Adam Bede

the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had ev

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

rary, 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 di

id the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had

e, landlord?” he continued, getting d

to preach on the Green,” answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with

rink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wo

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

, surely — in this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodi

ty 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 t

s from Treddleston

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 t

’ve been out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look

butler there a-going i’ fifteen year. It’s Captain Donnithorne as is th’ heir, sir — Squire Donnithorne’s grandson. He’ll be com

ut 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

derful 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 un

ng to you, landlo

nt, sir; go

is right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps ye

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 m

ar 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 a

e, 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, bec

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 thei

ternal pride, “if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I’

ge 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’ Met

dignity; “Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece was treated any wa

n preachin’; I know they’d persuade me over a deal sooner nor th’ ugly men. I shouldna wonde

ink,” said Mr. Casson. “This woman’s kin wouldn’t

es, 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

a Rann. “Adam an’ Seth’s two men; you

amb. 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

ply 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 egglike line of cheek and c

id to himself, “but surely natur

with the considerate view of facilitating art and psychology, “makes up,” her c

a clear but not loud voice “

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 mind

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 Th

ng at the group of villagers, who were now ga

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 s

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 on

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 sunshi

thing; 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 helples

signify if we haven’t that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave it

e mind of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the l

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 th

this village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would

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 c

r time he said, ‘I came to seek and to save that which was lost’; and an

.Ah, dear friends, does

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 chang

e 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,

oo 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 hi

he gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She couldn’t find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had often been tittering when she “curcheyed” to Mr. Irwine; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of feminine characters with whom you may venture to “eat an egg, an apple, or a nut.” All this she was generally conscious o

print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they nailed hi

you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you: he has risen from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God —’Father, forgive them, for t

e, whose bonny youth and evident

rey, your poor body will be thin and tottering! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved; then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you now, won’

er great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face

spirit — she only wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now”— here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy —”Ah, tear of

frightened lest he should be “laid hold on” too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to

the believer is filled — how the sense of God’s love turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it: ho

d nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven’t got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is — not to hate anything but sin; to be full of love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it

that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that t

the whole cr

eous is

all, enou

for e

elopment of a drama — for there is this sort of fascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker’s emotions — now turned his horse aside and pursued his way, while Dinah said,