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    Adam Bede
    Adam Bede
    Adam Bede
    Ebook721 pages14 hours

    Adam Bede

    By George Eliot

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A young carpenter living in the fiction community of Hayslope, Adam Bede falls desperately in love with a local beauty, Hetty Sorrel. When two newcomers arrive in town—a gallant young captain and Hetty’s gentle cousin Dinah—the affections and desires of these young people are pitted against the pressures of their social situations.

    Adam Bede is the first novel written by author George Eliot and was met with critical acclaim upon publication in 1859. Generally believed to be one of the best examples of realism in English literature, the novel has never been out of print.

    HarperPerennial Classics brings great works of literature to life in digital format, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperPerennial Classics collection to build your digital library.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMay 14, 2013
    ISBN9781443417655
    Author

    George Eliot

    George Eliot was the pseudonym for Mary Anne Evans, one of the leading writers of the Victorian era, who published seven major novels and several translations during her career. She started her career as a sub-editor for the left-wing journal The Westminster Review, contributing politically charged essays and reviews before turning her attention to novels. Among Eliot’s best-known works are Adam Bede, The Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, in which she explores aspects of human psychology, focusing on the rural outsider and the politics of small-town life. Eliot died in 1880.

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    Reviews for Adam Bede

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    • 4/5
      Adam Bede by George Eliot was her first novel and was originally published in 1859. The story explores the nature of physical and mental attraction and in this case lead to a tragedy and many misunderstandings before everything was worked out. The author sets her story of love, faith and redemption against a picturesque background of rural England. Unfortunately the rules and morals of society were not a pretty as the setting and there were some that had to pay a very hefty price for taking their attraction to each other too far.I read the book in installment form and found it to be an engrossing story. Set in a small rural village called Hayslope, a love triangle develops between the beautiful but self-absorbed Hetty Sorrel, her suitor, the stalwart Adam Bede and the young squire who seduces her. To complicate the story further, we have Adam’s brother Seth, who loves Dinah Morris, Hetty’s cousin, a virtuous and beautiful Methodist lay preacher. Dinah does not wish to give up her preaching for Seth, but she does have feelings for his brother, Adam.I liked this story but was never overly fond of Adam or Dinah. My sympathies lay much more with the other characters and in particular, Hetty, who really had nowhere to turn and no one to help her. I found Dinah, with her holier-than-thou attitude, rather a cold fish. However, the author enhances the story with rich details, wonderful writing and a wide variety of characters making Adam Bede a very good reading experience.
    • 5/5
      Adam Bede is a classic that reads even better after many years.Unlike Wuthering Heights, which overflows with meanness and cruelty and not the remembered passion,George Eliot's first book still flows into a compelling story of love sorrowfully lost. Characters and locale,as well as dogs and food, are finely revealed.Okay, this doesn't make Dinah's speeches any less insufferable or guide Hetty away from increasingly awful thinking.And when, aside from Vixen, did sex occur? Does a dropped handkerchief signify seduction?
    • 5/5
      Six-word review: Love and passion rule humble hearts.Extended review:Intersecting and overlapping romantic triangles generate drama in a rural English village, where Adam Bede, a carpenter, carries a torch for pretty, vain Hetty Sorrel.In this novel as well as those that came later, George Eliot treats her characters--ordinary people, for the most part, in a rustic setting--with respect and compassion. Even mean and despicable characters benefit by her redemptive insight; she never shies away from folly or ill deeds, but she shows the humanity in them. She writes: "The way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is lovable--the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysteries--has been by living a great deal among people more or less commonplace and vulgar." Strong emotions and complex inner states are by no means the province of the privileged classes.Although this first novel has several conspicuous flaws, Eliot's storytelling skills, her rendition of ordinary people, and her depiction of the bond between people and place give this work a spacious scope and a quality of deep reflection. As we share in her perceptions and revelations, we grow our own capacity for empathy and our sense that everyone has a story worth telling.
    • 5/5
      Accurate rendering of English pastoral life, realistic irrevocable consequences of human actions and on moral growth and redemption through suffering. This edition includes good historical notes, a glossary of old English, and a reading group guide which I found very helpful.
    • 4/5
      George Eliot published Adam Bede, her first novel, in 1859 to great acclaim. This richly detailed novel tells the story of Adam, a carpenter, and his love for Hetty Sorrel, a vain young woman who falls in love with the local gentleman, Captain Arthur Donnithorne. Using this love triangle as her foundation, Eliot painstakingly illustrates the intricacies of rural life at the turn of the eighteenth century.The characters in George Eliot’s Adam Bede exist along a continuum of human weakness. From Hetty and Arthur, who give in too easily to their illicit passion, to Adam’s mother Lisbeth, whose temperament warps an otherwise honest character, all the way to Dinah, a pinnacle of correct behavior and Christian compassion.Adam is situated toward the upper end of that continuum. He is a stoic and honest man, with good intentions and sincere passions. He is a hard worker and trustworthy, respected among his peers and even admired by the small town’s gentry. But Eliot does not give her reader an unflawed hero. Adam is proud and severe in his judgment of others. He is also blind to the failings of the woman he loves. This ultimate but innocent fault will nearly cost him his happiness when the truth of all that has occurred between Hetty and Arthur finally comes to light.Despite its pastoral setting and overall bucolic tone, there is a serious scandal at the heart of the novel. Eliot’s frank, forthright treatment of Arthur and Hetty’s love affair, and its ensuing complications, turn this seemingly quiet novel into a careful investigation of morality and human limitations.Eliot’s real skill lies in portraying the rural setting as well as each of her characters with as much detail as possible. This makes for a layered novel, filled with a number of multifaceted moral dilemmas: Will Dinah consent to marry Adam’s brother Seth, even though she feels called to continue her ministry? Will Adam eventually understand Hetty’s true character? How will Adam negotiate his long-standing friendship with Arthur after the scandal is revealed?Adam Bede is read less often than Eliot’s purported masterpiece Middlemarch and for good reason. Although a highly accomplished first novel and a rewarding and entertaining read, Adam Bede does contain a certain number of conspicuous flaws. The structure for instance, lacks a certain shape and economy. Eliot takes some time to get her plot moving and there are even a few chapters which appear to be superfluous. These small failings, however, only indicate how accomplished Eliot already was at the time she published Adam Bede and provide a wonderful discussion base for her later novels.George Eliot’s Adam Bede is a deeply psychological work which delves into the darker corners of human weakness using the complex realities of love, friendship, sorrow and forgiveness to paint its splendid portrait.
    • 3/5
      Credit must be given to George Eliot: she got the dialect of rural England so precisely - it's as if she grew up among the villagers there! She is equally good at pinpointing the sensitivities of bucolic mind and behavior of the peasant population of that era, late 1700s - early 1800s. Her description of rural landscape is vivid and idyllic.But BECAUSE of this adherence to the dialect in dialogues (with countless apostrophes and letter omissions and intentionally irregular grammar of illiterate peasant folk) it was so much harder to read, it was like a stumbling block throughout. About 70 % of the dialogue, I would say, was in dialect. True, the narrative part and dialogue between the educated people (the rector, the young squire and such) was in correct English, but the distraction of the dialect was still distracting.As for the plot - there is a religious theme (with a virtuous and angel-like Dinah, the Methodist preacher), and a tragic life drama, and a lot of moral dilemmas facing the main characters, with the help of the author's stepping in for a chat with the reader at times.I was taken by some insights the author offers, and I can't help but have a few quotes here (for they certainly ring a bell):In one she describes a mother (who is usually very abrupt) dealing with a child "...the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest temperament...".Then a few more:"The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return"."Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds....""And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious web of probabilities - the surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the truth.""In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but for a whistle of a smoke, he has a present that offers some resistance to the past - sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories ".(I think I should have started my George Eliot reading with "Middlemarch", and I will definitely get to that one...).
    • 3/5
      It may be heresy (why is it always heresy to dislike a "classic" when a book's status as a classic mainly stems from its age?), but I'm not particularly fond of George Eliot. Granted, I read her books when I was rather younger, but I found her tone too moralistic and prescriptive, and the political overtones too strident. Adam Bede is perhaps one of my least favourite of the books of hers that I have read. We have our overly prim, proper, and holier-than-thou protagonists, Adam Bede and Dinah Morris, to teach us the proper path. Apparently the "right way" is, at the tender age of twenty, to go around preaching to everyone and providing moral guidance for those lesser beings from one's own tremendous heights of experience. The "right way" is to be uptight and silent, to enjoy nothing, and to purposefully inflict suffering upon oneself to mimic the humiliation Jesus endured. (Oh, and to be Methodist. Although Dinah is called alternately Quaker and Methodist--I really don't understand how these beliefs were confused. Were they more similar back in the day, or did Eliot simply conflate the two Welsh belief systems?) We also have our standard moral exemplars, the characters who behave badly and are duly punished. Interestingly, in this book it becomes clear that bad behaviour includes vanity, self-satisfaction, selfishness, infanticide(how dare women step outside the role of wife and mother?), and, most importantly, stepping outside one's social station. Jane Austen, most notably in Emma, also preaches the virtues of rigid social classes and the evils of interclass fraternization, but I can't help but feel that Eliot is far more dogmatic and obvious in shoving the message down her readers' throats. Unlike Austen, Eliot also demonizes the upper class as frivolous and amoral. In terms of tone, Eliot uses the same wealth of description and narrative commentary favoured by other writers of the period, including Dickens and Hugo. It's not particularly my favorite. She has a few sly barbs, but every one I caught is stated much more cleverly by the inimitable Austen. Overall, I found it a lugubrious and preachy read.
    • 3/5
      Finely captured snapshot of rural life in England. More believable characters than other Victorian fiction.Read Mar 2007
    • 4/5
      Having been a George Eliot fan for many years ('Middlemarch' is my favourite novel of all time) I have been far too long getting round to reading 'Adam Bede'. I'm not sure whether this is a neglected classic or simply neglected by me, though I have noticed there seem to be few TV or film adaptations, perhaps an indication of the book's relative obscurity.It certainly deserves to be better known and more often read. Though not without faults (it was, after all, Ms Eliot's first novel) it is for the most part rich in its descriptions, absorbing in its plot, and generally strong in its characterisation. It is a slight pity that the 'saints' (Adam Bede and Dinah Morris) are not so imaginatively drawn as the 'sinners' (Arthur Donnithorne and especially Hetty Sorrel) and therefore interest us less, but the same could be said of many undisputed classics - Tess of the D'Urbevilles, for example, featuring the insipid Angel Clare.In fact there are a number of strong parallels between this novel and 'Tess' which make me wonder if Hardy used George Eliot's work as a model for his own. Hetty, like Tess, is a pretty girl of the country labouring classes, seduced and left pregnant by a member of the local gentry. Both babies die in infancy. Both women are arrested, tried and committed to hang, though in Hetty's case there is a rather contrived 'deus ex machina' reprieve brought by her repentant seducer. Both novels are set in rural England and both present a large supporting cast of colourful countryfolk who provide vernacular comic relief. Both are moralistic works of their time, though Hardy's characteristic pessimism about the human lot runs counter to the early George Eliot's optimistic, overtly Christian outlook.I am not claiming for 'Adam Bede' superior provenance over 'Tess of the D'Urbevilles', much less as high a place in the unofficial league table of English literature, but I would hope readers will be stimulated by this review among others favourable to the novel and not wait as long as I did to read it.
    • 5/5
      The Scarlet Letter written by a woman. Eliot addresses the horror of an unmarried woman getting pregnant amidst the good countryfolk of Britain in 1799.

      I like George Eliot because, in my opinion, her characters are more complex than those of other female writers such as Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters. As much as I like The Scarlet Letter, I prefer Adam Bede because there is repentance and growth in Eliot's characters.

      I felt the desire to be a better person after reading this book, perhaps the first time this has ever occurred to me on finishing a novel. And it was a complex better person, made up of bits and pieces of all the characters.
    • 4/5
      Thank god for sparknotes. While I enjoy Eliot and liked the story presented here, god forbid my attention wandered for a moment, I found myself completely lost. This is another book I'll have to re-read at a later date to thoroughly appreciate since I believe I would have enjoyed it more had I paid closer attention the first time.
    • 5/5
      Our title character is a good man and a simple one. He sees the world in black and white. Work hard, take care of your family, and you will lead a good life. He falls in love with an impetuous young woman named Hetty. Unfortunately, Hetty has fallen for the wealthy Captain Arthur Donnithorne, a man above her station, but one who is still susceptible to the young woman’s charms. I loved the character of Dinah. She could be perceived as a killjoy or prude, but she never cane across to me like that. She is Hetty’s cousin and is a Methodist preacher who travels the countryside serving in local communities. Keep in mind, this was at a time when it was unusual for a woman to travel about on her own, much less to serve as a leader in the church. She has a fierce strength and independence and doesn’t give into the pleas from her family to give up her calling. When she is asked about being a woman preacher, this is what she says…“When God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord.” ****SPOILERS*****Dinah: When she does finally fall for Adam, she still doesn’t agree to marry until he declares that he will never stand in the way of her duties as a preacher and he fully supports her. I was a bit heartbroken from Adam’s brother Seth, since he’s the one who originally pursued Dinah. Hetty’s story is so heartbreaking. I can’t imagine feeling so hopeless and abandoned. In the midst of her panic about her pregnancy she didn’t trust anyone with her secret and so she was unwilling to look for other options. Even though her life was spared, her future was still going to be full of grief and guilt no matter what. SPOILERS OVERBOTTOM LINE: I loved it. It reminded me so much of Tess of the d’Urbervilles and The Return of the Native (both of which were published decades after this one). It’s an intense look at the desperation of one woman and the man who loved her. I appreciated the rich depth of characters like Dinah and Adam. I also liked that Arthur wasn't a one-note cad. He easily could have been, but instead we see the situation from his point of view as well. “What destroys us most effectively is not a malign fate but our own capacity for self-deception and for degrading our own best self.” “What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?”“Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds.”
    • 5/5
      So much I could say, but it's probably been said elsewhere by someone less sleepy. Totally compelling and thought-provoking themes of the relationship between intelligence and moral judgment, gender and power, and human nature. Also wonderfully rendered characters, extreme drama, and general awesomeness.

      Stylistically, it kept surprising me with the beauty of its prose, particularly its descriptions of the characters' inner lives. I also really, really enjoyed the northern English dialect, which is something, because usually dialect makes readers run away in fear. Generally I thought it did a superb job of portraying a small farm community without falling into pastoral cliche. Certain books entitled Tess of the D'Urbervilles had made me assume that I did not like pastoral novels, but in fact in turns out that I simply do not like annoying pastoral novels.

      Eliot's first full-length novel, and one of her best that I've read so far. If I was going to criticize it, I would say that the ending was too tidy, but everything did fit together with a pleasing logic. Also, all Dinah's religious speeches were a bit much, but considering that Eliot was agnostic, I don't think she was trying to be preachy.

      Of all her books I think I will look most forward to rereading this one.
    • 3/5
      I don’t usually like dialogue written in dialect, but in this 1859 novel by Mary Ann Evans (aka George Eliot), I first got used to it, and then started to enjoy it. After a while, the dialect seems indispensable. There are lots of colorful characters, especially middle-aged and old women, who express themselves with great eloquence.

      This is a love story, but it’s also a story of early lost love and disillusionment, and of the abuse of class privilege. Adam Bede is a righteous, hard-working carpenter, whose main fault is a quickness to judge others, and he falls in love with a beautiful but self-centered milkmaid, Hetty. He doesn’t realize his main competition comes from Arthur, the well-meaning but self-important young squire, who has fallen for Hetty but can never marry her. All these characters are drawn in a careful and nuanced way. Then there’s Dinah, the saintly Methodist preacher, and she was a little too good to be true, at least for me. I would’ve liked her better if Eliot had made her a little less self-sacrificing!
    • 5/5
      There's no doubt that George Eliot consistently produces a similar kind of heroine in all her books (at least those I've read). Dorothea Brooke; Maggie Tulliver; Mirah Lapidoth; and now Dinah Morris - all of them are filled with an inner vision of some Greater Good, and they spend their lives single-mindedly pursuing it. All of them are simple in manner and noble in ideals. All are blind to the sordidness of life and are filled instead with a bright light, which they tend to temporarily pass on to others around them. They all, when described like this, seem as if they'd be preachy, moral characters, highly distasteful to the modern idea of a heroine - the Victorian Martyr type. Probably there are in fact many readers today who do dislike them, but I would find such dislike hard to understand. There is something about George Eliot which I've tried to describe before, and which I love. It resonates with all the things I hold dear in life, but I can never properly put it into words. It's a kind of intelligent compassion, a relentless exploration of how people tick, but without mockery or meanness. It's a way of looking at why people do the things they do (often things that are automatically judged as wrong or stupid), and pulling out all the deep-hidden motives and meanings and bits of personality that went into that action, until it all makes sense. It's a truism that the more we know about a person, the harder it is to judge them. For me, George Eliot shows us that in everything she writes. The story of Adam Bede is a Victorian cliche - simple young country girl 'gets into trouble'. But Eliot removes the cliche-ness of it and makes us see everything with new eyes. Of course, the consequences of it all are hard to understand in the modern world - probably one reason Adam Bede is less well-known than her other books. The issue, so deadly serious then, is of course a pointless nothing in today's common Western society. But that doesn't change the effectiveness of the story, unless the reader is utterly incapable of entering into a set of values different from their own. The other heroine of this book is a very different one for Eliot to depict. It must have been difficult, I think, for Eliot to sympathetically portray a shallow young rustic beauty like Hetty Sorrell, with the instincts of a luxurious animal and no capacity for any real thought at all. But it's very well done indeed.Another lovely thing about this book is its sense of place. Such a luxuriant wallow, this book is, in rural England at its best. Such floods of sunshine, such golden harvest, such shady groves of old oaks on green turf, such rose gardens and wheat fields, such white pure dairies and such winding roads on green hills! And then, when winter comes, such bleakness and dampness and black ice on still ponds! It's worth reading just for all this. I must not forget the minor characters. Mrs Poyser is wonderfully good fun - shades of Dickens. Every sentence out of her mouth is a treasure. And poor sweet Seth Bede is well worth loving too (though many seem to disagree). They all live, every character, their separate, whole lives; even if a lot of it happens in the background. My only gripe would involve a spoiler, so I will dance around it in this review. I'm talking about Dinah's ultimate destiny. It seemed to lessen her character. I thought it was a pity.
    • 5/5
      I believe this may be the most beautiful book I have ever read. I felt both uplifted and emotionally drained when I finished. The tragedy and the great beauty of George Eliot's writing! I didn't read this edition, mine was much older, but the introduction of my edition quoted Charles Dickens as saying that reading Adam Bede was an epoch in his life, and Alexandre Dumas called it the masterpiece of the century. I'm happy to agree with them. Most people say that Middlemarch is George Eliot's masterpiece. That was tragic and beautiful as well, but I was so much more drawn into the character's of Adam Bede. I loved them all (even Hetty) because even though they may have made bad choices, we were allowed to see things from their perspective and gain an understanding of why they did what they did. I love that about George Eliot. Dickens' characters sometimes seem almost like caricatures because they are either so good or so evil. I appreciate the humanity of Eliot. In fact, I understood Arthur Donnithorne all too well. He so wants to be a good person and have people think well of him, and yet he is weak when it really matters. This is a silly analogy, but I decided to make chocolate chip cookies one day while reading Adam Bede. I knew I really shouldn't because I would eat too many and not be able to stop, but when it came to the point I made them anyway and ate too many. I realized how like Arthur that was! He knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing, and he talked himself out of it many times, but when it came to the point he still did it.It's interesting that although George Eliot personally seemed to have issues with the religion of her day, she can talk about religion so beautifully in her books. (I realize I have used the word "beautiful" way too many times, but oh if you read it, you will understand.) The year the story takes place is 1799, but the year it was published was (I believe) 1856. There was a lot of religious fervor going on at that time. People were searching and wanting to do what was right, and were dissatisfied with the nation's religion, even though there were many good and wonderful members of the clergy. Who could not love Mr. Irwine? And yet Dinah believed in so much more. I had ancestors in England around that time period who I believe felt the same way, and that's why they were so open to hear of the restoration of the gospel from the Mormon missionaries who were sent there.Mrs. Poyser was an absolute gem! I loved that she was able to tell off the Squire and hold her own with the woman-hating Mr. Massey (I wanted to tell him off, too - I wish we could have heard why he hated women so much.). I was grateful that George Eliot put in an epilogue so we could see what happened to the characters who were missing at the end of the book. This is an amazing book - everyone should read it.
    • 5/5
      Wow...what a read. What a classic. George Eliot has drawn characters here that will stick with you long after you have read the last page. The proud, honest, hard-working but also hot-tempered and unforgiving Adam Bede - the beautiful but vain and inexperienced Hetty Sorrel - the landlords grandson Arthur Donnithorne, who so easily deceives himself unable to fight temptation, and the merciful Methodist preacher Dinah Morris - and then - as a voice of experience -you have the kind and wise preacher and the I-will-tell-the-truth-no-matter-what Mrs. Poyser. Her "lectures" have a profound effect - not least when the landlord come to visit with another scheme. Well, it's the thought-life of the characters that I so enjoy - their struggles with faith, love, temptation, forgiveness, loss - Eliot has such a keen understanding of the human nature, it's flaws and strengths - and although an agnostic herself, Eliot has developed people of Christian faith with deep warmth, grace and honesty. It's remarkable. I like the way Adam will find his way of reconciling with God and other people - and the way Dinah have to learn to value the "earthly" aspect of the spiritual life. And how Arthur come to realise that he's not perfect after all. And Hetty.... Well, reader....you just have to find out for yourself about her.
    • 5/5
      This is the third novel by George Eliot that I have read, Middlemarch and Mill on the Floss being the other two. This book was published in 1859 so it is earlier than Mill on the Floss by a year and by 13 years than Middlemarch. I suppose Middlemarch is a more sophisticated novel but I liked Mill on the Floss better and now I like Adam Bede better than either of them. Maybe I’ll always like the last George Eliot that I have read the best until I read another one. I think I have at least 6 more to read so that should take me some time.As the title implies the principal character of the book is Adam Bede, a master carpenter in the village of Hayslope, situated in farming country which Eliot calls Loamshire. However, the real stars of the story are two young women, Hetty and Dinah. Hetty is very attractive and conscious of it. She is vain, somewhat silly and very superficial. Dinah, on the other hand, is subdued, intelligent and religious. In fact, she is a Methodist lay preacher. Hetty and Dinah are both orphans and, at the start of the book, living with their relatives, the Poysers. Mr. Poyser is Hetty’s uncle and Mrs. Poyser is Dinah’s aunt. Dinah is only staying for a while with the Poysers but Hetty has been living with them for seven years. Adam Bede is in love with Hetty and his brother, Seth, is in love with Dinah. Adam has not spoken of his love to Hetty as he is not in a position to offer a home to her. Seth has asked Dinah to marry him but although Dinah is fond of him she tells him she believes she is called to continue preaching and leave aside husband and children for ever.Adam and Seth still live with their parents. Their father was a carpenter as well but has taken to drink and he and Adam do not get along. Their mother is a querulous old woman who prefers Adam over Seth even though Seth is a good son to her. The night the story begins Adam comes home to find that his father is out drinking and has not made the casket that is promised for the morrow. He stays up all night to make it and when the morning comes he and Seth deliver it and then find that their father drowned in the stream by the house during the night. When the news reaches the Poysers, Dinah immediately sets out to comfort Mrs. Bede while Hetty hardly takes in the news. Hetty is thinking about Arthur Donnithorne, the young heir to the local estate, who has been flirting with her.Arthur is very well liked and most of the tenantry can hardly wait until he takes over the estate from his grandfather. He is in the militia at present but is home recovering from a broken arm. He is smitten by Hetty’s looks and thinks to pass the time by romancing her. To his credit, he has no idea that Adam, one of his best friends, has feelings for Hetty. When Adam sees Hetty and Arthur kissing he is jealous but also upset for Hetty’s character. Adam and Arthur come to blows but Arthur is persuaded that he has treated Hetty badly and he agrees to write a letter to Hetty telling her that she must not hope there is any future for the two of them. Then he leaves the county and Adam proposes to Hetty. Hetty accepts him because she desperately wants to be doing something else. Before Hetty and Adam can be married, Hetty realizes she is pregnant and she decides to go to Arthur in Windsor.The pace of the story really picks up here, more than half way through the book and I could hardly put it down. However, the first part is very important for establishing the characters and their motives. Plot is important in Eliot’s books but so is characterization. She is also excellent at describing scenes so that I had a clear picture of the countryside and the houses.There is tragedy here but there is also romance and even some comedy. And for someone who lived with her partner without the benefit of marriage herself she seems to laud marriage. At the end of chapter 54, when Adam and Dinah have agreed to marry, there is this sentence:What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life – to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?Of course, that sentence could also apply to unmarried couples such as she and George Lewes but it is a wonderful description of the blessing that a loving relationship is, whether the couple are married, common-law, straight or gay. And to think that Eliot said this over 150 years ago. It just shows that the power of love is eternal.
    • 5/5
      George Eliot (aka Marian Evans) was so far ahead of her contemporaries. Her realist novels read as if they had been written a hundred years later. Of course, she skirts around some of the more difficult subjects in Adam Bede: the relations between Hetty and Arthur are only hinted at, and the murder of the child is related after the fact.But her characterizations are so much more realistic than anything that Dickens produced it is hard to even draw a comparison. Pip seems a caricature next to Adam Bede. And all of Dickens' female characters lack the depth of a Hetty or even a Mrs. Poyser from Adam Bede.An excellent novel, well worth reading again and again.
    • 1/5
      Did not finish. Which surprised me as I've loved other Eliot novels such as Daniel Deronda and Middlemarch. This one completely failed to grab me.
    • 4/5
      If you like Middlemarch, you will like this story too.This was Eliot's first novel, and having already read Middlemarch that is pretty obvious. The writing is not as crisp. There are random chapters that seem to have nothing to do with anything. The first 75-100 pages are nothing but description (as typical of Eliot and the time period), but once you are through it the book moves very quickly. When I got towards the end, I did not want to put it down.The only real complaint I had was one of the characters, Seth Bede. Seth is Adam's brother. He is a doormat! He was a little frustrating. I wondered why Eliot even bothered with the character. He did not contribute much to the overall plot at all.At any rate, the book is good. If you like Middlemarch and Eliot read it. If you just want to try Eliot for the first time, go with Middlemarch over Adam Bede.
    • 4/5
      Adam personifies goodness, but he's in love with the shallow, self-obsessed Hetty. She is only interested in the material luxuries that the ego-maniacal Arthur can give her. This unfortunate love triangle leads to a tragedy none had anticipated. Eliot has a perfect ear for dialect. Beautifully written and emotionally satisfying.
    • 5/5
      I don't think George Eliot will ever disappoint me. This was her first novel so it isn't Middlemarch or Silas Marner, but still wonderful nonetheless. The dialect takes a little getting used to and some of it is impossible to understand, but that is her point since the characters talk about the accents of different villagers they have trouble conversing with. I wish I hadn't read the librarything tags because I don't think I would have foreseen Hatty's actions. Eliot must have pushed the boundaries with her descriptions of Hatty's and Arthur's affair. Although, I connected with many characters, there were way too many villagers that would pop in and out. Unlike her other novels they weren't developed enough for me to remember each character. And by the last 30 pages there really isn't any reason to introduce new villagers just to show english life that was already established throughout the novel.
    • 4/5
      Very enjoyable read, with three lovely main characters and several interesting minor characters. If you are a George Eliot fan, this one is not quite on par with "Silas Marner" or "Middlemarch", but it is definitely worth a read.
    • 4/5
      Adam was an upright character and his story was full of tragedy, although ended in triumph. "Love Conquers All" Dinah the godly Methodist (woman) preacher seemed an unlikely match at first, although one would assume they would end up together in the end. Because Eliot focused on her so strongly at the beginning of the book, I knew she would be a savior in some way. As Hettie took center stage, I began to think maybe the book should have been titled "The Runaway Bride." The trial of Hettie completely shocked me. I thought it was clever how Eliot kept the bastard child a secret from the reader, and I was floored when Hettie's secret was revealed. Her execution was heartbreaking, in spite of her crime. Dinah saved Hettie's soul with the prison visit and the comfort she brought, allowing Hettie to face the truth, giving her courage to ask her Lord for forgiveness. Although if Adam hadn't of confronted Arthur about the secret relationship he had with Hettie in the first place, her life might have been spared. She might have lived with her shame as a unwed mother, and maybe Arthur would have done the right thing. I thought the ending was bittersweet as Adam realized because of his love and sorrow with Hettie, he felt even stronger about his love for Dinah. Only Dinah with her holiness would have been able to know how badly Adam needed a new life, to forget the pain of his past. I'm glad she found her feelings for Adam were strong enough to forsake the life of a ‘nun.’ Adam and Dinah's love is deep to carry them through the pain of the past to a promising future.
    • 5/5
      One of my favourite books of all time.
    • 4/5
      George Eliot's Adam Bede lives in the charming rustic countryside and adheres to a stoic version of the Puritan work ethic. His world is disrupted by both the classic temptation of Eros in the form of the too beautiful Hetty and the dissenting spiritual views of the Methodist preacher Dinah Morris.The author controls the narrative and lectures the reader as the other characters, brother Seth, Arthur Donnithorne, the Poysers, and the Rector Irwine are intertwined in the the fates of young Hetty and Adam. The novel succeeds in conveying the bucolic charm of the place while almost convincing us of the inevitability of fate. Above all, the characters are interesting and believable. My favorite, the Rector Irwine is notable in his interest in the classics and his disdain of preaching. Hetty Sorrel, the narcissistic young girl is harder to believe or understand, but she certainly has the requisite beauty to catch the eye of the aristocratic young Arthur who lets his emotions hold sway over his reason (insufficiently developed to handle this battle). Rereading this early novel of Eliot suggests the potential that she would fulfill in her later work, particularly Middlemarch.
    • 4/5
      Eliot in many ways defined the Vicotiran novel thorugh Adam Bede. The story, which takes place in 1799 (i.e. the very beginning of the Romantic age, as compared to the Victorian age in which she was writing the book), takes characters who would have been called heroes by the Romantic writers of the earlier half of the century, and judges them against Eliot's hero, Adam Bede, who defines Victorian morality. Characters like Hetty and Arthur, who fit the guidelines of Byronic heroes, are unable to live up to the strictures of Victorian morality. Through this conflict, Eliot was able to define those characteristics that a Victorian hero should have: control over passion, faith in religion, a strong personal moral code, and a sense of the expectations of his community.That being said, the truly fantastic elements of this novel lie in the rich description of the community and the minor characters that effect the lives of the central triangle. Like (almost) all VIctorian novels, the plot ends with a marriage and a death, and each character is somehow involved or affected by these events.It's been eight years since I read this book (12th grade English), and though many of the smaller details have escaped me, I remember the story well, and remember how reading it affected me. Few books from my high school years really stuck with me, so I have to say that the fact Adam Bede managed to insert itself into my psyche is pretty significant.
    • 5/5
      I really enjoyed this book. In general, I love George Eliot’s writing, but sometimes with authors, their early stuff isn’t great and just makes you wish you were reading later works. However, this one was really good. The plot is involving and very suspenseful towards the end, but that’s not the reason to read this book. It’s for Eliot’s wonderful depiction of the community of Hayslope, her well-written character descriptions and the memorable asides on human nature in general. At first, the late 18th c dialogue can seem off-putting, but it gets easier soon on. It’s certainly no Joseph from Wuthering Heights, my all time standard for incomprehensible dialect.The main plot is essentially a love triangle between poor, upright Adam Bede, beautiful but shallow Hetty Sorrel and the spirited, generous, careless young squire, Arthur Donnithorne. Adam loves Hetty, but she’s more interested in the exciting and rich Arthur, who in turn finds his flirting with Hetty goes too far. There are some predictable and not-so-predictable twists and turns. Some of the plot points are rather convenient, and the suspense sags a bit after the climactic scenes. Again, however, not reading for plot.The character descriptions are superb, and no one can do justice to the story by saying it’s just a tragic love story. Eliot is able to build up the community of Hayslope by well-written extended and brief depictions of its inhabitants and various community events – a funeral, trial and Arthur’s extravagant birthday party. There are plenty of scenes that could be cut out if Eliot’s purpose was only to further the conflict between Adam, Arthur and Hetty. I always think of a great one where Hetty’s aunt tells off the imperious and despised landowner, Arthur’s grandfather, the present squire. Other important characters include Adam’s constantly worried mother, Lisbeth, his alcoholic father, his patient brother Seth, in love with Hetty’s cousin Dinah, a Methodist preacher, Hetty’s well-off aunt and uncle, the Poysers and the tolerant rector, Mr. Irwine. Eliot describes his mother – Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and if Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye—a fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example—at once patient and complaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil.One of the minor character is Joshua Rann, the rather intolerant, unlikeable parish clerk and shoemaker. However, we get a brief glimpse at another side of him – But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the service in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other village nooks in the kingdom—a reason of which I am sure you have not the slightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where that good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a mystery even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got it chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest conceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow souls before his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical ear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed to inspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses. The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the wind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading of a parish clerk—a man in rusty spectacles, with stubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is Nature's way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and poetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him the slightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to his intervals as a bird.Even the secondary characters are important, as Eliot notes herself while describing Rev. Irwine’s sisters – the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous existences—inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect…Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificant people has very important consequences in the world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many evil tempers from the selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that handsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had not had these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would have been shaped quite differently…As it was—having with all his three livings no more than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birth and habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his own—he remained, you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one alluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous; for his was one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never know a narrow or a grudging thought; Epicurean, if you will, with no enthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffering. Eliot is also skilled at depicting the psychological state, especially in Arthur and Adam. Adam, though upright and honest, cannot help feeling guilt about his treatment of his father, however much deserved it was. He’s also easily deceived by Hetty, mistaking her feelings for Arthur as signs of affection towards himself, and misinterpreting her petty nature and competitive flirtation to make another girl – who does love him – jealous. Arthur is essentially the villain of the plot, but he’s much more sympathetic than your usual seducer, rake, snobbishly entitled noble. The author shows his many good resolutions, evasions and slight delusions in his relationship with Hetty – nothing will go wrong, it’s not serious, but if something does happen, then it can always be repaired. He certainly does want to be generous and all the villagers in Hayslope contrast him favorably to his stingy grandfather and look forward to the day when he inherits everything. Arthur has many good qualities, but quickly become a liar and hypocrite. He’s sympathetically depicted, so it’s more like you want to smack him for his bad judgment than wish for bad things to happen to him.So highly recommended, for the wonderful prose, characters, descriptions.
    • 4/5
      A dense delight of a novel, full of amusing witticisms and engaging language. The detail provided in the cause of moral realism is at times a bit too much--these parts can be skimmed without loss. Eliot's views on aesthetics (as voiced by the narrator, particularly in Ch. 17) well reward any serious thought the reader gives them. The heavy-handed plot manipulation to draw the characters together at the end is too forced, but the end can be ignored and the novel still stands up well. The women--Lisbeth and Mrs. Poyser especially--are memorably drawn.

    Book preview

    Adam Bede - George Eliot

    AdamBede_Int_Cover.jpg

    Adam Bede

    George Eliot

    HarperPerennialClassicsLogo.jpg

    CONTENTS

    Epigraph

    Book One

    Chapter I—The Workshop

    Chapter II—The Preaching

    Chapter III—After the Preaching

    Chapter IV—Home and Its Sorrows

    Chapter V—The Rector

    Chapter VI—The Hall Farm

    Chapter VII—The Dairy

    Chapter VIII—A Vocation

    Chapter IX—Hetty’s World

    Chapter X—Dinah Visits Lisbeth

    Chapter XI—In the Cottage

    Chapter XII—In the Wood

    Chapter XIII—Evening in the Wood

    Chapter XIV—The Return Home

    Chapter XV—The Two Bed-Chambers

    Chapter XVI—Links

    Book Two

    Chapter XVII—In Which the Story Pauses a Little

    Chapter XVIII—Church

    Chapter XIX—Adam on a Working Day

    Chapter XX—Adam Visits the Hall Farm

    Chapter XXI—The Night-School and the Schoolmaster

    Book Three

    Chapter XXII—Going to the Birthday Feast

    Chapter XXIII—Dinner-Time

    Chapter XXIV—The Health-Drinking

    Chapter XXV—The Games

    Chapter XXVI—The Dance

    Book Four

    Chapter XXVII—A Crisis

    Chapter XXVIII—A Dilemma

    Chapter XXIX—The Next Morning

    Chapter XXX—The Delivery of the Letter

    Chapter XXXI—In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber

    Chapter XXXII—Mrs. Poyser ‘Has Her Say Out’

    Chapter XXXIII—More Links

    Chapter XXXIV—The Betrothal

    Chapter XXXV—The Hidden Dread

    Book Five

    Chapter XXXVI—The Journey in Hope

    Chapter XXXVII—The Journey in Despair

    Chapter XXXVIII—The Quest

    Chapter XXXIX—The Tidings

    Chapter XL—The Bitter Waters Spread

    Chapter XLI—The Eve of the Trial

    Chapter XLII—The Morning of the Trial

    Chapter XLIII—The Verdict

    Chapter XLIV—Arthur’s Return

    Chapter XLV—In the Prison

    Chapter XLVI—The Hours of Suspense

    Chapter XLVII—The Last Moment

    Chapter XLVIII—Another Meeting in the Wood

    Book Six

    Chapter XLIX—At the Hall Farm

    Chapter L—In the Cottage

    Chapter LI—Sunday Morning

    Chapter LII—Adam and Dinah

    Chapter LIII—The Harvest Supper

    Chapter LIV—The Meeting on the Hill

    Chapter LV—Marriage Bells

    Epilogue

    About the Author

    About the Series

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Epigraph

    ". . . So that ye may have

    Clear images before your gladden’d eyes

    Of nature’s unambitious underwood,

    And flowers proper in the shade. And when

    I speak of such among the flock as swerved

    Or fell, those only shall be singled out

    Upon whose lapse, or error, something more

    Than brotherly forgiveness may attend. . ."

    —The Excursion, William Wordsworth

    Book One

    Chapter I

    The Workshop

    With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.

    The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong baritone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing—

    Awake, my soul, and with the sun

    Thy daily stage of duty run;

    Shake off dull sloth . . .

    Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour—

    Let all thy converse be sincere,

    Thy conscience as the noonday clear.

    Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelligence.

    It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam’s brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother’s; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow.

    The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.

    The concert of the tools and Adam’s voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, There! I’ve finished my door today, anyhow.

    The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise, What! Dost think thee’st finished the door?

    Aye, sure, said Seth, with answering surprise; what’s awanting to ’t?

    A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, Why, thee ’st forgot the panels.

    The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown.

    Hoorray! shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door. We’ll hang up th’ door at fur end o’ th’ shop an’ write on ’t ‘Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.’ Here, Jim, lend’s hould o’ th’ red pot.

    Nonsense! said Adam. Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You’ll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’ your mouth then.

    Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my head’s full o’ th’ Methodies, said Ben.

    Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.

    Ben, however, had now got the red pot in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air.

    Let it alone, will you? Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. Let it alone, or I’ll shake the soul out o’ your body.

    Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn’t mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke.

    Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he’s i’ the right to laugh at me—I canna help laughing at myself.

    I shan’t loose him till he promises to let the door alone, said Adam.

    Come, Ben, lad, said Seth, in a persuasive tone, don’t let’s have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may’s well try to turn a wagon in a narrow lane. Say you’ll leave the door alone, and make an end on ’t.

    I binna frighted at Adam, said Ben, but I donna mind sayin’ as I’ll let ’t alone at your askin’, Seth.

    Come, that’s wise of you, Ben, said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp.

    They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm.

    Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth, he began—the pretty parson’s face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?

    Come and hear her, Ben, said Seth, good-humouredly; she’s going to preach on the Green tonight; happen ye’d get something to think on yourself then, instead o’ those wicked songs you’re so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that ’ud be the best day’s earnings y’ ever made.

    "All i’ good time for that, Seth; I’ll think about that when I’m a-goin’ to settle i’ life; bachelors doesn’t want such heavy earnin’s. Happen I shall do the coortin’ an’ the religion both together, as ye do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha’ me get converted an’ chop in atween ye an’ the pretty preacher, an’ carry her aff?"

    No fear o’ that, Ben; she’s neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won’t speak lightly on her again.

    Well, I’m half a mind t’ ha’ a look at her tonight, if there isn’t good company at th’ Holly Bush. What’ll she take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i’ time for’t. Will’t be—what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetess—a uncommon pretty young woman.

    Come, Ben, said Adam, rather sternly, you let the words o’ the Bible alone; you’re going too far now.

    "What! Are ye a-turnin’ roun’, Adam? I thought ye war dead again th’ women preachin’, a while agoo?"

    Nay, I’m not turnin’ noway. I said nought about the women preachin’. I said, You let the Bible alone: you’ve got a jest-book, han’t you, as you’re rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that.

    Why, y’ are gettin’ as big a saint as Seth. Y’ are goin’ to th’ preachin’ tonight, I should think. Ye’ll do finely t’ lead the singin’. But I don’ know what Parson Irwine ’ull say at his gran’ favright Adam Bede a-turnin’ Methody.

    Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I’m not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are—though it’s like enough you’ll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine’s got more sense nor to meddle wi’ people’s doing as they like in religion. That’s between themselves and God, as he’s said to me many a time.

    Aye, aye; but he’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for all that.

    Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but I don’t hinder you from making a fool o’ yourself wi’t.

    There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, very seriously.

    Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion’s like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o’ the matter as well as the church folks.

    Nay, Seth, lad; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. Let ’em follow their consciences, that’s all. Only I think it ’ud be better if their consciences ’ud let ’em stay quiet i’ the church—there’s a deal to be learnt there. And there’s such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals, an’ th’ aqueduc’s, an’ th’ coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t’ hear some o’ them preachers, you’d think as a man must be doing nothing all’s life but shutting’s eyes and looking what’s agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love o’ God in his soul, and the Bible’s God’s word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o’ looking at it: there’s the sperrit o’ God in all things and all times—weekday as well as Sunday—and i’ the great works and inventions, and i’ the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working hours—builds a oven for ’s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he’s doin’ more good, and he’s just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.

    Well done, Adam! said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking; that’s the best sarmunt I’ve heared this long while. By th’ same token, my wife’s been a-plaguin’ on me to build her a oven this twelvemont.

    There’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam, observed Seth, gravely. But thee know’st thyself as it’s hearing the preachers thee find’st so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It’s the preacher as empties th’ alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he’ll do his work none the worse for that.

    On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth? said Wiry Ben.

    Ah, Ben, you’ve got a joke again’ me as ’ll last you your life. But it isna religion as was i’ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the pity.

    Ne’er heed me, Seth, said Wiry Ben, y’ are a down-right good-hearted chap, panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.

    Seth, lad, said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some ’s got one way o’ looking at things and some ’s got another.

    Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness, said Seth, I know that well enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick’st my hand after.

    All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, Look there, now! I can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their work and was afraid o’ doing a stroke too much.

    Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for nought.

    Nonsense, said Adam, still wrathful; what’s age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck, just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and delight in ’s work. The very grindstone ’ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.

    Bodderation, Adam! exclaimed Wiry Ben; lave a chap aloon, will ’ee? Ye war afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’ preachin’ yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; that’ll ’commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.

    With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.

    Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching? Adam asked, looking up.

    Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I shan’t be home before going for ten. I’ll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she’s willing. There’s nobody comes with her from Poyser’s, thee know’st.

    Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee, said Adam.

    Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself tonight? said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.

    Nay, I’m going to th’ school.

    Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master’s face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him.

    What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp? said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.

    Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, Of course. Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression.

    The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s and Seth’s dinner; and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master’s heels.

    On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman’s sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, Here’s the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?

    Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary’s i’ th’ house, and Mester Burge ’ull be back anon; he’d be glad t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m, I’ll be’s warrand.

    No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.

    Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings.

    Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head:

    Let all thy converse be sincere,

    Thy conscience as the noonday clear;

    For God’s all-seeing eye surveys

    Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.

    Chapter II

    The Preaching

    About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing at intervals.

    Mr. Casson’s person was by no means of that common type which can be allowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson’s head was not at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a spotty globe, as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression—which was chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention—was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in a man who had been butler to the family for fifteen years, and who, in his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his curiosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr. Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne Arms.

    Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler, said the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse’s hoofs.

    Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord? he continued, getting down. There seems to be quite a stir.

    It’s a Methodis’ preaching, sir; it’s been gev hout as a young woman’s a-going to preach on the Green, answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. Will you please to step in, sir, an’ tek somethink?

    No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose?

    Parson Irwine, sir, doesn’t live here; he lives at Brox’on, over the hill there. The parsonage here’s a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an’ puts up his hoss here. It’s a grey cob, sir, an’ he sets great store by’t. He’s allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donnithorne Arms. I’m not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country, sir; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ‘hevn’t you?’—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hevn’t you’—well, the people about here says ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That’s what I’ve heared Squire Donnithorne say many a time; it’s the dileck, says he.

    Aye, aye, said the stranger, smiling. "I know it very well. But you’ve not got many Methodists about here, surely—in this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about here. You’re all farmers, aren’t you? The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on them."

    Why, sir, there’s a pretty lot o’ workmen round about, sir. There’s Mester Burge as owns the timberyard over there, he underteks a good bit o’ building an’ repairs. An’ there’s the stone-pits not far off. There’s plenty of emply i’ this countryside, sir. An’ there’s a fine batch o’ Methodisses at Treddles’on—that’s the market town about three mile off—you’ll maybe ha’ come through it, sir. There’s pretty nigh a score of ’em on the Green now, as come from there. That’s where our people gets it from, though there’s only two men of ’em in all Hayslope: that’s Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin’.

    The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?

    "Nay, sir, she comes out o’ Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she’s a-visitin’ here—

    about at Mester Poyser’s at the Hall Farm—it’s them barns an’ big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She’s own niece to Poyser’s wife, an’ they’ll be fine an’ vexed at her for making a fool of herself i’ that way. But I’ve heared as there’s no holding these Methodisses when the maggit’s once got i’ their head: many of ’em goes stark starin’ mad wi’ their religion. Though this young woman’s quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I’ve not seen her myself."

    Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I’ve been out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that place in the valley. It’s Squire Donnithorne’s, I suppose?

    Yes, sir, that’s Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn’t there, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I’ve lived butler there a-going i’ fifteen year. It’s Captain Donnithorne as is th’ heir, sir—Squire Donnithorne’s grandson. He’ll be comin’ of hage this ’ay-’arvest, sir, an’ we shall hev fine doin’s. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does.

    Well, it’s a pretty spot, whoever may own it, said the traveller, mounting his horse; and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill—a carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French.

    Aye, sir, that’s Adam Bede, that is, I’ll be bound—Thias Bede’s son everybody knows him hereabout. He’s an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an’ wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir—if you’ll hexcuse me for saying so—he can walk forty mile a-day, an’ lift a matter o’ sixty ston.’ He’s an uncommon favourite wi’ the gentry, sir: Captain Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi’ him. But he’s a little lifted up an’ peppery-like.

    Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.

    Your servant, sir; good evenin’.

    The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused.

    The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours’ ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station near the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify this region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the north; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves—left for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead a foreground which was just as lovely—the level sunlight lying like transparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows.

    He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge’s pasture and woodyard towards the green cornfields and walnut trees of the Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old Feyther Taft in his brown worsted night-cap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a new arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the preacher woman—they had only come out to see what war a-goin’ on, like. The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith’s shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith’s door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr. Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann’s leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. Old Joshway, as he is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, Sehon, King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever—a quotation which may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon.

    The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith’s buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad’s Bess, who wondered why the folks war amakin’ faces a that’ns. Chad’s Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks—namely, a pair of large round earrings with false garnets in them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished them earrings might come to good.

    Timothy’s Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier. This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy’s Bess’s Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father’s legs.

    Ye gallows young dog, said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I’ll tek it from ye. What dy’e mane by kickin’ foulks?

    Here! Gie him here to me, Jim, said Chad Cranage; I’ll tie hirs up an’ shoe him as I do th’ hosses. Well, Mester Casson, he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, how are ye t’ naight? Are ye coom t’ help groon? They say folks allays groon when they’re hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th’ other naight, an’ then the praicher ’ull think I’m i’ th’ raight way.

    I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad, said Mr. Casson, with some dignity; Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn’t be fond of her taking on herself to preach.

    Aye, an’ she’s a pleasant-looked un too, said Wiry Ben. I’ll stick up for the pretty women preachin’; I know they’d persuade me over a deal sooner nor th’ ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the night’s out, an’ begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.

    Why, Seth’s looking rether too high, I should think, said Mr. Casson. This woman’s kin wouldn’t like her to demean herself to a common carpenter.

    Tchu! said Ben, with a long treble intonation, what’s folks’s kin got to do wi’t? Not a chip. Poyser’s wife may turn her nose up an’ forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, ’s as poor as iver she was—works at a mill, an’s much ado to keep hersen. A strappin’ young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi’ Adam Bede as if he war a nevvy o’ their own.

    Idle talk! idle talk! said Mr. Joshua Rann. Adam an’ Seth’s two men; you wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.

    Maybe, said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, but Seth’s the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o’er. I’m fair beat wi’ Seth, for I’ve been teasin’ him iver sin’ we’ve been workin’ together, an’ he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. An’ he’s a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all afire a-comin’ across the fields one night, an’ we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to’t as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o’ Will Maskery’s; an’ there’s Will hisself, lookin’ as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o’ the head for fear o’ hurtin’t. An’ there’s the pretty preacher woman! My eye, she’s got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer.

    Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of her companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was near Seth’s tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it—an effect which was due to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart—surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of Methodist—the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach; no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms that said, But you must think of me as a saint. She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant—nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her.

    A sweet woman, the stranger said to himself, but surely nature never meant her for a preacher.

    Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical properties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and psychology, makes up, her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to speak.

    Dear friends, she said in a clear but not loud voice let us pray for a blessing.

    She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: "Saviour of sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor woman—if their minds are dark, their lives unholy—if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her Speak to them, Lord, open their ears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give.

    Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the night watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee: open their eyes that they may see Thee—see Thee weeping over them, and saying ‘Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life’—see Thee hanging on the cross and saying, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’—see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to judge them at the last. Amen.

    Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand.

    Dear friends, she began, raising her voice a little, "you have all of you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read these words: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.’ Jesus Christ spoke those words—he said he came to preach the Gospel to the poor. I don’t know whether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I remember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, ‘Aunt, will he go back to the sky tonight, like the picture in the Bible?’

    "That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord did—preaching the Gospel to the poor—and he entered into his rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told us in his sermon. He told us as ‘Gospel’ meant ‘good news.’ The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God.

    "Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down for was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and have been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven’t been to school much, nor read books, and we don’t know much about anything but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody’s well off, they don’t much mind about hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman’s in trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to tell ’em they’ve got a friend as will help ’em. To be sure, we can’t help knowing something about God, even if we’ve never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes from God: don’t you say almost every day, ‘This and that will happen, please God,’ and ‘We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a little more sunshine’? We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God. We didn’t bring ourselves into the world, we can’t keep ourselves alive while we’re sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us milk—everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls and put love between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to think of him.

    "But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn’t cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us when we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?

    Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what does other good news signify if we haven’t that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend?

    Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy.

    So you see, dear friends, she went on, "Jesus spent his time almost all in doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles to feed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he was very kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost their friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins.

    "Ah, wouldn’t you love such a man if you saw him—if he were here in this village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would be to go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him.

    "Well, dear friends, who was this man? Was he only a good man—a very good man, and no more—like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from us? . . . He was the Son of God—‘in the image of the Father,’ the Bible says; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all things—the God we want to know about. So then, all the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before—the God who made the world and the sky and the thunder and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he had made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he has showed us what God’s heart is, what are his feelings towards us.

    "But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, ‘I came to seek and to save that which was lost’; and another time, ‘I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.’

    "The lost! . . . Sinners! . . . Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?"

    Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will by the charm of Dinah’s mellow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she came to the question, Will God take care of us when we die? she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, Lost!—Sinners! when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather without falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of her own simple faith.

    But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became less calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt their wilful darkness, their state of disobedience to God—as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been opened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was yet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their return.

    There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effect Dinah’s preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and old Feyther Taft, who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come to hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn’t help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, and cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday.

    In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad’s Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in

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