To a certain extent, I think _Silas Marner_ holds a higher place than any of the author's works. It is more nearly a masterpiece; it has more of that simple, rounded, consummate aspect, that absence of loose ends and gaping issues, which marks a classical work. What was attempted in it, indeed, was within more immediate reach than the heart-trials of Adam Bede and Maggie Tulliver. A poor, dull-witted, disappointed Methodist cloth-weaver; a little golden-haired foundling child; a well-meaning, irresolute country squire, and his patient, childless wife;--these, with a chorus of simple, beer-loving villagers, make up the _dramatis personae_. More than any of its brother-works, _Silas Marner_, I think, leaves upon the mind a deep impression of the grossly material life of agricultural England in the last days of the old _régime_,--the days of full-orbed Toryism, of Trafalgar and of Waterloo, when the invasive spirit of French domination threw England back upon a sense of her own insular solidity, and made her for the time doubly, brutally, morbidly English. Perhaps the best pages in the work are the first thirty, telling the story of poor Marner's disappointments in friendship and in love, his unmerited disgrace, and his long, lonely twilight-life at Raveloe, with the sole companionship of his loom, in which his muscles moved "with such even repetition, that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the holding of his breath." Here, as in all George Eliot's books, there is a middle life and a low life; and here, as usual, I prefer the low life. In _Silas Marner_, in my opinion, she has come nearest the mildly rich tints of brown and gray, the mellow lights and the undreadful corner-shadows of the Dutch masters whom she emulates. One of the chapters contains a scene in a pot-house, which frequent reference has made famous. Never was a group of honest, garrulous village simpletons more kindly and humanely handled. After a long and somewhat chilling silence, amid the pipes and beer, the landlord opens the conversation "by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher:-- "'Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?' "The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat, and replied, 'And they wouldn't be fur wrong, John.' "After this feeble, delusive thaw, silence set in as severely as before. "'Was it a red Durham?' said the farrier, taking up the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. "The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering. "'Red it was,' said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble,--'and a Durham it was.'