SILAS MARNER. A book written by George Eliot

In the days when the spinning -wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses and even great ladies,

clothed in silk and thread - lace, had their toy spinning -wheels of polished oak - there

might be seen, in districts far away among the

lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain

pallid undersized men, who, by the side of

the brawny country -folk looked like the remnant of a disinherited race. The shepherd's

dog barked fiercely when one of these aliens

looking, men appeared on the upland, dark

against the early winter sunset ; for what dog

likes a figure bent under a heavy bag ?—and… these pale men rarely stirred abroad without

that mysterious burden. The shepherd him

self, though he had good reason to believe that

the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or else

the long rolls of strong linen spun from that

thread, was not quite sure that this trade of

weaving, indispensable though it was, could be

carried on entirely without the help of the Evil

One. In that far- off time, superstition clung

easily round every person or thing that was at

all unwonted, or even intermittent, and occa

sional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or

the knife - grinder. No one knew where wan

dering men had their homes or their origin ;

and how a man was to be explained unless you

at least knew somebody who knew his father

and mother ? To the peasants of old times,

the world outside their own direct experience

was a region of vagueness and mystery : to

their untravelled thought, a state of wandering

was a conception as dim as the winter life of

the swallows that came back with the spring ;

and even a settler, if he came from distant

parts, hardly ever ceased to be viewed with a

remnant of distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the com

mission of a crime ; especially if he had any

reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill

in handicraft. All cleverness, whether in the

rapid use of that difficult instrument the

tongue, or in some other art, unfamiliar to

villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest folks,

born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly

not overwise or clever — at least, not beyond

such a matter as knowing the signs of the wea

and the process by which rapidity and

dexterity of any kind were acquired was so

wholly hidden, that they partook of the nature of conjuring. In this way, it came to pass that

those scattered linen -weavers — emigrants from

the town into the country — were to the last

regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbours,

and usually contracted the eccentric habits

which belong to a state of loneliness.

In the early years of this century, such a

linen -weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at

his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of

Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a de

serted stone-pit. The questionable sound of

Silas's loom , so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half -fearful

fascination for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds'-nesting

to peep in at the window of the stone cottage,

counterbalancing a certain awe at the myste rious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense of

scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery

of its alternating noises, along with the bent,

tread -mill attitude of the weaver. But some

times it happened that Marner, pausing to ad just an irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though, chary of

his time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he

would descend from his loom, and, opening the

door, would fix on them a gaze that was always

enough to make them take to their legs in

terror. For how was it possible to believe that

those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas

Marner's pale face really saw nothing very dis

tinctly that was not close to them, and not

rather that their dreadful stare could dart

cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy

who happened to be in the rear ? They had,

perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint

that Silas Marner could cure folks' rheumatism if he had a mind and add, still more

darkly, that if you could only speak the devil

fair enough, he might save you the cost of the

doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon -worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the grey haired peasantry ; for the rude mind with diffi

culty associates the ideas of power and benig

nity. A shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain

from inflicting harm is the shape most easily

taken by the sense of the Invisible in the minds

of men who have always been pressed close by primitive wants and to whom a life of hard toil

has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic

religious faith. To them, pain and mishap pre

sent a far wider range of possibilities than

gladness and enjoyment: their imagination is

almost barren of the images that feed desire and hope but are all overgrown by recollections

that are a perpetual pasture to fear. " Is there anything you can fancy that you would like to

eat ? " I once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last illness, and who had refused all

the food his wife had offered him. " No," he

answered, " I've never been used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat that." Experience had bred no fancies in him that could

raise the phantasm of appetite.

Raveloe was a village where many of

the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren

parishes lying on the outskirts of civilisation

—inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scat

tered shepherds : On the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to

call Merry England, and held farms which,

speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid

highly desirable tithes. But it was nestled in

a snug well -wooded hollow, quite an hour's

journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was never reached by the vibrations of the

coach -horn , or of public opinion. It was an important-looking village, with a fine old church

and large churchyard in the heart of it, and two

or three large brick- and stone homesteads, with well- walled orchards and ornamental weather

cocks, standing close upon the road, and lifting

more imposing fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side

of the churchyard ;—a village which showed at

once the summits of its social life, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and

manor - house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in Raveloe who could farm

badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money

from their bad farming, in those war times, to

live in a rollicking fashion , and keep a jolly

Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide.

It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had

first come to Raveloe ;; he was then simply a

pallid young man, with prominent, short-sight

ed brown eyes, whose appearance would have

had nothing strange for people of average cul

ture and experience, but for the villagers near

whom he had come to settle it had mysterious

peculiarities which corresponded with the ex

ceptional nature of his occupation, and his ad

vent from an unknown region called “ North

’ard ." So had his way of life : —he invited no

comer to step across his door-sill , and he never

strolled into the village to drink a pint at the

Rainbow , or to gossip at the wheel-wright's :

he sought no man or woman, save for the pur

poses of his calling, or in order to supply him

self with necessaries ; and it was soon clear to

the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge

one of them to accept him against her will — quite as if he had heard them declare that they

would never marry a dead man come to life

again. This view of Marner's personality was

not without another ground than his pale face

and unexampled eyes ; for Jem Rodney, the

mole -catcher, averred that, one evening as he

was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner

leaning against a stile with a heavy bag on

his back, instead of resting the bag on the stile

as a man in his senses would have done ; and

that,on coming up to him , he saw that Mar

ner's eyes were set like a dead man's, and he

spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs

were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if

they'd been made of iron ; but just as he had

made up his mind that the weaver was dead ,

he came all right again, like, as you might say,

in the winking of an eye, and said "Good -night,"

and walked off. All this Jem swore he had

seen, more by token, that it was the very day

he had been mole - catching on Squire Cass's

land, down by the old saw-pit. Some said

Marner must have been in a " fit, " a word

which seemed to explain things otherwise in credible ; but the argumentative Mr Macey,

clerk of the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit

and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn't

it ? and it was in the nature of a stroke to

partly take away the use of a man's limbs and

throw him on the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, no ; it was no stroke that

would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse

between the shafts, and then walk off as soon

as you can say " Gee ! " But there might be

such a thing as a man's soul being loose from

his body, and going out and in, like a bird out

of its nest and back ; and that was how folks

got over-wise, for they went to school in this

shell-less state to those who could teach them

more than their neighbours could learn with

their five senses and the parson. And where

did Master Marner get his knowledge of herbs

from — and charms, too, if he liked to give them

away ? Jem Rodney's story was no more than

what might have been expected by anybody

who had seen how Marner had cured Sally

Oates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart had been beating enough to burst her

body, for two months and more, while she had been under the doctor's care. He might cure

more folks if he would ; but he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from

doing you a mischief.

It was partly to this vague fear that Marner

was indebted for protecting him from the

persecution that his singularities might have

drawn upon him , but still more to the fact

that, the old linen-weaver in the neighbouring

parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft

made him a highly welcome settler to the

richer housewives of the district, and even to

the more provident cottagers, who had their

little stock of yarn at the year's end ; and

their sense of his usefulness would have counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which

was not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for

them. And the years had rolled on without

producing any change in the impressions of

the neighbours concerning Marner, except the change from novelty to habit. At the end of

fifteen years the Raveloe men said just the

same things about Silas Marner as at the be

ginning : they did not say them quite so often,

but they believed them much more strongly

when they did say them . There was only

one important addition which the years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid

by a fine sight of money somewhere, and that

he could buy up “ bigger men " than himself.

But while opinion concerning him had re

mained nearly stationary, and his daily habits

had presented scarcely any visible change,

Marner's inward life had been a history and a

metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature

must be when it has fled, or been condemned ,

to solitude. His life, before he came to Raveloe,

had been filled with the movement, the men

tal activity, and the close fellowship, which,

in that day, as in this, marked the life of an

artisan early incorporated in a narrow religi

ous sect, where the poorest layman has the

chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of

speech, and has, at the very least, the weight

of a silent voter in the government of his community. Marner was highly thought of in that

little hidden world, known to itself as the

church assembling in Lantern Yard ; he was

believed to be a young man of exemplary life

and ardent faith ; and a peculiar interest had

been centred in him ever since he had fallen ,

at a prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rigidity

and suspension of consciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had been mistaken for

death. To have sought a medical explana

tion for this phenomenon would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by his minister

and fellow members, a wilful self- exclusion

from the spiritual significance that might

lie therein . Silas was evidently a brother

selected for a peculiar discipline, and though

the effort to interpret this discipline was dis couraged by the absence, on his any

spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet

it was believed by himself and others that its

effect was seen in an accession of light and fer

vour. He is a less truthful man than he might have

been tempted into the subsequent creation of a

vision in the form of resurgent memory ; a

less sane man might have believed in such a

creation : Silas was both sane and honest,

though , as with many honest and fervent men,

culture had not defined any channels for his

sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over

the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge.

He had inherited from his mother some ac

quaintance with medicinal herbs and their

preparation — -a little store of wisdom which she

had imparted to him as a solemn bequest — but of late years, he had had doubts about the law

fulness of applying this knowledge, believing

that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer,

and that prayer might suffice without herbs ;

so that the inherited delight he had in wander

ing in the fields in search of foxglove and dan

delion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation.

Among the members of his church, there was

one young man, a little older than himself, with

whom he had long lived in such close friendship

that it was the custom of their Lantern Yard

brethren to call them David and Jonathan.

The real name of the friend was William Dane,

and he, too, was regarded as a shining instance

of youthful piety, though somewhat given to

over - severity towards weaker brethren and to

be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself

wiser than his teachers. But whatever, blem

ishes others might discern in William, to his

friend's mind he was faultless ; for Marner had

one of those impressible self-doubting natures

which, at an inexperienced age, admired imperativeness and lean on contradiction . The ex

pression of trusting simplicity in Marner's face,

heightened by that absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer -like gaze which be

longs to large prominent eyes, was strongly con trasted by the self - complacent suppression of

inward triumph that lurked in the narrow slant ing eyes and compressed lips of William Dane.

One of the most frequent topics of conversation

between the two friends was Assurance of sal

vation : Silas confessed that he could never

arrive at anything higher than hope mingled

with fear, and listened with longing wonder

when William declared that he had possessed

unshaken assurance ever since, in the period

of his conversion , he had dreamed that he saw

the words " calling and election sure " standing

by themselves on a white page in the open Bible.

Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of

pale-faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls

have been like young winged things, flutter ing forsaken in the twilight.

It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that

the friendship had suffered no chill even from

his formation of another attachment of a closer

kind. For some months, he had been engaged to

a young servant-woman, waiting only for a little

increase to their mutual savings in order to their

marriage; and it was a great delight to him that Sarah did not object to William's occasional pre

sence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this

point in their history that Silas's cataleptic fit

occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst

the various queries and expressions of interest

addressed to him by his fellow members, Wil

liam's suggestion alone jarred with the general

sympathy towards a brother, thus singled out for

special dealings. He observed that, to him , this

trance looked more like a visitation of Satan

than a proof of divine favour, and exhorted his

friend to see that he hid no accursed thing with

in his soul. Silas, I am feeling bound to accept re

buke and admonition as a brotherly office, felt

no resentment, but only pain, at his friend's

doubts concerning him ; and to this was soon

added some anxiety at the perception that

Sarah's manner towards him began to exhibit a

strange fluctuation between an effort at an in creased manifestation of regard and involuntary

signs of shrinking and dislike. He asked her

if she wished to break off their engagement; but

she denied this : their engagement was known

to the church, and had been recognised in the prayer-meetings ; it could not be broken off

without strict investigation , and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned by

the feeling of the community. At this time

the senior deacon was taken dangerously ill,

and, being a childless widower, he was tended

night and day by some of the younger brethren

or sisters. Silas frequently took his turn in

the night-watching with William, the one re lieving the other at two in the morning. The old man , contrary to expectation, seemed to

be on the way to recovery , when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that

his usually audible breathing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to lift it

to see the patient's face distinctly. Examination

convinced him that the deacon was dead—had

been dead some time, for the limbs were rigid.

Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and

looked at the clock : it was already four in the morning. How was it that William had not

come ? In much anxiety, he went to seek

help, and soon there were several friends assem bled in the house, the minister among them,

while Silas went away to his work, wishing he

could have met William to know the reason for

his non -appearance. But at six o'clock, as he

was thinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the minister. They

came to summon him to Lantern Yard to

meet the church members there ; and to his

inquiry concerning the cause of the summons, the only reply was, “ You will hear ." Nothing

further was said until Silas was seated in the

vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes

of those who to him represented God's people

fixed solemnly upon him . Then the minister,

taking out a pocket-knife, showing it to Silas, and

asked him if he knew where he had left that

knife ? Silas said he did not know that he

had left it anywhere out of his own pocket

but he was trembling at this strange interroga

tion. He was then exhorted not to hide his

sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had

been found in the bureau by the departed

deacon's bedside -- found in the place where the

little bag of church money had lain, which the

minister himself had seen the day before. Some

hand had removed that bag ; and whose hand

could it be, if not that of the man to whom the

knife belonged ? For some time, Silas was mute

with astonishment : "Then he said, " God will

clear me : I know nothing about the knife

being there, or the money being gone. Search me and my dwelling : you will find nothing

but three pound five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these six

months." At this, William groaned, but the minister said, " The proof is heavy against you,

brother Marner. The money was taken in the

night last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for William Dane

declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to take his place as usual,

' and you yourself said that he had not come ;

and, moreover, you neglected the dead body."

" I must have slept," said Silas. Then, after

a pause, he added , " Or I must have had another

visitation like that which you have all seen

me under, so that the thief must have come and

gone while I was not in the body, but out of

the body. But, I say again, search me and

my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else . "

The search was made, and it ended—in William Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty,

tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas's

chamber ! On this, William exhorted his friend

to confess, and not to hide his sin any longer.

Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him , and

William, for nine years that we have gone in and out together, have you ever known

me tell a lie ? But God will clear me. "

Brother," said William, " how do I know

what you may have done in the secret cham

bers of your heart, to give Satan an advantage

over you ?"

Silas was still looking at his friend. Sud

denly a deep flush came over his face, and

he was about to speak impetuously when he

seemed checked again by some inward shock,

that sent the flush back and made him tremble.

But at last, he spoke feebly, looking at William.

" I remember now — the knife wasn't in my

pocket. "

William said, “ I know nothing of what you

mean. " The other persons present, however,

began to inquire where Silas meant to say that

the knife was, but he would give no further ex planation : he only said, " I am sore stricken ;

I can say nothing. God will clear me."

On their return to the vestry, there was fur

ther deliberation. Any resort to legal measures

for ascertaining the culprit was contrary to

the principles of the Church : prosecution was

held by them to be forbidden to Christians,

even if it had been a case in which there was no scandal to the community. But they were

bound to take other measures for finding out

the truth, and they resolved on praying and

drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground

of surprise only to those who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life that has gone

on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with

his brethren, relying on his own innocence

being certified by immediate divine interfer

ence, but feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for him, even then that his

trust in man had been cruelly bruised. The

lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty.

He was solemnly suspended from church membership and called upon to render up the

stolen money : only on confession, as the sign

of repentance, could he be received once more

within the fold of the church. Marner listened

in silence . At last, when everyone rose to

depart, he went towards William Dane and

said, in a voice shaken by agitation

“ The last time I remember using my knife,

was when I took it out to cut a strap for

you. I don't remember putting it in my pocket

again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But you may prosper, for all that : there is no just

God that governs the earth righteously, but a

God of lies, that bears witness against the

innocent. "

There was a general shudder at this blas

phemy.

William said meekly, " I leave our brethren

to judge whether this is the voice of Satan or

not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas. "

Poor Marner went out with that despair in

his soul—that shaken trust in God and man,

which is a little short of madness to a loving

nature. In the bitterness of his wounded

spirit, he said to himself, “ She will cast me off

too." And he reflected that if she did not be

lieve the testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset, as his was. To people

accustomed to reason about the forms in which

their religious feeling has incorporated itself, and it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught

state of mind in which the form and the feel

ing have never been severed by an act of

reflection. We are apt to think it inevitable

that a man in Marner's position should have

begun to question the validity of an appeal to

the divine judgment by drawing lots ; but to him, this would have been an effort of indepen

dent thought such as he had never known ;

and he must have made the effort at a moment

when all his energies were turned into the

anguish of disappointed faith . If there is an

angel who records the sorrows of men as well

as their sins, he knows how many and deep

are the sorrows that spring from false ideas

for which no man is culpable.

Marner went home, and for a whole day sat

alone, stunned by despair, without any impulse

to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in

his innocence. The second day, he took refuge

from benumbing unbelief, by getting into his

loom and working away as usual; and before

many hours were past, the minister and one

of the deacons came to him with the message

from Sarah, that she held her engagement to

him at an end. Silas received the message

mutely, and then turned away from the mes

sengers to work at his loom again. In little

more than a month from that time, Sarah was

married to William Dane ; and not long after

wards, it was known to the brethren in Lantern

Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the

town.