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290 Cards in this Set
- Front
- Back
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an unusual appearance of |
excitement in the village |
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the whole length of |
it’s little street |
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the inhabitants had evidently |
been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine |
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a small farmyard and |
stackyard |
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a pretty take of |
land |
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a promise of good |
feed |
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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 |
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had been for some time |
standing at the door |
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balancing himself on his |
heels and toes |
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a piece of |
unenclosed ground |
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which he knew to be the destination of certain |
grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing at intervals |
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Mr Casson’s person was |
by no means that of a common type which can be allowed to pass without description |
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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 |
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which naturally performed |
the function of a mere satellite and tributary |
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But here the resemblance |
ceased |
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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 |
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on the contrary, no head and |
face could look more sleek and healthy |
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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 |
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This sense of dignity could hardly be |
considered excessive in a man who |
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and who, in his present |
high position, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors |
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How to reconcile his dignity with |
the satisfaction of his curiosity by... |
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the problem that he |
had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes |
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he had partly |
solved it |
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taking his hands out of |
his pockets and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat |
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throwing his head on |
one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever might fall under his notice |
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his thoughts were diverted by the |
approach of... |
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the horseman whom |
we lately saw pausing to have another look at... |
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There seems to be quite |
a stir |
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answered Mr Casson in a |
treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent |
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The parsonage here’s a |
tumble-down place |
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He comes here to |
preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir |
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he sets great |
store by it |
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I’m not this countryman, |
you may tell by my tongue, sir |
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got the turn of their |
tongue when I was a boy |
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this agricultural |
spot |
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I should have thought there |
would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about here |
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The Methodists can seldom |
lay hold on them |
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there’s a pretty lot of |
workmen round about, sir |
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he undertakes a |
good bit of building and repairs |
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the market- |
town about three mile off |
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she’s visiting |
hereabout at Mister Poyser’s |
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vexed at her for |
making a fool of herself in that way |
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many of them go stark |
staring mad with their religion |
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Though this woman’s |
quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out |
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There’s pretty nigh |
a score of them |
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a fine |
batch of Methodists at Treddleston |
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there’s no holding these |
Methodists when the maggot’s once got in their head |
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some fine |
strapping fellows |
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marching along like |
a soldier |
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We want such fellows |
as he to lick the French |
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Adam Bede, that is, I’ll be |
bound |
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everybody knows him |
hereabout |
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He’s an uncommon |
clever steady fellow, an’ wonderful strong |
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He’s an uncommon |
favourite with the gentry, sir |
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he can walk forty |
mile a day, and lift a matter of sixty stone |
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But he’s a little |
lifted up and peppery-like |
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the singular |
contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple |
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and perhaps |
yet more |
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curiosity to see the young female preacher, |
proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused |
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The Green lay at |
the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions |
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leading farther |
up the hill |
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winding gently |
down towards the valley |
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the broken |
line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate |
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the opposite, |
northwestern side |
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there was nothing to |
obstruct the view of gently-swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill |
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That rich |
undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged, lies close to that grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills |
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a pretty blooming |
sister |
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a rugged, tall |
swarthy brother |
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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... |
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his road |
wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn |
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at every turn he |
came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope |
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some homestead with its |
long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks |
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some grey |
steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles |
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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 |
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he had before him in |
one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land |
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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 |
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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 |
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wooed from |
day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them |
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a large sweep |
of park |
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a broad |
glassy pool |
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the swelling |
slope of meadow |
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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 umbels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows |
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It was that moment in the summer when the sound of the scythe |
being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows |
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He might have seen |
other beauties in the landscape if... |
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beyond Jonathan Burge’s |
pasture and woodyard towards the green cornfields and walnut trees |
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but apparently there was |
more interest for him in the... |
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Every generation in |
the village was there |
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old ‘Feyther Taft’ in his brown |
worsted nightcap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while |
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babies with their |
little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. |
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a slouching |
labourer |
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occasionally sending |
forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben |
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Wiry Ben, who had |
renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form |
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both styles of |
wit were treated with equal contempt by... |
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Mr Rann’s leathern |
apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker |
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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 |
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as he is irreverently |
called by his neighbours |
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came out to look at the unusual |
scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what anyone had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question |
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But all took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and |
identify themselves that way as 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’ |
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The men were chiefly |
gathered in the... |
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gathered in a |
knot |
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a whisper is |
unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag |
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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 |
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the group in |
the vicinity of... |
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and formed no |
screen in front of... |
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stood with his |
black brawny arms folded |
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in a state of simmering |
indignation |
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to say, in a resounding |
bass undertone, like the tuning of a violincello |
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a quotation which |
may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion |
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but, as with every other |
anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence |
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Mr Rann was inwardly |
maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous interruption of Methodism |
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and as that dignity was |
bound up with his own sonorous utterance of... |
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his argument naturally |
suggested a... |
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The stronger |
curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quaker-like costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists |
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This young |
olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by false modesty, had advanced beyond... |
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bending down to take him by the shoulder, |
with an air of grave remonstrance |
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kicked out |
vigorously |
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as that personage |
sauntered up towards the group of men |
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They say folks always groan when they’re |
hearkening to the Methodys |
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Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece was treated any |
ways disrespectful |
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Ay, an’ she’s a |
pleasant-looked un too |
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I know they’d persuade |
me over a deal sooner than the... |
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as if wrapt |
in prayer or meditation |
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I shouldn’t |
wonder if I turn Methody afore the night’s out... |
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Why, Seth’s looking |
rather too high, I should think |
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This woman’s kin |
wouldn’t like her to demean herself to a common carpenter |
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said Ben, with a |
long treble intonation |
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what’s folks kin got to do with it? |
Not a chip |
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Poyser’s wife may turn |
her nose up and forget bygones |
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Idle talk! |
idle talk! |
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said Wiry Ben, |
contemptuously |
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he bears me |
no more malice than a lamb |
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he’s a stout- |
hearted fellow |
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with a look of |
melancholy compassion |
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as bold as |
a constable |
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looking as meek as if he |
couldn’t knock a nail on the head for the fear of hurting it |
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My eye, |
she’s got her bonnet off. I must go a bit nearer. |
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Dinah walked rather |
quickly, and in advance of her companions |
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While she was near Seth’s |
tall figure |
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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 |
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struck with |
surprise |
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the feminine |
delicacy of her appearance |
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the total absence of |
self-consciousness in her demeanour |
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Chad’s Bess was the |
object of peculiar compassion |
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ornaments |
contemned not only by the Methodists, but by... |
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with much cousinly |
feeling, often wished ‘them ear-rings’ might come to no good |
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Timothy’s Bess, though |
retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars |
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possessed a handsome |
set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention... |
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the sturdy fellow |
of five in knee-breeches, and red legs |
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who had a rusty milk-can |
round his neck by way of drum |
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with some paternal |
pride |
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took to his |
heels and sought refuge behind... |
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advance with a |
measured step |
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a demure |
solemnity of countenance |
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he felt sure that her face would be |
mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness |
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He knew but two types of Methodists - |
the ecstatic and the bilious |
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walked as simply as if |
she were going to market |
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as unconscious of her |
outward appearance as a little boy |
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there was no blush, no |
tremulousness |
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no casting up |
or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms |
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she stood, and turned her |
grey eyes on the people |
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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. |
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She stood with her |
left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays |
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but in this sober |
light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. |
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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. |
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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 left blurred or unfinished. |
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It was one of those faces that |
make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. |
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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. |
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Joshua Rann gave a long |
cough as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself |
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Wiry Ben wondered how |
Seth had the pluck to think of courting her |
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Chad Cranage lifted up his |
leather skull-cap and scratched his head |
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but surely nature |
never made her for a preacher |
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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. |
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she said, in a clear |
but not loud voice |
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continued in the same moderate |
tone as if speaking to someone quite near her |
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laden with |
sins |
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her mind was dark; |
her life was unholy |
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the group of villagers, who were now gathered |
rather more closely on her right hand |
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you have all |
of you been to church |
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The spirit of the Lord is upon me because |
he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. |
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Ye will not come |
unto me that ye might have life |
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It was on just |
such a sort of evening as this |
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lame and |
sick and helpless |
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why does the blight |
come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? |
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For our life is |
full of trouble |
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we are in sad |
want of good news about |
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and what does other good |
news signify if we haven’t had...? |
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the mind of |
God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus |
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the life of Jesus, dwelling |
on its lowliness and its acts of mercy |
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Not but what |
he did good for the rich too |
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the lame and |
the sick and the blind |
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he worked |
miracles |
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I was a little girl, and scarcely |
knew anything |
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he spoke very |
tenderly to poor sinners |
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the world and the |
sky and the thunder and lightning |
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our blessed |
Saviour |
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I came to seek and |
to save that which was lost |
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I came not to call the |
righteous but sinners to repentance |
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he entered into |
his rest about eight years ago |
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but I was a foolish |
thoughtless child then |
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and have been reared |
on oat-cake, and lived course |
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and put love |
between parents and children, and husband and wife |
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he is great and |
mighty |
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as if we was struggling in |
great waters, when we try to think of him |
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the great and the |
wise and the rich |
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to give us our little |
handful of victual and a bit of clothing |
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Hitherto the traveler had been |
chained to the spot against his will by the charm of... |
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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 |
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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 |
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He saw that she had thoroughly |
arrested her hearers |
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The villagers had pressed |
nearer to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces |
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She spoke slowly, |
though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any transition of ideas |
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There was no change of attitude, |
no gesture; the effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice |
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uttered it in such a |
tone of plaintive appeal that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes |
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The stranger had ceased to |
doubt, as he had done at first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she could have the power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher |
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there was a great |
change in her voice and manner |
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She made a long |
pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her features |
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Her pale face became |
paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they do 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 |
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Her voice became |
deep and muffled, but there was still no gesture |
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Nothing could be |
less like the ordinary type of... |
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|
In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad’s Bess, who had |
shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since... |
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Not that the matter of the |
discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah’s |
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Giving up this |
inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah’s nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like her own |
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speaking directly from |
her own emotions, and under the inspiration of... |
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|
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 |
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|
At last it seemed, in her |
yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body |
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Yet 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 is waiting and watching for their return |
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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 |
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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 |
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he dreaded every |
moment that she would fix her eyes on him, and address him in particular |
|
|
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 |
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But gradually the influence of the |
general gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying |
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she repeated in a tone |
of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again |
|
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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 on the ground |
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|
They spat upon |
him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders |
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His lips are |
parched with thirst |
|
|
Then a horror of |
great darkness fell upon him |
|
|
That was the last |
drop in the cup of bitterness |
|
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Father, forgive them, |
for they know not what they do |
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”My God, my God! |
why hast Thou forsaken me?” |
|
|
The 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; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. |
|
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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.’ |
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All this she was generally |
conscious of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it |
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But now she began to feel very much as if the |
constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice for some undefined offence |
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She had a terrified |
sense that God, whom she had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him |
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For Dinah had that belief in visible |
manifestations of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers |
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she made then feel that he was |
among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts |
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and ye |
would not |
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Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose |
bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity |
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in the days of her |
vanity |
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how she might get a |
clean heart and a right spirit |
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to have better |
lace than other girls |
|
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Ah! tear off those |
follies! cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders |
|
|
they are poisoning your |
soul - they are dragging you down into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God |
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|
Bessy could bear |
it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her earrings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud |
|
|
You think of earrings and |
fine gowns and caps |
|
|
Your cheeks will be |
shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and tottering |
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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 |
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because you won’t have him to be your |
Saviour, he will be your judge |
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Come to me that |
you may have life |
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Depart from me into |
everlasting fire |
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Now he looks at you with |
love and mercy |
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Poor Bessy’s wide-open |
black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a little child’s before a burst of crying |
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Ah! poor |
blind child |
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Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose |
bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity |
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in the days of her |
vanity |
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how she might get a |
clean heart and a right spirit |
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to have better |
lace than other girls |
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Ah! tear off those |
follies! cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders |
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they are poisoning your |
soul - they are dragging you down into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God |
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Bessy could bear |
it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her earrings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud |
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Her father, Chad, 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 work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself |
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Folks must have horse |
shoes, preaching or no preaching: the devil can’t lay hold on me for that |
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But now Dinah began to tell of the |
joys that were in store for the penitent |
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to describe in her |
simple way the divine peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled |
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You think of earrings and |
fine gowns and caps |
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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 |
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at last, the very temptation to |
sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun |
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Your cheeks will be |
shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and tottering |
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|
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 |
|
|
because you won’t have him to be your |
Saviour, he will be your judge |
|
|
Come to me that |
you may have life |
|
|
Depart from me into |
everlasting fire |
|
|
Now he looks at you with |
love and mercy |
|
|
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 |
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|
Ah! poor |
blind child |
