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A gentle linen weaver who is wrongly accused of a heinous theft goes into seclusion and finds redemption in his unselfish love for an abandoned child who mysteriously appears at his cottage.
In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farm-houses—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, drawn from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust 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 distinctly that was not close to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart cramp, or rickets,1 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 folk’s rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. 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 present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment: their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by 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.
And 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-scattered 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,2 where it was never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of public opinion. It was an important-looking village, with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 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,3 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-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance would have had noth- ing strange for people of average culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent from an unknown region called “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 wheelwright’s: he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries; and it was soon clear to the Rave- loe 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 Marner’s eyes were set like a dead man’s, and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands 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 incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn’t it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly take away the use of a man’s limbs and throw him on the parish, if he’d got no children to look to. No, no; it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as soon as you can say “Gee!” But there might be such a thing as a man’s soul being loose from his body, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this shell-less4 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 handi- craft 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. 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 beginning: they did not say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly when they did say them. There was only one important addition which the years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money somewhere, and that he could buy up “bigger men” than himself.
But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner’s inward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned to solitude. His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in a narrow religious sect, where the poorest layman 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 explanation 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;5 and though the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful man than he might have been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might have believed in such a creation; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. He had in- herited from his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation—a little store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest—but of late years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs; so that his inherited delight to wander through the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation.
Introduction; Text; Glossary; Activities
Posted June 17, 2000
This is an interesting, nicely written book about a man who becomes so disappointed with the circumstances of his life that runs away and lives far from society. He becomes bitter, loving only his gold, but then changes. What made him change and rebuild his life is brought to him by chance. Destiny seems to have laid it at his door. Then begins the story of the man's transformation and his further affairs, all well told. The best thing about the book was the message it conveys that even when all seems to be lost, everybody can change and lead a full and happy life. What I did not like was that the protagonist did not really change because of his inner will but because of something foreign to him. Destiny will not always lay salvation at our door; more often, people have to make a very strong internal effort to overcome bitterness. In spite of this, the novel is definitely worth reading
11 out of 11 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 2, 2006
Since I am not used to reading classic novels, I found it really interesting to read. I found this book really excellent because of the the descriptive writing and now I am really looking forward to reading many classic novels through my high school years. George Eliot is a really good writer. I want to read all of her books now.
4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 18, 2012
I was required to read this book for my English class. Although it isn't a modern book, it still is an excellent read and applies to modern times.
3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 21, 2008
BORING and DULL.This book can definately put you to sleep. It's too wordy and slow. Don't read this book unless you're getting ready for bed.
3 out of 10 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 5, 2004
The first half of this book is hard to get into, and quite boring, but after that, it becomes an unforgettable heart warming story of a child's love changing an old man's life.
3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 23, 2000
Posted January 19, 2013
Posted December 28, 2012
Book club choice as our classic of the year. Thought something from the 1800's would be difficult to follow but the language is interesting and not too wordy as some of the classics can be. I have not finished this but am still interested and enjoying it 2/3 of the way through.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 16, 2012
Posted September 29, 2008
Generally, I love most books, especially classics. Also, I can say that I liked the idea of the plot. Otherwise, I did not care for the book. I thought the author's writing rambled for the first 210 pages, and did not actually get good until the last thirty pages. The characters were all exceedingly self-righteous, except for Priscilla Lammeter. Also, Chapter Six was a nightmare. So, if you decide you want to read Silas Maner, please do yourself a favor, and skip over Chapter Six. That chapter is only confusing, long, and does not offer any information that is vital to the book. P.S. Kids, you have to read Chapter Six, because you will be tested on it!
2 out of 5 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 27, 2012
Posted December 22, 2012
Posted June 30, 2012
Posted February 21, 2010
"Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul- that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature." (Eliot P 9)
It was Silas's night to watch the sick and old Senior Deacon in the Church of Lantern Yard; the home in which Silas had become so fond of. Then something horrific happened that night. "The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty." (Eliot P 9) Silas had lost everything. But he would not leave until he cleared his conscience of the false accusation. "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." (Marner P 9) And with that, Silas set off as far away from the town of Lantern Yard, hoping that God would justify him and show him refuge.
To inflict more damage to the already broken Silas Marner, late in the wintery night in Raveloe, to his astonishment he looks down to what appears to be a baby sitting at his chair looking at him. Bewildered by this sight, Silas grabs the baby and goes outside to see where she had come from. In the snow, he sees fresh made footsteps by this mysterious baby, which leads him to a furze bush, and behind it lay the baby's mother dead.
"You won't be giving me away father, she had said before they went to the church; you'll only be taking Aaron to be a son to you." (E. Marner P 150) In the light of all Silas's misfortune and peculiar incidents involving him, it is clear that will all sacrifices comes goodness, and in the end, all ends well and restoration is made to the broken hearts of all that seek love again whether be in gold guineas, another woman, or in the heart of a toddler brought to your doorstep by the all mighty himself.
Although a rather average novel at two-hundred-fifty pages, Silas Marner goes in depth and there are multiple outlooks and perspectives to take on the novel. Readers will also face up to a novel written in majority of classic English, which is often confusing and will lead readers off track constantly. One who reads will find that the book begins slowly and is jumpy throughout. Some chapters revolve all around one character and at the end, readers will be left with cliffhangers to think about. However, the novel begins to interest towards chapter five when readers actually get a feel for what each character represents and symbolizes. This novel provides historical fiction as it is based in England, and shows a complexion that many books may seem just too simple. As the headline states, for those who are only intrigued by the Harry Potters and Twilights of literature who look for action around every corner, unfortunately this book does not deliver. However, a person who is looking for a decent intellectual book that goes deep into the culture of a century ago will find the plot and storyline rather graceful. One book that although does not portray the same historical connection as Silas Marner, but does force the reader to think is Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Silas Marner delivers a spin and a twist which takes any reader for a rollercoaster ride, and in the end delivers a thought provoking insight to love, friendship, betrayal, societal hierarchy, religion, and hope earning "9" out of
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 28, 2008
Wow. This novel is the most boring book I have ever read in my life. The novel starts off well, but don't let this trick you. Soon after, the author just goes on with uselss details and descriptions of things that are not important or relevant to the plot. I never had that "can't wait to flip the next page" kind of feeling. More like a "how many pages are left?" kind of feeling. <BR/> <BR/>The reason this book receives two stars from me, is because of the beginning and end. As I said, the novel starts off good. Part two is also good, but those are the only good parts of the novel. Very little in the middle caught my attention, or really pulled me into the book.<BR/> <BR/>Overall, Silas Marner is just not that great. It has its moments in the beginning in the end, but no substance in between. It's like a hamburger, without the meat. Two buns, but nothing in between.
1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted June 18, 2014
I have taught a modified version to students with special needs and this version to students with similar results from both groups. The moral questions transcend setting, and it resonates with students of all backgrounds. I have had more profound classroom discussion with this work than any other. Ben Kingsley has a DVD of the work that is a high quality addition.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 9, 2014
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Posted February 20, 2014
Authors wrote in script and pages hand set type. No one wanted a book too short most were a serial in mag or newspaper before a book and a long book in two volumns the reader wanted their money worth
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