"A child,
           more than all other gifts
    That earth
        can offer to declining man,
    Brings hope with it,
           and forward-looking thoughts."

    --WORDSWORTH.

 
  PART ONE

 
  CHAPTER I

    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 remnants
               of a disinherited race.

    The shepherd's dog barked fiercely
         when one
               of these alien-looking men
            appeared on the upland,
           dark against the early
              winter sunset;
        for what dog
            likes a figure
                   bent under a heavy bag?

    --and these pale men rarely
          stirred abroad
         without that mysterious burden.

    The shepherd himself,
           though he
            had good reason to believe
             that the bag held nothing
               but flaxen thread,
         or else the long rolls
               of strong linen
              spun from
             that thread,
           was not quite sure
             that this trade of 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 occasional merely,
         like the visits
               of the pedlar
              or the knife-grinder.

    No one knew
         where wandering men
            had their homes
                  or their origin;
        and how
            was a man
                  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 commission
                           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 folk,
           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 weather;
        and the process
             by which rapidity
                   and dexterity of any kind
                were acquired
                 was so wholly hidden,
           that they
            partook of
                   the nature of conjuring.

    In this way it
        came to pass
         that those scattered linen-weavers
           --emigrants from the town
               into the country--
           were to the last
               regarded as aliens
                   by their rustic neighbours,
           and usually
              contracted the eccentric habits
            which belong
                   to a state of loneliness.

    In the early years
           of this century,
         such a linen-weaver,
         named Silas Marner,
           worked at his vocation
               in a stone cottage
             that stood
                   among the nutty hedgerows
                 near the village of Raveloe,
         and not far
               from the edge
                   of a deserted stone-pit.

    The questionable sound
           of Silas'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 mysterious action
                   of the loom,
         by a pleasant sense
               of scornful superiority,