 
 keep Psyche's child (p. 95)? 
 
 What justification do you find 
 for the Princess's bitterly 
 sarcastic speech (p. 101)? 
 
 V. What request is there as to 
 the Prince in the Princess's 
 letter to her brother (p. 
 120)? 
 
 What important comment on 
 
 the child? 
 Note the rapidity and vigor of 
 
 the account of the combat. 
 
 Paraphrase it. 
 
 VI. Is the Princess's battle 
 song in harmony with her 
 character as generally pre- 
 sented? 
 
 Point out the silent part the 
 child plays in the Princess's 
 work of mercy after the 
 combat (11. 58, 75, etc.)- 
 
 What effect has the sight of 
 the Prince's father on the 
 Princess? 
 
 What incident of great dram- 
 atic power follows Psyche's 
 sight of her child? 
 
 Why are so many appeals nec- 
 essary before the Princess 
 forgives Psyche? 
 
 VII. Is there in this part any 
 element of the burlesque? 
 
 Is Tennyson expressing his 
 own sincere opinion? 
 
 Conclusion. Has the conclu- 
 sion a bearing on the story, 
 either as explanation or in 
 any other capacity? 
 
 The Songs. What does the 
 song at the beginning of 
 Part II indicate as to the 
 child as a reconciling influ- 
 ence? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 lullaby at the beginning of 
 Part III? 
 
 What bearing has the "bugle 
 song" (beginning of Part IV) 
 on the main part of the 
 13oem? 
 
 What bearing has the song 
 "Tears, Idle Tears"? The 
 "Swallow Song"? 
 
 Who is it whose "voice is 
 heard thro' rolling dr^m[ls" 
 (Interlude, p. 103)? 
 
 Show wherein the song at the 
 beginning of Part VI inten- 
 sifies the effect of the pre- 
 vious songs. 
 
 What is the cumulative mean- 
 ing of the songs in VII? 
 
re 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Characterization : 
 
 Do you find an effort to secure 
 very definite characteriza- 
 tion? 
 
 In what cases is it most suc- 
 cessful? 
 
 Write sketches of the Prince 
 and the Princess, their fa- 
 thers, the.Ladies Blanche and 
 Psyche, Cyril, Florian, Arac, 
 and Melissa. 
 
 Point out some of the best at- 
 tempts to make the dialogue 
 suit the character speaking. 
 
 Is the Prince a weak character? 
 
 Where does he appear strong- 
 est? 
 
 Does his character develop? If 
 so, point out the stages in its 
 development. 
 
 Versification and Style: 
 
 What is the metrical form of 
 this poem? 
 
 Point out several groups of 
 lines w^hich seem to justify 
 the statement of Tennyson 
 quoted at the bottom of 
 p. 28. 
 
 Find good examples of each of 
 the variations in metre de- 
 scribed on pp. 159-60. ■ 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 amount of figurative lan- 
 guage in the poem? 
 
 Note the frequency of figures 
 from the sea. 
 
 Pick out a number of the 
 most effective figures you 
 find. Any that do not seem 
 to you effective. 
 
 MACBETH William Shakspere. With Notes and a Glossary by John 
 Henry Boynton, Ph.D., Late Instructor in English in Syracuse Univer- 
 sity, and an Inti'oduction by William Allan Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Har- 
 vard College. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 176. 25 ceutS: 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I Shakspere and the Eliza- 
 bethan Drama. 
 II. Date of Macbeth. 
 III. Sources. 
 
 IV. Interpolations. 
 V. The Witches. 
 Suggestions to Teachers. 
 Bibliography. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 (The questions on Shakspere 
 and the Elizabethan Drama, 
 given above with Jaliufi 
 Caesar, will suffice for Mac- 
 beth, since they are based on 
 practically the same Intro- 
 duction.) 
 
 Macbeth — General Ques- 
 tions: 
 
 When was Macbeth first print- 
 ed? 
 
 What is the probable date of 
 its first production (p. 19)? 
 
 What was Shakspere's source 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 lit 
 
 for his plot (p. 20)? Did he 
 follow it closely? Was this 
 source historically accurate? 
 
 Why should Shakspere have 
 combined the accounts of 
 two different murders from 
 Holinshed (pp. 21 ff.)? 
 
 Point out the most notable in- 
 cidents from Holinshed you 
 find (pp. 21-30) which Shak- 
 spere did not use, and try to 
 find reasons for his failure 
 to use them. 
 
 Enumerate the most promi- 
 nent incidents or speeches in 
 the play for which you do 
 not find a source in Holins- 
 hed. 
 
 Compare the time of the play 
 with that indicated in the 
 history. 
 
 Wliat parts of the play are re- 
 jected by some editors (pp. 
 31-34)? 
 
 Summarize reasons why the 
 speeches of Hecate are of 
 very doubtful authenticity 
 (pp. 32-33). 
 
 What is the double function of 
 the "weird sisters" (pp. 35- 
 36)? 
 
 Point out ways in which Shak- 
 spere has made their influ- 
 ence in the play greater than 
 it is shown to be in ITolins- 
 lied. 
 
 The Plot — in Particular: 
 As to I, i, note questions on j). 
 
 154. 
 State briefly and clearly the 
 
 exact situation presented in 
 
 I, ii. 
 In how many ways are we 
 
 interested in Macbeth before 
 
 he appears in person? 
 Can you account in any way 
 
 for the discrepancies between 
 
 the references to the thane of 
 
 Cawdor in I, ii, 52, etc., and 
 
 I, iii, 72, etc. (p. 32)? 
 
 Why should an account of 
 Cawdor' s death be given at 
 the beginning of I, iv? 
 
 What indications of hesitation 
 are there on Macbeth's part 
 in I, V? 
 
 What dramatic purpose can 
 there be in the bit of descrip- 
 tion with which I, vi, opens? 
 In the manner of Lady Mac- 
 beth toward the king? 
 
 What is the effect of the con- 
 versation of Macbeth and 
 Banquo at the ^beginning of 
 
 II, i? 
 
 Do you think Macbeth's solil- 
 oquy (p. 73) followed imme- 
 diately after the dejiarture of 
 the servant? 
 
 Is it more effective not to have 
 the murder of Duncan take 
 place before our eyes? Why? 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 references to out-door 
 sounds, — the owls, the crick- 
 ets, and the knocking? Of 
 the porter's humorous speech 
 in II, iii? Is this speech nat- 
 ural? 
 
 What is the effect of Lennox's 
 reference (II,.iii, 42, etc. ) to 
 
78 
 
 TEACHER'S MANUAL 
 
 the "unruliness" of the 
 night? 
 
 Is there any significance in 
 making Macduff the dis- 
 coverer of the murder? 
 
 Explain the conversation of 
 Malcohn and Donalbain near 
 the end of II, iii. 
 
 What is accomplished for the 
 plot in II, iv? 
 
 About how long an interval 
 must be supposed between 
 Acts II and III? 
 
 Point out all indications you 
 find as to the progress of 
 time during the play. 
 
 What inconsistencies do you 
 find? 
 
 Have we had any hints, before 
 Banquo's speech at the begin- 
 ning of III, i, that he suspects 
 Macbeth? 
 
 Point out a striking example 
 (on p. 89, for instance) of 
 "dramatic irony" — in which 
 the words spoken are true in 
 some sense which either the 
 speaker or the hearer or both 
 do not dream of. Note ex- 
 amples elsewhere in the 
 play. 
 
 In III, iii, does the third mur- 
 derer seem to know more 
 about Banquo's plans and 
 habits than the others? 
 
 Fleance does not afterwards 
 appear in the play; why, 
 then, should Shakspere have 
 him escape? 
 
 Note question on III, iv, 46 (p. 
 163). 
 
 Why should Banquo's ghosl 
 appear more than once? 
 
 How do you imagine the guestf 
 took* Macbeth's action ir 
 III, iv? ' 
 
 Did they see the ghost? 
 
 How well did Lady Macbett 
 understand her husband'j 
 actions? 
 
 Why should, Macbeth go to see 
 the weird sisters again? 
 
 What purpose for the plot doe,« 
 III, vi, serve? See question 
 near top of p. 164. 
 
 See questions in notes on IV, 
 i, 68. 
 
 What is the dramatic purpose 
 of having Macbeth some- 
 what encouraged by the 
 ironical prophecies of IV, i? 
 
 Do you find IV, ii and iii, less 
 interesting than other parts 
 of the play? If so, why? 
 
 Could they be wholly or partly 
 omitted? 
 
 Enumerate any events or inci- 
 dents you find in these scenes 
 which are necessary to the 
 later development of the 
 play, either as explanation 
 or preparation. 
 
 Is the "sleep-walking scene" 
 more effective acted or read? 
 Why? 
 
 Write an orderly account of 
 the events of Act V. 
 
 Explain the way in which the 
 prophecies of tlie weird sis- 
 ters, taken by Macbeth to be 
 encouraging, are fulfilled. 
 
 Is there any reason why Mac- 
 
rOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 79 
 
 beth should not be killed on 
 the stage'?^ 
 If there is, how does it apply to 
 the bringing in of his head? 
 
 The Plot— in General: 
 
 What is the exciting force, — 
 the incident with which the 
 main action of the play be- 
 gins? 
 
 Discuss the question whether 
 Macbeth already had designs 
 on the throne before the play 
 begins. 
 
 With what specific event does 
 the resolution of the play — 
 the fall of Macbeth— begin? 
 
 Shov/ that (in spite of hints by 
 way of preparation for his 
 fall) he is uniformly success- 
 ful before this, and (in spite 
 of some delusive encourage- 
 ment) uniformly unsuccess- 
 ful after it. 
 
 It has been said that there are 
 three kinds of reaction 
 against Macbeth : spiritual 
 reaction within his own soul ; 
 political reaction ; and super- 
 natural reaction. Give spe- 
 cific examples of each (III, 
 iv; V, i; III, vi; IV, i). 
 
 Do you find any lack of unity 
 in this play? 
 
 The Characters: 
 
 In how many ways in Act I is 
 
 Macbeth shown to be worthy 
 
 of being king? 
 See note (p. 15G) on I, iii, 50, 60. 
 Summarize the points of con- 
 
 trast between Macbeth and 
 Banquo, brought out in I, iii. 
 
 Compare Banquo 's character 
 according to Holinshed (p. 
 26-27) with his character ac- 
 cording to Shakspere. Why 
 should Shakspere have 
 changed it as he did? 
 
 Explain Lady Macbeth's esti- 
 mate of her husband in I, v. 
 Enumerate ways in which it 
 is justified later on inthe play. 
 
 How do you account for such 
 sudden zeal on her part as 
 this scene shows? 
 
 What motive or motives^ cause 
 Macbeth's hesitation in I, v 
 and vii? 
 
 What are Lady Macbeth's mo- 
 tives in urging him on? 
 
 Compare her motive as as- 
 signed by Holinshed (p. 27) 
 with the motives you find in 
 Shakspere. 
 
 Does mere physical fear ac- 
 count for Macbeth's actions 
 and hallucinations in II, i 
 and ii? 
 
 How can you explain Lady 
 Macbeth's greater courage? 
 Is it because of greater 
 wickedness? 
 
 Is any mitigating touch intro- 
 duced here which in any way 
 serves as partial preparation 
 for V, i? 
 
 Are there any reasons for 
 thinking her swoon at II, iii, 
 106, is not feigned? 
 
 Characterize Lady Macbeth as 
 she appears in III, ii and iii. 
 
80 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Does she show the power 
 
 evinced on the night of the 
 
 murder? 
 Does she justify the epithet 
 
 "fiend-like queen," applied 
 
 to her in V, viii, 69? 
 How do you account for the 
 
 change in her? 
 In what ways does she win our 
 
 sympathy? 
 How do you account for Mac- 
 
 beth's action toward the 
 
 servant in V, iii? 
 What is his feeling toward 
 
 Lady Macbeth? Why does he 
 
 not show more sorrow when 
 
 he hears of her death in 
 
 V, V? 
 Write comprehensive character 
 
 sketches of Macbeth and 
 
 Lady Macbeth; of Macdutf 
 
 and Banquo. 
 
 Style and Versification: 
 What is the regular metre of 
 the play? 
 
 Where do you notice use of 
 rhyme? 
 
 What is the metre of the 
 speeches of the weird sisters? 
 
 Can you tell why it is effect- 
 ive? 
 
 In what places do you find 
 prose used? Why? 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 condensation of this play? 
 
 Select several elliptical pas- 
 sages and expand them so as 
 to express the meaning 
 clearly and simply. 
 
 Do you find the style here 
 highly figurative? 
 
 Pick out two or three of the 
 most interesting figures you 
 find and paraphrase them, 
 noting the loss in force. 
 
 Do you find the figures pre- 
 dominatingly from the world 
 of external nature or from 
 human life? 
 
 Is their significance local and 
 temporary, or universal? 
 
 EDMUND BURKE'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA, 
 1775. Edited by Joseph Villier.s Denney, Professor in Ohio State Univer- 
 sity. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.159. 25 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A Study of the LoGicAii Struc- 
 ture OF THE Speech on Con- 
 ciliation. 
 
 Preface. 
 Introduction. 
 
 Edmund Burke. 
 
 A Brief Bibliography. 
 Text. 
 Questions on the Literary and 
 
 RHETORicAii Qualities of the 
 
 Speech on Conciliation. 
 
 Life and Works op Burke: 
 When and where was Burke 
 
 Notes. 
 Index 
 
 born? Where was he edu- 
 cated? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 81 
 
 What was his university 
 
 record (p. 11)? 
 For what purpose and when 
 
 did he go to London? 
 What was his record there in 
 
 his studies? 
 What were his first literary 
 
 works (p. 12)? 
 What annual publication was 
 he associated with for many 
 years? 
 Who were the most important 
 of his literary associates 
 (p. 13)? 
 When was he first elected to 
 parliament (p. 13), and how 
 long did he remain in parlia- 
 ment (p. 19)? 
 I\lake a list of ^the various po- 
 litical positions he held dur- 
 ing his life besides his mem- 
 bership in parliament. Was 
 he ever in the cabinet? 
 Why: (p. 16)? 
 What three great subjects was 
 Burke particularly inter- 
 ested in during his political 
 career (p. 17)? 
 What was his general attitude 
 toward the policies of George 
 III (p. 14)? 
 Summarize Burke's work on 
 behalf of the American colo- 
 nies, naming three important 
 speeches and one letter 
 which he wrote on the ques- 
 tion (pp. 13-15). 
 During what years was Burke 
 agitating the Indian ques- 
 tion? Name his most impor- 
 tant speech on this subject? 
 
 What was his attitude toward 
 the French Revolution (p. 
 18)? His most important 
 work on this subject? 
 
 What was the name and the 
 nature of his last .work (p. 
 19)? 
 
 When did he die? 
 
 What is the common estimate 
 of Burke as an orator and 
 political philosopher (pp. 10, 
 20, 22, etc.)? 
 
 The Speech on Conciliation 
 — IN General: 
 
 When was this speech deliv- 
 ered? 
 
 What was the immediate oc- 
 casion, or excuse, for it? 
 
 Prepare an outline of the im- 
 portant events leading up to 
 this speech. 
 
 Name and describe briefly the 
 measures which Burke 
 wished to have repealed. 
 
 What was the effect of his 
 speech? 
 
 Note the questions on the 
 literary and rhetorical quali- 
 ties of the speech on pp. 127- 
 31. 
 
 Complete the^ outline of the 
 logical structure of the 
 speech begun on pp. 132-37. 
 
 In Particular: 
 
 What do you find to be the 
 purpose of Burke's introduc- 
 tion? Do you notice any de- 
 vices to indicate that the 
 speech was unprepared 
 (par. 1)? 
 
82 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Was Burke really supersti- 
 tious? 
 
 What is the effect of the hesi- 
 tation for a proper word at 
 the end of par. 4? Of the 
 familiar colloquial expres- 
 sions in par. 5? 
 
 What subtle irony do you find 
 in par. 7? Point out other 
 examples of the same quality 
 later on. 
 
 What great governmental 
 principle is at the bottom of 
 par. 10? 
 
 How has the House admitted 
 what Burke, in par. 12, says 
 it has admitted? 
 
 Why is the population of the 
 colonies an argument in 
 favor of conciliation (pp. 
 34-35)? The commerce? 
 
 What is the substance of 
 Burke's evidence regarding 
 commerce? 
 
 Is par. 25 in any sense a digres- 
 sion? 
 
 What, precisely, is its relation 
 to the course of the argu- 
 ment? 
 
 Why should Burke turn again 
 to specific figures in par. 26? 
 
 What is the argumentative 
 effect of par. 28? 
 
 What literary qualities do you 
 find in par. 30? 
 
 What universal political prin- 
 ciples are stated in pars. 
 31-34? 
 
 What is the function, as a 
 paragraph, of par. 36? Find 
 similar examples farther on. 
 
 Why do the references to the 
 history of England in par. 3^ 
 apply siDecifically to the 
 American colonies? 
 
 In what ways is force secured 
 in par. 43? 
 
 What is the purpose, as a para- 
 graph, of par. 44? Show how 
 it differs from par. 36. Find 
 similar examples farther on. 
 
 Can you think of any other' 
 feasible ways of proceeding 
 besides those mentioned by 
 Burke in par. 47? 
 
 Why should "par. 51 be set off 
 as a paragraph? 
 
 How had England shown the 
 disposition to impoverish the 
 colonies mentioned in par. 
 52? 
 
 What powerful bits of sarcasm 
 do you find in pars. 53, 56, 57? 
 
 State in substance the sound 
 political wisdom underlying 
 pars. 59 and 60. 
 
 What does Burke gain by leav- 
 ing out of consideration the 
 right of taxation (par. 66)? 
 To what feeling is the appeal 
 of this paragraph? 
 
 Explain in your own words the 
 inconsistency which Burke 
 points out in pars. 71-73. 
 
 Explain all historical refer- 
 ences of importance in pars. 
 79-87. 
 
 Summarize the points of sim- 
 ilarity between England's 
 treatment of Wales and of the 
 American colonies, as given 
 in par. 81. 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 83 
 
 Why should Burke, in par. 85, 
 quote the exact language 
 of the people of Chester? 
 
 Do the questions in par. 86 in- 
 dicate anything as to the 
 course of procedure adopted 
 by parliament with relation 
 to American petitions? 
 
 Is par, 87 a unit? 
 
 Explain carefully the actual 
 concession which Burke pro- 
 poses in par. 91. 
 
 What is the effect of par. 92, 
 followed by resolutions em- 
 bodying mere matters of 
 fact, couched in the lan- 
 guage of previous parlia- 
 ments? 
 
 Name all the literary effects 
 you find prominent in par. 95. 
 
 What historical events were 
 the basis for the resolution 
 of 1748 (par. 101)? That of 
 1756? 
 
 Why should Burke precede his 
 sixth resolution by the bit 
 of argument contained in 
 par. 106? 
 
 Which of the acts mentioned 
 for repeal in par. 109 does 
 Burke discuss specifically in 
 
 the following paragraphs? 
 Can you tell why he does not 
 discuss all? 
 
 Explain the resolutions as to 
 courts (pars. 114-15). 
 
 What (is the essential point of 
 par. 120? 
 
 Do you think Burke really al- 
 most forgot his purpose to 
 comment on the [>lan of Lord 
 North, as referred to in par. 
 123? 
 
 Does he, however, give suflB- 
 cient attention to it? 
 
 State clearly all his points 
 against it. 
 
 How would Lord North's plan 
 break the union of the colo- 
 nies (par. 131)? 
 
 Note the effective antithesis of 
 par. 132. 
 
 Explain the figure at the end 
 of par. 133. 
 
 What is the nature and pur- 
 pose of Burke's concluding 
 appeal? 
 
 Is it necessary to the argu- 
 ment? 
 
 Matters of style and plan are 
 sufficiently discussed in 
 questions on pp. 127-31. 
 
84 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. Books I and II. Edited by Frank Edgai 
 Farley, Ph.D., Instructor in English, Syracuse University. Chicago- 
 Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 160. 25 cents. 
 
 IV. The Subject Matter of Para- 
 dise Lost. 
 
 V. Milton's English. 
 
 VI. Milton's Verse. 
 Milton's Preface on "The 
 
 Verse." 
 Text and Notes. 
 Glossary. 
 
 genius preco- 
 
 remain of his 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I- John Milton. 
 II. Milton's Works in the Order 
 
 of Publication. 
 III. The Genesis of Paradise 
 Lost. 
 
 Life of Milton 
 
 Relate the facts of Milton's 
 
 life (p. 13-32). 
 Was Milton's 
 
 cious? 
 What poems 
 
 early years? 
 What poems were written dur- 
 ing his stay at Horton? 
 How do these differ in general 
 
 tone from the poems of his 
 
 later years? What effected 
 
 this change? 
 How was Milton received in 
 
 Italy during his travels there? 
 How was he employed from 
 
 the time of his return from 
 
 Italy until the Restoration? 
 What is the nature of his prose 
 
 writings? 
 How did he spend his last 
 
 days? 
 Was his domestic life pleasant? 
 What is said of his personal 
 
 characteristics (p. 21)? 
 For other questions on Milton's 
 
 life and works, see 3Iilton\s 
 
 Minor Poems (p. 64 of this 
 
 Manual). 
 
 Genesis of Paradise Lost: 
 What was the actual time 
 
 spent in the composition of 
 this fjoem (p. 34)? 
 
 Show that it could have been 
 the result of none but a long 
 and matured life. 
 
 How many years were spent in 
 developing the idea and in 
 gathering literary materials? 
 
 Were the circumstances of 
 Milton's life such as to fit 
 him for this undertaking? 
 
 What are the chief external 
 evidences of the early con- 
 ception in Milton's mind of 
 such a poem as Paradise 
 Lost? 
 
 What is the earliest evidence 
 of his first conception of a 
 great epic (p. 26)? 
 
 Give an account of the slow 
 development of this idea and 
 its final consummation in 
 the publication of Paradise 
 Lost (pp. 27-37)? 
 
 Paradise Lost: 
 
 Does the opening seem to be a 
 conventional invocation, or 
 is it a sincere appeal (p. 4 )? 
 
 How does Milton's invocation 
 differ from Vergil's (two- 
 fold)? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 85 
 
 Is Milton's boast in 1. 16, 
 strictly speaking, true? 
 
 Are there any other instances 
 in these two books of the 
 author's speaking in his own 
 person? 
 
 Did Milton accept the Coperni- 
 can theory of astronomy? 
 
 Write a clear statement of his 
 conception of the Universe 
 (p. 44). 
 
 Where is the scene of the first 
 two Books of Paradise 
 Lost? 
 
 Where was Hell? When and 
 for what purpose was it 
 created? What kind of a 
 place does Milton conceive 
 it to be (pp. 32, 79, and 
 88)? 
 
 Is the whole region clearly de- 
 scribed? 
 
 Why is the dark and wide con- 
 tinent frozen (p. 133)? Com- 
 pare II, 575-595 (pp. 133-34) 
 with II, 898-906 (p. 145). 
 
 Look up "humor" in dictionary 
 for old medical significance ; 
 and compare with the pas- 
 sages from Paradise Lost, 
 Chaucer, Prologue, 419-421: 
 
 "He knew the cause of eve- 
 rich maladye, 
 
 Were it of hoot or cold, or 
 moiste, or drye, 
 
 And where engendred, and 
 of what humour." 
 
 Where was the World placed in 
 
 the Universe? 
 How connected with Hell? 
 
 How with Heaven? 
 
 How were the Gates of Hell 
 
 guarded? 
 
 Describe Satan's conflict with 
 the Shapes guarding them. 
 
 Describe the events] that^ had 
 happened before the opening 
 of the poem. What device is 
 used to introduce them to 
 the reader (pp.49 ff.)? 
 
 Summarize in detail the action 
 of Book I, of Book 11, and 
 in a word or two that of 
 each of the following Books 
 (pp. 49-54). 
 
 How far is the plot advanced 
 by the portion of Paradise 
 Lost given here? 
 
 What is the main theme of 
 these two Books (p. 55)? 
 Who are the principal char- 
 acters? 
 
 Are we concerned here with 
 great actions, or rather with 
 the calm after great actions 
 have taken place? 
 
 Where are found the intima- 
 tions or echoes of the recent 
 battle in Heaven? 
 
 What is the proportion of ac- 
 tion and of speeches in Book 
 I? In Book II? 
 
 Analyze the speech of Satan 
 on p. 82 ; compare it with the 
 other speeches of Satan and 
 state the characteristic qual- 
 ities. 
 
 Summarize the speech of 
 Beelzebub on p. 82. 
 
 Do you think that Milton's 
 poetry reaches its grandest 
 heights in these speeches? 
 
86 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 What does Satan advise in his 
 first speech before his assem- 
 bled followers in Pandemo- 
 nium? 
 
 What plans are suggested? 
 
 What rumor formerly heard in 
 Heaven causes them to 
 choose as they do? 
 
 Note the recital of the heathen 
 deities on pp. 92 ff . Do you 
 think this is a blemish on 
 the poem? 
 
 Does the description of Satan 
 on p. 88 give you a clear con- 
 ception of his appearance? 
 
 Describe Mammon (p. 103). 
 
 Write a description of i the 
 building of Pandemonium. 
 
 Are Milton's descriptions vis- 
 ualized?^ 
 
 Did his conceptions ever be- 
 come so great that the de- 
 scriptions are indistinct? 
 
 Is it easy at a glance to com- 
 prehend the greatness of the 
 actions and of the scenes 
 that he describes? 
 
 Milton's Poetical Style: 
 
 What can you say of the syntax 
 of Satan's speech on p. 80? Is 
 this a fair sample of Milton's 
 syntax? 
 
 Collect examples of his use of 
 faulty syntax. 
 
 Select at least twenty - five 
 words or phrases, other than 
 those cited on p. 57, used by 
 Milton with a different sig- 
 nificance from the present 
 usage. 
 
 Note the use of the nominative 
 absolute, v. 141, (p. 83). 
 
 Is this imitation of the Latin 
 constructions frequent vvdth 
 Milton? How many exam- 
 ples do you find on p. 88? 
 On p. 93? 
 
 How is this partiality for Latin 
 constructions accounted for 
 (p.59j? 
 
 What is the form of the geni- 
 tive singular neuter of the 
 personal pronoun of the third 
 person (p. 04)? 
 
 Note Milton's use of similes. 
 
 Are they long or short? 
 
 Are they always completed? 
 
 How many are there on p. 
 89? 
 
 What are the sources of his 
 similes? 
 
 Is there any significance in his 
 mentioning Italy (p. 89)? 
 
 What do you think of what 
 Masson says (p. 33) of Mil- 
 ton's knowledge of the Bible? 
 
 What is the metre of Paradise 
 Lost (p. 65)? 
 
 Scan twenty normal lines. 
 
 What are the most common 
 variations from the normal? 
 
 Scan two lines illustrating 
 each variation. 
 
 Compare the proportion of nor- 
 mal lines on any page with 
 the same number from 
 
 C017lllS. 
 
 Select words accented by Mil- 
 ton on a different syllable 
 from the one on which we 
 now place the accent. 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 87 
 
 Pick out examples of elision. 
 
 When does it occur? 
 
 Count the number of run on 
 lines and the number of stop 
 lines on p. 119 and on the 
 two succeeding pages. 
 
 Is the metrical unit the line or 
 
 the stanza? 
 In what way does the verse 
 
 illustrate the thought in 11. 
 
 200 ff. (p. 85)? Find other 
 
 examples of this. 
 
 POEMS AND TALES. Edgar Allan Poe. Selected and edited by Alphonso 
 G. Newcomer, Associate Professor of English in the Leland Stanford 
 Junior University. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 323. 
 30 cents. 
 
 Poe's Life: 
 
 When and where was he born? 
 
 What can you say as to his 
 parents? 
 
 By whom and in what circum- 
 stances was he brought up 
 (p. 9)? 
 
 Where, successively, was he 
 educated? What was his 
 record in the higher institu- 
 tions which he attended? 
 
 What became his occupation 
 after he left West Point (p. 
 10)? 
 
 What had been his first publi- 
 cation (p. 10)? At what age? 
 
 What was his first conspicuous 
 success in literature (p. 11)? 
 When did it come? 
 
 When did Poe marry, and 
 whom (p. 11)? What can you 
 say of his married life? 
 When did his wife die? What 
 was the effect of her death 
 on Poe (pp. 12-13)? 
 
 Name some of the most impor- 
 tant newspapers and maga- 
 
 zines with which Poe was 
 connected (pp. 11-12). Some 
 of his literary associates. 
 
 What habits interfered with 
 his success (p. 12)? Name 
 some other great authors 
 who have been similarly 
 handicapped. Did any one 
 of them resemble Poe, either 
 personally or in his work? 
 
 Name Poe's most important 
 publications and give their 
 dates (p. 12). 
 
 When, where, and in what cir- 
 cumstances did he die? 
 
 What were his principal moral 
 defects (p. 14)? 
 
 Write a character sketch of 
 Poe, judging chiefly from 
 the works read. 
 
 Poe's Works— General Com- 
 ment: 
 
 What in general is the value 
 of Poe's literary criticism 
 (pp. 15-16)? Who were some 
 of the famous men whom he 
 early recognized as geniuses? 
 
88 
 
 teachbk's man^ual 
 
 What may be said as to the 
 essential originality of Poe's 
 Tales (p. 17)? 
 
 Describe the general charac- 
 teristics of the analytical 
 tales (p. 18). Which of those 
 in this volume are analytical? 
 
 Name some famous authors 
 who have been influenced by 
 Poe's analytical tales (pp. 
 18-19). 
 
 What criticism is made of the 
 allegorical tales (pp. 19-20)? 
 Are there any of them in 
 this book? 
 
 In what third class of tales has 
 Poe risen probably to his 
 greatest height (p. 21)? 
 
 What deficiencies of the tales 
 are mentioned (pp. 21-22)? 
 Illustrate each by specific 
 reference. 
 
 For what lack is Poe's poetry 
 sometimes criticised (p. 23)? 
 Illustrate. 
 
 What important poetical qual- 
 ities does it have in high de- 
 gree (pp. 23-24)? Illustrate 
 these as well as you can 
 from the poems in this vol- 
 ume. 
 
 What, on the whole, is Poe's 
 position in American litera- 
 ture (p. 27)? 
 
 The Poems: 
 
 Which of the poems in this 
 volume do you like the best? 
 Why? 
 
 ''To Helen"— What differences 
 in rhyme and rhythm do you 
 
 find between the different 
 stanzas? Is the poem better 
 as corrected than as given 
 on p. 299? Why? 
 
 'Israfel"— Why should this be 
 called "the most lyrical" of 
 Poe's poems? 
 
 •The City in the Sea"— Point 
 out some of the "epithets" 
 here that are most "striking 
 in their originality and imag- 
 inative power" (p. 300). 
 
 'The Raven"— What is the 
 substance of Poe's account 
 of the composition of this 
 poem (p. 301)? Point out 
 resemblances between "The 
 Raven" and "The Ancient 
 Mariner. " What other poems 
 may have influenced Poe in 
 the composition of "The 
 Raven" (pp. 301-2)? Point out 
 the most effective examples 
 you find of the following 
 devices: (a) alliteration, (b) 
 repetition, (c) internal 
 rhyme. What do you think 
 of the rhymes within the 
 last two lines on p. 39? 
 
 ■'Ulalume" — What is the effect 
 of the strange proper names? 
 Point out some of the most 
 striking examples of the 
 adaptation of sense to sound. 
 
 "Annabel Lee" — What varia- 
 tions are there here in the 
 stanzaic structure? What 
 device do they make possi- 
 ble? Do you find any un- 
 musical lines? Any unmu- 
 sical words, even? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGILISH CLASSICS 
 
 89 
 
 "The Bells"— Point out a few 
 of the most striking and 
 obvious onomatapoetic words 
 and lines in each stanza. 
 
 The Tales: 
 
 Which of the tales in this vol- 
 ume do you like best? Why? 
 Which made the strongest 
 impression on you? 
 
 Do you find any of these tales 
 which does not present one 
 clearly d_efined central idea, 
 such as Poe's statement of 
 principles for the short story 
 (quoted in part on p. 311) de- 
 mands? State in short, clear, 
 single sentences the central 
 ideas of five of the stories in 
 this volume. 
 
 If you find any of these stories 
 in which there is matter not 
 used clearly in the develop- 
 ment of the central idea, 
 criticise them specifically in 
 this respect. 
 
 What can you say as to the 
 variety, in tone and subject 
 matter, of these stories? 
 
 In what general ways do you 
 find these tales realistic? 
 Which are most realistic? 
 Why? 
 
 Comment on Poe's choice of 
 titles for his stories. Do you 
 find any title that is not 
 appropriate? Any inappro- 
 priate introductory quota- 
 tion? 
 
 What poetical devices do you 
 find in these stories? In 
 
 which are they most nu- 
 merous? Are they appropri- 
 ate? 
 
 How many of these tales are 
 told in the first person? 
 What is the effect of the 
 first person? 
 
 Discuss the extent and natural- 
 ness of Poe's use of conver- 
 sation. In what stories does 
 he use it most? Can you 
 suggest reasons whj^? 
 
 In his Life of Poe, Professor 
 Woodberry, commenting on 
 the early tale "Berenice," 
 makes the following sum- 
 mary^ of common character- 
 istics of the Tales of Poe: 
 "In it Poe's hero first comes 
 upon the stage, a man struck 
 with some secret disease, 
 given to the use of drugs 
 and to musing over old books 
 in an antiquated and gloomy 
 chamber, and reserved for a 
 horrible experience. In it, 
 too, are such themes of evil 
 fascination for his mind as 
 the epileptic patient and the 
 premature burial ; such 
 marks of his handling as the 
 cousinship of the principal 
 actors, the description of 
 morbid physical changes, the 
 minute analysis of sensa- 
 tions, the half-superstitious 
 reference to metempsy- 
 chosis, and the vivid analy- 
 sis of the effects of drugs- 
 and such traits of literary 
 style as the absence of con- 
 
90 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 versation, the theatrically 
 elaborated scene of the 
 action, the speed of the nar- 
 rative with its sudden and 
 yet carefully prepared catas- 
 trophe." Find from the 
 stories read all the good ex- 
 amples of these characteris- 
 tics that you can. 
 
 "The Assignation" — How is 
 the setting of the first few 
 pages made appropriate to 
 the events that happen? 
 What is the purpose and 
 effect of all the luxurious 
 details farther on? What 
 relations has the poem (p. 73) 
 to the story? Why is the 
 "entire and terrible truth," 
 referred to at the end of the 
 story, only hinted at? Wliat 
 is it? See questions on p. 306. 
 
 *'Ligeia" — What is the effect 
 of the vagueness and uncer- 
 tainty with which the story 
 begins? How soon is indica- 
 tion given that the story is 
 to be tragic? That super- 
 naturalism is to be inv^olved? 
 Why is Ligeia made a learned 
 woman? Why is slie given 
 the "intensity" referred to 
 on p. 84? What purpose does 
 the inserted poem (pp. 88-89) 
 serve? Why does the hero 
 repair to so wild and desolate 
 a place as the abbey de- 
 scribed on pp. 90 ff . ? Where 
 do we get the first hints of 
 the presence of the spirit of 
 Ligeia? Trace the steps lead- 
 
 ing to the /ilimax. Note 
 questions on p. 307. 
 
 'The Fall of the House of 
 Usher" — Note questions and 
 suggestions on pp. 308-11. 
 How many times is the 
 "tarn" referred to? What is 
 the cumulative effect of these 
 references? In what ways is 
 the interior of the house 
 made to reflect the character 
 of its occupants? What does 
 the picture (p. 116) symbol- 
 ize? What is the allegorical 
 signification of the inserted 
 poem (pp. 117-19)? When do 
 we first get hints that the 
 lady Madeline may not be 
 really dead? To what does 
 Usher's question on p. 125 
 refer? What effect has the 
 storm in making the events 
 of the latter part of tlie story 
 seem more natural? What 
 other effects has it? 
 
 'A Descent into the Mael- 
 strom" — What advantage 
 has the abrupt beginning of 
 this story? Why is the whirl- 
 pool described in such detail 
 before the real story begins? 
 What is the purpose of the 
 more scientific details on pp. 
 139-40? Does the planning 
 and reasoning of the hero 
 while in the maelstrom seem 
 to you natural? How does 
 the author try to make it 
 seem natural? See questions 
 on p. 312. 
 
 'Eleanora" — Point out what- 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 91 
 
 ever likenesses you find be- 
 tween this tale and "Ligeia" ; 
 the most noteworthy points 
 of difference. What specific 
 suggestions are there in tliis 
 story of Poe's own married 
 life? Point out some exam- 
 ples of repetition resembling 
 that to be found in Poe's 
 poetry; of alliteration; of 
 rhythm. Why was the hero 
 released from his vow to 
 Eleanora? 
 
 'The Oval Portrait"— What is 
 the allegorical meaning? 
 Compare Hawthorne's 
 "Birthmark"and "The Artist 
 of the Beautiful." 
 
 'The Masque of the Red 
 Death"— What is the alle- 
 gorical meaning? Do you 
 find any particular signifi- 
 cance attached to any of the 
 colors except those of the 
 seventh chamber? What is 
 the purpose of the others? 
 Why is this story not in the 
 first person? Compare Haw- 
 thorne's "Lady Eleanore's 
 Mantle." 
 
 'The Pit and the Pendulum"— 
 Enumerate the different 
 kinds of cruelty practiced on 
 the hero. Are they arranged 
 in climactic order? What 
 
 can you say as to the realism 
 of the tale? Trace tlie in- 
 creasing definiteness of the 
 hints as to the place of the 
 story. 
 
 "The Gold Bug"— Point out 
 any unnatural touches you 
 find here in the conversation ; 
 any poor dialect. Enumer- 
 ate the most important 
 points in the story that you 
 don't understand till the ex- 
 planation is given in the lat- 
 ter part. Are you ever too 
 much confused? Do you 
 think Legrand's interest in 
 the drawing on the parch- 
 ment (pp. 244-45) is sufficient- 
 ly accounted for? Is the latter 
 part of the story as interest- 
 ing as the first part? Which 
 part do you think Poe took 
 most interest in? Is the end- 
 ing strong, emphatic? Com- 
 pare with "The Gold Bug," 
 "The Money Diggers," in 
 Irving 's Tales of a Travel- 
 ler. 
 
 "The Purloined Letter"— Is all 
 of Dupin's talk about mathe- 
 matics (pp. 286 ff . ) sufficiently 
 justified? Do you find the 
 conversation here natural? 
 Does the display of learning 
 seem appropriate? 
 
92 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 TWICE TOLD TALES. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edited by Robert Herrick, 
 A.B., Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago, and 
 Robert Walter Bruere, Associate in English, the University of Chicago. 
 Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 542. 40 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface. 
 Contents. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Biographical Sketch. 
 
 New England Influence. 
 
 Ancestry. 
 
 Salem. 
 
 Early Life. 
 
 Twelve Years of Waiting. 
 
 First Stories. 
 
 Brook Farm. 
 
 The Old Manse. 
 
 The Scarlet Letter. 
 
 Europe, 1863-1860, and Last 
 
 Years. 
 Personal Qualities. 
 
 II. Hawthorne's Literary Work. 
 Text. 
 
 The Gray Champion. 
 Sunday at Home. 
 The Wedding Knell. 
 The Minister's Black Veil. 
 The May-Pole of Merry 
 
 Mount. 
 The Gentle Boy. 
 Mr. Higginbotham's Catas 
 
 trophe. 
 Little Annie's Ramble. 
 Wakefield. 
 
 A Rill from the Town Pump. 
 The Great Carbuncle. 
 
 Twice Told Tales : 
 
 General questions on Haw- 
 thorne's life and works, 
 based on substantially the 
 same Introduction as that to 
 Twice Told Tales, may be 
 found under The House of 
 the Seven Gables, p 43 ff . of 
 this Manual. 
 
 The Prophetic Pictures. 
 
 David Swan. 
 
 Sights from a Steeple. 
 
 The Hollow of the Three 
 Hills. 
 
 The Toll-Gatherer's Day. 
 
 The Vision of the Fountain. 
 
 Fancy's Show Box. 
 
 Dr. Heidegger's Experi- 
 ment. 
 
 Legends of the Province 
 House. 
 
 Edward Randolph's Por- 
 trait. 
 
 Lady Eleanore's Mantle. 
 
 Old Esther Dudley. 
 
 The Haunted Mind. 
 
 The Village Uncle. 
 
 The Ambitious Guest. 
 
 The Sister -Years. 
 
 Snowflakes. 
 
 The Seven Vagabonds. 
 
 The White Old Maid. 
 
 Peter Goldthwaite's Treas- 
 ure. 
 
 Chippings with a Chisel. 
 
 The Shaker Bridal. 
 
 Night Sketches. 
 
 Endicott and the Red Cross. 
 
 The Lily's Quest. 
 
 Footprints on the Seashore. 
 
 Edward Fane's Rosebud. 
 
 The Threefold Destiny. 
 
 Twice Told Tales — General 
 Questions ; Form and 
 Style: 
 
 Did the Tivice Told Tales ap- 
 pear in book form all at 
 once? When? Had any been 
 previously printed? Where? 
 
 What was Hawthorne's liter- 
 ary reputation before and 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 93 
 
 after their appearance? What 
 able writer of tales reviewed 
 them favorably (Poe)? 
 
 What autobiographical ele- 
 ment is there in the Tivice 
 Told Tales (p. 25 ff. )? Point 
 out specific illustrations. 
 
 What stories are related in the 
 first person? What different 
 persons or things does the 
 author impersonate? What 
 is the effect? 
 
 What stories in this volume 
 deal in any way with New 
 England history? Which 
 historical stories (if any) are 
 literally true? Which are 
 true in spirit? 
 
 Make a list of the parts of 
 Twice Told Tales which are 
 mere descriptive sketches, 
 and of those which may 
 properly be called stories. 
 
 What can you say of Haw- 
 thorne's mastery of artistic 
 description? How did he 
 acquire it (pp. 23-24)? Find 
 good examples in stories 
 other than the sketches listed 
 on page 22. 
 
 The sketches are valuable for 
 study of style, diction, ease 
 and variety of sentence 
 sti-ucture, lightness and deli- 
 cacy of fancy, etc. Subjects 
 resembling some of Haw- 
 thorne's are excellent theme 
 subjects for young students ; 
 for instance, an account of 
 the meeting of an old year 
 with a new year, or the 
 
 soliloquy of a garden gate 
 (cf. "A Rill from the Town 
 Pump"). 
 
 Are there any of the stories 
 proper which contain no 
 allegory? Any in which the 
 allegory is unpleasantly ob- 
 trusive? Which of the alle- 
 gorical stories do you find 
 most effective? Why? 
 
 Do you find any one of the 
 stories proper that does not 
 have one clearly defined cen- 
 tral idea, or produce one im- 
 pression, such as Poe's state- 
 ment of principles for the 
 short story demands (see 
 reference, p. 89 of this Man- 
 ual)? Formulate as briefly 
 as you can the central idea 
 of each story. 
 
 Point out all the matter in 
 any story that is not used 
 somehow in the development 
 of the central idea or impres- 
 sion. 
 
 In what ways do you find these 
 stories realistic? Which 
 ones deal in a natural way 
 with the life of Hawthorne's 
 own time? 
 
 Do you find the tone or subject 
 matter of the stories so little 
 varied as to become monoto- 
 nous? Does the evenness 
 and smoothness of the style 
 ever grow monotonous to 
 you? Does the style ever 
 lack animation? 
 
 Which, if any, of these stories 
 would you call morbid? 
 
94 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Which contain effective pa- 
 thos? Humor? Sarcasm? 
 
 How many of the stories proper 
 plunge immediately into 
 narrative? In what ways 
 do the others begin? Is such 
 a beginning as that of 
 "David Swan," "Fancy's 
 Show Box," or "The Three- 
 fold Destiny" effective? 
 Answer with reasons. 
 
 Twice Told Tales— In Par- 
 ticular : 
 
 "The Gray Champion"— Note 
 the historical basis and how 
 Hawthorne departed from 
 it (pp. 35-36). Is there any 
 unnecessary exposition of 
 the condition of New Eng- 
 land? Prove by specific quo- 
 tation the editors' statement 
 as to what the Champion 
 typifies (p. 35). 
 
 "The Wedding Knell"— What 
 explanation of Mr. Ellen- 
 wood's action at the wed- 
 ding is hinted at in the 
 introductory account of him 
 (p. 55 ff,)? Is his treatment 
 of Mrs. Dabney justified? 
 
 "The Minister's Black Veil"— 
 Make a simple and clear 
 statement of the meaning of 
 this story as briefly as pos- 
 sible without omission of any- 
 thing essential. Why is it 
 called a parable? Note how, 
 in the account of the funeral, 
 after telling of the shudder- 
 ing of the corpse, presum- 
 
 ably at sight of the minis- 
 ter's face behind the veil, 
 Hawthorne immediately 
 mitigates the supernatural- 
 ism, or casts doubt on it, by 
 adding the words: "A super- 
 stitious old woman was the 
 only witness of this prod- 
 igy" (p. 71). What double 
 effect is thus produced? 
 Mention similar devices in 
 other stories, for instance by 
 Irving. 
 
 "The May -Pole of Merry 
 Mount" — Is the historical 
 matter on pages 88 to 91 
 necessary to the story? Has 
 it qualities that make it 
 desirable in any way? 
 
 "The Gentle Boy"— Does the 
 Boy seem natural, talk natu- 
 rally (it is necessary to make 
 some allowances for the 
 time and the sect)? Would 
 the story end properly, plau- 
 sibly, if the Boy were per- 
 mitted to live? 
 
 "Mr. Higginbotham's Catas- 
 trophe" — Is there any flaw 
 in the working out of the 
 plot of this story? Any 
 allegorical or other veiled 
 meaning? 
 
 "Little Annie's Ramble" — Is 
 this a story? Was it writ- 
 ten for story interest or for 
 some other purpose? Is one 
 held by the action, the 
 events that take place, or by 
 something else? 
 
 "Wakefield" — Why, in your 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 95 
 
 opinion, did this story ap- 
 peal particularly to Poe? Is 
 the interest in the story or 
 in the character? 
 
 "A Rill from the Town Pump" 
 — What effects are produced 
 by the use of the first person? 
 
 "The Great Carbuncle"— Do 
 the characters all seem real, 
 or are some of them mere 
 qualities personified? What 
 is the Great Carbuncle? Com- 
 pare with "The Great Stone 
 Face." Why were Matthew 
 and Hannah the only suc- 
 cessful searchers? Point out 
 details that seem unnatural, 
 or exaggerated for the sake 
 of the allegory. 
 
 "The Prophetic Pictures" — 
 Point out all the hints of the 
 catastrophe which you find 
 in the course of the story. 
 Comment on the conclusion. 
 What does the story mean? 
 
 "David Swan" — Is this a 
 story? What would you call 
 it? What does Hawthorne 
 call it? 
 
 "The Hollow of the Three 
 Hills" — What, in outline, is 
 the story here? What pre- 
 cisely has happened to the 
 lady? Do you agree with 
 Poe's opinion of this story 
 (p. 234)? 
 
 "The Vision of the Fountain" 
 — Is the realistic explana- 
 tion sufficient and consis- 
 tent? 
 
 "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment" 
 
 — What has the quotation 
 from the American Note- 
 Books (p. 264) to do with the 
 story? 
 
 "Howe'sMasquerade" — Where 
 does the real story begin? 
 Is what precedes introduc- 
 tory to this story any more 
 than to the other "Legends 
 of the Province House"? 
 
 "Lady Eleanore's Mantle" — 
 Compare with Poe's "Masque 
 of the Red Death. " In what 
 different ways is attention 
 directed to the mantle? Is 
 there any preparation for the 
 horrible power which it is 
 shown to have? Does the 
 natural explanation of this 
 power detract in any way 
 from the force of the story? 
 
 "Old Esther Dudley"— What 
 does this heroine typify? 
 
 "The Ambitious Guest"— 
 What warning is there of 
 the catastrophe? In how 
 many different ways is ironi- 
 cal, blind unconsciousness of 
 the danger brought out? 
 What effect has this on the 
 tragedy of the story? What 
 details might Hawthorne 
 have got from the account 
 on pages 364-65? State briefly 
 the most important parts of 
 the story that are wholly his. 
 
 "The Sister- Years"— Did Haw- 
 thorne really "forget to 
 mention" as he says on page 
 377? 
 
 "The White Old Maid"— Is 
 
96 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 there any attempt, or pre- 
 tense of an attempt, to ra- 
 tionalize this story? 
 
 "Peter Goldthwaite's Treas- 
 ure" — What story of Irving's 
 does this slightly resemble? 
 Point out similarities and 
 differences. 
 
 "Chippings with a Chisel" — 
 This is not really a story, 
 though it consists largely of 
 narrative. Why is this? 
 Could you say that it con- 
 tains the germs of a number 
 of stories?, 
 
 "The Shaker Bridal"— What 
 admirable characteristic of 
 
 manner do you find (at the 
 end, for instance), which is 
 particularly suited to the 
 nature of this story? 
 
 "Endicott and the Red Cross" 
 — Note the relation of details 
 here to more important work 
 of Hawthorne (pp. 487-88). 
 
 "The Lily's Quest"— What do 
 the other characters besides 
 Gascoigne (whose meaning 
 is stated by Hawthorne) 
 symbolize? 
 
 "The Threefold Destiny"-~Is 
 the working out of the 
 destinies reasonable? Plau- 
 sible? 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Neilson, 
 M. A., Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Com- 
 pany, pp. 207. 26 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 Preface. 
 
 II. 
 
 As Tou Like It. 
 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 
 Date. 
 
 I. Shakspere and! the English 
 
 
 Sourcejof the Text. 
 
 Drama. 
 
 
 Source of the Plot. 
 
 The Drama Before Shak- 
 
 
 Metre. 
 
 spere. 
 
 
 Language. 
 
 Shakspere's Early Life. 
 
 Text. 
 
 
 The Elizabethan Theatre. 
 
 
 
 Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
 
 Notes. 
 
 
 velopment. 
 
 Word Index. 
 
 Shakspere's Last Years. 
 
 
 
 As You Like It : 
 
 Questions as to the history of 
 the English drama and the 
 life of Shakspere may be 
 found under The Merchant of 
 Venice and Julius Caesar in 
 this Manual (pp. 25, 49). 
 
 As You Like It— Date, 
 Sources, Form: 
 
 What is the date of this play (p. 
 29)? In what period of Shak- 
 spere's career does it come? 
 
 When and where was it first 
 published? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 97 
 
 What is the direct source of 
 the play (p. 30) ? The source 
 of this source? 
 
 What important literary ten- 
 dencies does Lodge's novel 
 illustrate? Describe each 
 briefly (p. 31 ff.), and point 
 out all the places you find 
 in the play where either is 
 reflected. 
 
 Point out where the changes 
 summarized on pages 33 to 
 37 are found, and give addi- 
 tion alreasons for them ; that 
 is, show wherein the play is 
 more dramatic or more nat- 
 ural or otherwise more effec- 
 tive than the novel. 
 
 What characters are entirely 
 original with Shakspere? 
 State in a few words what 
 each one adds to the effec- 
 tiveness of the whole. 
 
 Point out examples of all the 
 different uses of verse and 
 prose mentioned on page 37. 
 
 Where is rhyme found in this 
 play? Enumerate all the 
 places and give reasons for 
 the use. 
 
 Find examples of the varia- 
 tions in metre summarized 
 on pages 38 to 40. Of the 
 peculiarities of Shakspere's 
 language (pp. 41-43). 
 
 The note on I, i, 61 (p. 166), 
 speaks of the "contemptuous 
 'thou.' " Was thou regu- 
 larly a contemptuous form 
 of address? Distinguish be- 
 tween you and thou as you 
 
 find them throughout this 
 play. 
 
 Development of the Plot: 
 
 I, i, is almost wholly exposition 
 of the situation. Is any of 
 it unnatural? Why does 
 Charles tell so much news of 
 the court? How much of it 
 was really news to Oliver? 
 
 Group the characters in con- 
 flicting or contrasting'parties 
 as they are revealed in I, i. 
 Is any character very im- 
 portant to the main story 
 missing (that is, including 
 those w^ho are mentioned as 
 well as those who are actu- 
 ally presented)? 
 
 What is the dramatic purpose 
 of Rosalind's speech, I, ii, 
 26-28? 
 
 Does Rosalind at first show 
 any more interest in Orlando 
 than Celia shows? Prove 
 your conclusion (here and 
 always) by specific refer- 
 ence. 
 
 Why is there a change to verse 
 at I, ii, 244? 
 
 Did Orlando call the ladies 
 back (I, ii, 272)? Do you 
 think there was anything in 
 his action to justify Rosa- 
 lind's return? 
 
 I, iii : How have we been pre- 
 pared for the banishment of 
 Rosalind and Celia's depar- 
 ture with her? Point out 
 specific passages (as I, i, 118; 
 I, ii, 298; etc.). 
 
98 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 Is I, iii, 70 ff., consistent with 
 previous indications as to 
 the time of the Duke's ban- 
 ishment? 
 
 With what is I, iii, 116, incon- 
 sistent? 
 
 What is accomplished in II, i? 
 Is there any action? 
 
 How does II, ii, prepare us for 
 the banishment of Oliver (p. 
 174)? 
 
 Why should the different 
 scenes in the Forest of 
 Arden be separated as they 
 are? Are they so separated 
 when the play is now given? 
 Why? 
 
 Note the difference in style 
 when Silvius and Corin 
 enter, II, iv. What lyrical 
 qualities do you find (e. g., 
 11. 33-42)? Why? 
 
 II, V, introduces a new charac- 
 ter. What have you previ- 
 ously learned about him 
 (II, i)? 
 
 II, vii: Is enough accom- 
 plished before Orlando's 
 entrance to justify so much 
 talk? What is accomplished? 
 
 What bearing on the plot, or 
 relation to it, has Jaques' 
 speech on the world as a 
 stage (note p. 181)? Amiens' 
 song, line 174 ff.? What 
 happens while the latter is 
 being sung? 
 
 What becomes of Adam after 
 Act II? Is his disappearance 
 intentional, do you think, or 
 an oversight? 
 
 Ill, ii: What reasons do you 
 see for having Jaqiles and 
 Orlando at outs (pp. 108-109)? 
 
 Does the early part of Rosa- 
 lind's talk with Orlando 
 (III, ii, 311 ff.) have any im- 
 portant bearing on the plot? 
 
 Point out all the covert refer- 
 ences made by Rosalind to 
 her true person (as III, ii, 
 405-406, etc.). 
 
 Do you think it reasonable 
 that Orlando should not 
 recognize Rosalind? Did it 
 probably seem more reason- 
 able as acted in Shakspere's 
 time than as acted now? 
 Why? 
 
 III, iii: Have we had any 
 hint of Touchstone's love af- 
 fair before this scene? Do we 
 learn anything definite about 
 what has preceded it? 
 
 What have we learned about 
 Silvius and Phebe before 
 III, V? Where? 
 
 Compare Phebe's falling in 
 love with Ganymede, with 
 Olivia's falling in love with 
 Cesario in Twelfth Night. 
 
 IV, iii: Why does Shakspere 
 have Oliver tell about his 
 rescue by Orlando instead of 
 representing that scene? 
 
 What preparation have we for 
 Oliver's change of heart (see 
 note p. 195)? 
 
 Point out places in IV, iii, 
 where you think there may 
 be indications of the love of 
 Oliver and Celia. Where 
 
FOR THE LAKE EKGLI8H CLASSICS 
 
 99 
 
 are there later hints as to 
 this (p. 149)? What other 
 couples in the play have 
 fallen in love at first sight? 
 
 Does Oliver guess Ganymede's 
 sex when she swoons? 
 
 Do you agree with the criti- 
 cism of the note on V, ii, 1 
 (p. 196)? 
 
 Of what previous part of .the 
 play do the repetitions and 
 balance on page 151 remind 
 you? Where do similar repe- 
 titions come later? 
 
 Why should not Rosalind have 
 revealed herself to her father 
 sooner than she does? Do 
 you find any other reason ex- 
 cept that suspense suits the 
 dramatist's purpose better? 
 Is this also the reason for 
 the delay in the marriage of 
 Touchstone and Audrey (III, 
 iii)? 
 
 Is the conversion of Duke 
 Frederick prepared for in 
 any way? Does it seem 
 reasonable? More or less 
 reasonable than the refor- 
 mation of Oliver? 
 
 Account for "If I were a wo- 
 man," line 20 of the Epi- 
 logue. 
 
 The Plot in General: 
 
 Which do you consider the 
 best of the explanations of 
 the title given on page 164? 
 Why? 
 
 What is the main action of the 
 play? Where does it begin ; 
 
 where does it reach the 
 height of complication ; and 
 with what event does it 
 end? 
 
 How many subordinate love 
 actions are there? Show to 
 what extent there is a begin- 
 ning, a complication, and an 
 end in the case of each. 
 Which ones cross others 
 (Phebe and Rosalind, Wil- 
 liam and Audrey)? 
 
 What may be regarded as the 
 main theme of the play? 
 Ill, v, 82, has been sug- 
 gested. Comment on the 
 suggestion. 
 
 What can be taken as the 
 moral of the play? Will II, 
 i, 13, fit? 
 
 What elements of contem- 
 porary satire do you find 
 (e. g., V, iv, 71ff.)? 
 
 What references are there to 
 popular poetry? 
 
 Where is the Forest of Arden? 
 In a temperate climate? Is 
 there any real description of 
 the Forest? How do you 
 learn so much about it? 
 How is so much out-of- 
 doors atmosphere produced? 
 
 Characterization : 
 
 Group the characters in such a 
 way as to show how they are 
 balanced in pairs — contend- 
 ing, or contrasting, or col- 
 laborating. Is there any 
 entirely detached character? 
 Point out all the resem- 
 
100 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 blances you note between 
 
 Oliver and Duke Frederick ; 
 
 Orlando and the banished 
 
 Duke. 
 Is Jaques really melancholy? 
 
 Is .he any better philosopher 
 
 than Touchstone? 
 Compare Rosalind with other 
 
 women in Shakspere's plays 
 
 who impersonate men. 
 
 What person (or persons) do 
 you find whose name is indi- 
 cative in a humorous or 
 satirical way of his charac 
 ter or occupation? 
 
 Other questions bearing on 
 characterization have been 
 given above in connection 
 with the development of the 
 plot. 
 
 HAMLET. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Nellson, M.A., 
 Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
 pp. 286. 25 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Shakspere and the English 
 Drama. 
 The Drama Before Shak- 
 spere. 
 Shakspere's Early Life. 
 The Elizabethan Theatre. 
 Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
 velopment. 
 Shakspere's Last Years. 
 
 Hamlet: 
 
 The questions on the life of 
 Shakspere and on the Eliza- 
 bethan Drama, given on pp. 
 25 and 49 of this Manual, 
 may be used equally well in 
 the study of Hamlet. 
 
 General Questions : 
 
 From what sources are ob- 
 tained the texts of our pres- 
 ent-day edition of this play 
 (p. 38)? 
 
 Why is the exact date of 
 composition difficult to de- 
 termine? What is the ap- 
 proximate date (p. 37)? 
 What other plays were com- 
 
 ix. Hamlet. 
 
 Date. 
 
 Source of the Text, 
 
 Source of the Plot. 
 
 Metre. 
 
 Language. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Word Index. 
 
 posed at about the same 
 time? What period of Shak- 
 spere's life is this? What 
 evidence is there within the 
 play that leads us to know 
 that Julius Caesar was com- 
 posed after Hamlet (pp. 56 
 and 135)? 
 From what source has Shak- 
 spere obtained the general 
 outline of his story? What 
 is the probable influence of 
 an older play upon the same 
 subject (p. 39)? Are there 
 any traces of it to be found 
 in the present text? How 
 has Shakspere used this older 
 play (pp. 4041)? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 101 
 
 Questions on difficult passages 
 and peculiar use of words 
 may be gathered from the 
 full Notes (pp. 235-373). 
 
 Plot in Detail : 
 
 How does the atmosphere of 
 the first scene give us at once 
 the tone of the whole play 
 (pp. 51-53)? How is past 
 history introduced? What 
 further use is made of the 
 narration on p. 60? Are we 
 expecting the attitude that 
 Hamlet assumes (p. 62)? 
 Compare the first soliloquy 
 (p. 64) with the other two 
 and explain its peculiar tone. 
 What is the significance of 
 its last line (p. 66)? How do 
 you explain Hamlet's be- 
 haviour on Horatio's telling 
 him of seeing his father? 
 What are the inciting forces 
 put into motion in Act I? 
 
 What is the effect on the 
 further shaping of the drama 
 of the speeches of Laertes 
 and Polonius to Ophelia in 
 I, iii (pp. 71 ff.)? Note how the 
 instructions have been fully 
 carried out by her (p. 96, 11. 
 108-109). Does the command 
 of the ghost (p. 85, 11. 85-86) 
 have any later effect? If we 
 conclude that Hamlet de- 
 cides to feign madness at 
 the end of I, v, what reasons 
 has he for doing so? Tell all 
 that has been accomplished 
 in Act I. 
 
 Does your own interpretation 
 of Hamlet's conduct in his 
 interview with Ophelia agree 
 with that of Polonius (p. 95)? 
 Why is it given by narration 
 rather than by action? Com- 
 pare this with the interview 
 in III, 1. Why does Hamlet 
 treat Ophelia so harshly, if 
 he loves her? Did he know 
 her weakness? Interpret the 
 interview between Polonius 
 and Hamlet (pp. 104-05). 
 Summarize all the scenes 
 between Hamlet, Rosen 
 crantz, and Guildenstern. 
 
 Why is Polonius led to his 
 diagnosis of Hamlet's case 
 (p. 101)? Does this agree with 
 your own interpretation? 
 Note the doubt still in Ham- 
 let's mind (p. 120). When is 
 it dissipated (p. 141)? 
 
 What is the purpose of the play 
 within the play (p. 130)? 
 How does Hamlet act the 
 Chorus (p. 139)? 
 
 Note the forebodings on the 
 part of the king (p. 129). 
 What is the cause of Ham- 
 let's resolution on p. 145, 11. 
 397 ff.? 
 
 Where is the climax of the 
 play (p. 149)? .Give your 
 reasons. Why" does Hamlet 
 refuse to kill the king in III, 
 ii (p. 149)? What are the 
 consequences of his refusal? 
 What [is the dramatic use of 
 it? 
 
 Describe the interview be- 
 
102 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 tween Hamlet and his 
 mother (pp. .152 ff.). Is the 
 ghost in this scene a real 
 one, as in Act I, or only a 
 creation of Hamlet's imag- 
 ination? 
 
 What are the important steps 
 in the downward action? 
 Note how they are heaped 
 up in Act IV. See the 
 king's remark concerning 
 this (p. 174, 11. 67 ff.). 
 
 What is the purpose of the 
 comic element introduced by 
 the grave-diggers' scene, V, 
 1? Compare the porter's 
 scene in Macbeth (Lake Eng- 
 lish Classics, edited Boyn- 
 ton-Neilson, p. 78). Compare 
 it with the later action in 
 the same scene. Note Ham- 
 let's slight rally in V, ii (p. 
 208). Does the denouement 
 come slowly or rapidly from 
 this point on? Show how 
 the catastrophe fulfills the 
 demands of tragedy. 
 
 Plot in General: 
 
 Make a concise presentation 
 of all the evidence you can 
 gather from the play that 
 Hamlet is mad and a similar 
 one of all the evidence that 
 he is not mad. Do you think 
 that Shakspere used Hamlet 
 for a mouthpiece in the Osric 
 scenes and in the discussion 
 of the state of the theatre? 
 
 Note the sporadic appear- 
 ances of the Fortinbras 
 
 scenes and how they are 
 taken up after the catas- 
 trophe. 
 
 Does the tragedy seem to be 
 one of fate rather than of 
 character? Is it a good ex- 
 ample of the "Blood Trage- 
 dy?" (For this point com- 
 pare the description of the 
 older play given on p. 40.) 
 
 What is the main theme of 
 the tragedy? In what scene 
 does its expression reach the 
 highest pitch? 
 
 Characters: 
 
 Do you find an attractive char- 
 acter in the play? 
 
 Is the king, with all his wick- 
 edness, a brave man (p. 176)? 
 
 Many explanations of Ham- 
 let's weakness of character 
 have been offered — moral 
 sensitiveness and weakness 
 of will; melancholy temper- 
 ament ; excessive reflection ; 
 love for Ophelia. Which 
 theory seems to you strong- 
 est? Give reasons, with il- 
 lustrations. Can these 
 theories be made complemen- 
 tary? 
 
 What is the function of Hora- 
 tio in this play? 
 
 What of Polonius and his 
 philosophy? What is its 
 source? 
 
 Do you consider Ophelia a 
 weak character, brought to 
 her fate by conventions of 
 society? What would Portia 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 103 
 
 have done under similar cir- 
 cumstances? Do you feel 
 attracted towards Ophelia, 
 or are you repulsed by her 
 extreme obedience to her 
 father? What were the 
 causes of her madness? 
 Show how Fortinbras stands in 
 dramatic contrast to Hamlet. 
 
 Note Hamlet's own realiza- 
 tion of this fact (p. 170). 
 Is Laertes a willfully bad man? 
 What were his promptings? 
 Does he readily grasp the evil 
 suggestions of the king in 
 IV, vii (pp. 183 ff.)? What 
 were Hamlet's own feelings 
 towards him (p. 215)? 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHTc William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan 
 Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman 
 and Company, pp. 192. 25 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Pbefacb. 
 
 Contents. 
 Introduction. 
 
 I. Shakspere and the English 
 Drama. 
 The Drama Before Shak- 
 spere. 
 Shakspere's Early Life. 
 The Elizabethan Theatre. 
 Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
 velopment. 
 Shakspere's Last Years. 
 
 Twelfth Night : 
 
 Questions as to the history of 
 the English drama and the 
 life of Shakspere may be 
 found under The Merchant 
 of Venice and Julius Caesar 
 in this Manual (pp. 25, 49). 
 
 Twelfth Night— Date, 
 Sources, Form: 
 
 When was this play probably 
 written (pp. 29-31)? To what 
 period of Shakspere's life 
 does it belong? 
 
 II. Twelfth Night. 
 
 Date. 
 
 Source of the Text. 
 
 Source of the Plot. 
 
 Metre. 
 
 Language. 
 Text. 
 Notes. 
 Word index. 
 
 When and where was it first 
 printed? 
 
 Where did Shakspere appar- 
 ently get his main plot (p. 
 32)? Point out specific re- 
 semblances between the plot 
 of Twelfth Night and that of 
 Apolonius and Silla as out- 
 lined on pages 32 and 33. 
 
 What characters are wholly 
 Shakspere's (p. 33)? What 
 do they give to the play 
 which is not in Riche's story? 
 
 What do you think of your 
 
104 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 editor's suggestion (p. 34) as 
 to a source for the "charge 
 of madness in Malvolio," 
 etc.? Point out in detail 
 whatever resemblances you 
 find in the situations. 
 Find good examples for your- 
 self of all the peculiarities 
 of language and metre sum- 
 marized on pages 35 to 41. 
 
 Development of the Plot : 
 
 Does I, i, give an erroneous 
 idea as to who are to be the 
 leading personages of^ the 
 play? Is the failure to intro- 
 duce or mention Viola a de- 
 fect? 
 
 I, ii : What is the "motive for 
 Viola's disguise" (note bot- 
 tom p. 157)? 
 
 Why does Viola mention that 
 her father knew Orsino and 
 
 ■ that he is (or was) a bache- 
 lor? Is she already in love 
 with him? 
 
 What is the dramatic purpose 
 of her mention of Sebastian? 
 
 I, iv: Is the favor Viola has 
 obtained with the Duke ac- 
 counted for? Her attitude 
 towards him which is so sud- 
 denly shown at the end of 
 this scene? Is her attitude 
 shown to one who sees the 
 play acted before it is ex- 
 pressed in words? How and 
 when? 
 
 Is anything accomplished by 
 the elaborate fooling in the 
 first part of I, v? Is there 
 
 too long a time before Viola 
 enters and the main story is 
 taken up again? 
 
 What love affair is foreshad- 
 owed in I, V, besides the 
 main ones already started 
 (see 1.30)? 
 
 When does Olivia begin to be 
 especially interested in Ce- 
 sario? Where and how do 
 we learn most about this 
 (II, ii)? What situation in 
 As You Like It does it re- 
 semble? 
 
 II, i: Why does Sebastian 
 mention his resemblance to 
 Viola? Did she mention it? 
 Do you see any reason why? 
 
 II, ii : Why does Viola accept 
 the ring from Olivia? Had 
 she realized before this the 
 turn affairs were taking? 
 
 II, iii : What is the dramatic 
 purpose of having Malvolio 
 interrupt the revellers ; that 
 is, what later action is ac- 
 counted for? 
 
 II, iv : Point out all the veiled 
 references Viola makes to 
 her own love. Can they be 
 as effective when the play is 
 read as when it is acted? 
 Why? 
 
 What dramatic purpose does 
 the Clown's comment on the 
 Duke's changeableness serve 
 (H, iv, 75)? 
 
 II, V : How and to whom are 
 the remarks of Sir Toby, Sir 
 Andrew, and Fabian made 
 after Malvolio enters (1. 26)? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 105 
 
 'l Describe a proper setting for 
 the scene. 
 
 Ill, 1 : Does the talk of Viola 
 and the Clown at the begin- 
 ning of this scene further 
 the plot? What does it do? 
 
 What defence is there (as in 
 difference of rank) for Oliv- 
 ia's declaration of her love? 
 
 What Tie>w complication of the 
 plot begins in III, ii? Note 
 how this brings the main 
 serious plot and the comic 
 underplots together. 
 
 Ill, iii : What dramatic reason 
 do you find for Antonio's 
 fear to be seen in lUyria? 
 
 III, iv : Point out the specific 
 effect of every part of the 
 letter Malvolio found. 
 
 What incentive besides mere 
 love of a joke have the plot- 
 ters against Malvolio? 
 
 Do you find it objectionable 
 that the heroine should be 
 the butt of a practical joke? 
 What does the mock duel 
 accomplish for the plot? Of 
 what scene in a more recent 
 English play are you re- 
 minded by this scene (cf . Tlie 
 Rivals)^ 
 
 To whom is Viola talking just 
 after Antonio's exit, III, iv, 
 414 ff.? 
 
 What is the "element" re- 
 ferred to in the first note on 
 Act IV (p. 179)? 
 
 IV, ii; What portions of the 
 Clown's speeches on p. 134 
 are in his own person? What 
 
 other person does he repre- 
 sent? 
 
 Is the action of IV, iii, suffi- 
 ciently accounted for? How? 
 
 See the question in the note on 
 V, i, 129. 
 
 Whose appearance unties the 
 dramatic knot? Show in de- 
 tail how. 
 
 Do you find the Duke's trans- 
 fer of his affection to Viola 
 prepared for (e. g. in his 
 character)? Is it reasonable? 
 Does he deserve her? 
 
 What becomes of the various 
 characters besides the two 
 principal pairs of lovers — 
 especially Malvolio, Sir Toby, 
 and Sir Andrew? 
 
 What significance has the 
 song at the end of the play? 
 
 The Plot in General: 
 
 Whence comes the title of the 
 play? What do you think 
 of it? 
 
 What contemporary beliefs 
 and customs do you find 
 satirized (as in IV, ii)? 
 
 Where is lUyria, the scene of 
 the play? 
 
 For what purposes is soliloquy 
 used in this play (as at end 
 of II, ii, etc.)? 
 
 What examples of "double 
 time" are there in Twelfth 
 Night (as I, iv, 3; V, i, 103; 
 etc.)? 
 
 Compare this play with TJie 
 Comedy of Errors as to the 
 use of confusion of identity. 
 
106 
 
 teachek's manual 
 
 What scenes here are farci- 
 cal? What scenes are much 
 more effective acted than 
 read? Why? 
 
 Characterization : 
 
 The scene of the play is lUyria. 
 Of what nationality are the 
 comic characters? 
 
 What male part requires the 
 best actor in a stage presen- 
 tation of Tivelfth Night? 
 Why? 
 
 What idea of the Duke's char- 
 acter do we get at the very 
 beginning of the play? Is 
 the portrait of him con- 
 sistent throughout? He has 
 been compared with Romeo 
 before the meeting with 
 Juliet. What is the point 
 of the comparison? 
 
 How are we prepared for the 
 characteristics of Sir An- 
 
 drew before we meet him? 
 How does his name fit him? 
 What other characters are 
 there in this play whose 
 names fit similarly? 
 
 To what extent is Malvolio's 
 character indicated by his 
 first speeches (I, v, 84, 93) 
 and Olivia's comment? In 
 what respects is he properly 
 called by Maria a Puritan 
 (II, iii, 160)? 
 
 Point out the different ways 
 in which Viola's character is 
 revealed. 
 
 Verify the statement as to 
 Viola's speeches in note on 
 III, i, 97 (p. 173). 
 
 Compare the Clown in this 
 play with Touchstone in As 
 You Like It, and other 
 Shaksperean fools. Does he 
 have any function besides 
 creating humor? 
 
FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 107 
 
 THANATOPS/S. William Cullen Bryant. Introduction abridged from 
 Newcomer's American Literature. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and 
 Company. Cloth, 364 pages. $1. 
 
 Bryant's Life : 
 
 When and where was the poet 
 born? 
 
 What was his father's occupa- 
 tion? 
 
 In what did his early educa- 
 tion consist? 
 
 Describe some of his occupa- 
 tions as a youth. 
 
 At what age did he begin to 
 write verses? 
 
 What was the title of his first 
 published poem? 
 
 What college did he attend? 
 
 Did he graduate? 
 
 Describe the circumstances at- 
 tendant on the writing of 
 "Thanatopsis. " 
 
 What was Bryant's age when 
 he wrote this poem? 
 
 In what magazine was this 
 poem published? 
 
 Did it appear in its present 
 form? What lines were lack- 
 ing? 
 
 When did Bryant publish his 
 first volume of poems? 
 
 What profession did he adopt 
 at first? 
 
 What subsequently? 
 
 What was his influence on 
 American politics and public 
 life? 
 
 What important translations 
 of the classics did he make 
 late in life? 
 
 How much time elapsed be- 
 tween the writing of "Thana- 
 
 topsis" and "The Flood of 
 Years"? 
 
 Compare Bryant's capabilities 
 and powers at the ages of 
 nineteen and eighty-three. 
 
 What may be said of the influ- 
 ence of his poems, and of 
 their improving by long ac- 
 quaintance? 
 
 When did he die? At what 
 age? 
 
 Where was he buried? 
 
 Thanatopsis: 
 
 This poem was written before 
 the poet was nineteen years 
 of age, and to some people 
 this is its chief merit. Poems 
 of beauty and brightness, of 
 hope and cheer, are perhaps 
 better for young people, but 
 this is a wonderful produc- 
 tion when we contemplate 
 the poet's youthfulness. It 
 is plain to see in these lines 
 that the boy was the father 
 of the man. Worship, faith, 
 stability of character, love 
 of [nature, which crowned 
 the poet's life, are all por- 
 trayed in this poem of his 
 early years. 
 
 What rank has been accorded 
 the poem? 
 
 How does it compare with 
 Bryant's other work? 
 
 V/hat is the meaning of the 
 word "Thanatopsis"? 
 
108 
 
 teacher's manual 
 
 What is the central theme of 
 the poem? 
 
 Is the poem consoling |or de- 
 pressing? 
 
 Contrast "Thanatopsis" with 
 the opening pages of Keats's 
 "Endymion," written about 
 the same time. Which seems 
 the more youthful? Which 
 has the more color and 
 melody? Which, if either, 
 is the more devout? 
 
 What examples do you find in 
 "Thanatopsis" of conven- 
 tional poetic diction? 
 
 Does Bryant's poem show 
 clearly the inspiration of a 
 new land? 
 
 Is it equally clear that the 
 new land is America and no 
 other? 
 
 Could ' 'Thanatopsis' ' have been 
 written in Australia? In 
 England? 
 
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