or your pocket, to think you've got a better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place where you can keep your coats clean, and have the shop-wenches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way I started, young man: when I was sixteen, my jacket smelt of tar, and I wasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the reason I can wear good broadcloth now, and have my legs under the same table with the heads of the best firms in St. Ogg's.

I'll never pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall give Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he may make a nest for himself, an' not want to push me out o' mine. Pretty well if he gets it when I'm dead an' gone. I shan't be put off wi' spoon-meat afore I've lost my teeth.

All the learnin' my father ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at th' other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and write with a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things.

Not but what, if the world had been left as God made it, I could ha' seen my way, and held my own wi' the best of 'em; but things have got so twisted round and wrapped up i' unreasonable words, as aren't a bit like 'em, as I'm clean at fault, often an' often. Everything winds about so-the more straightforrard you are, the more you're puzzled.

K

The law's made to take care o' raskills.

I want Tom to know figures, and write like print, and see into things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to wrap things up in words as aren't actionable. It's an uncommon fine thing, that is, when you can let a man know what you think of him without paying for it.

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It's a pity but what Maggie 'd been the lad-she 'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would. It's the wonderful'st thing as I picked the mother because she wasn't o'er 'cute-bein' a good-looking woman too, an' come of a rare family for managing; but I picked her from her sisters o' purpose, 'cause she was a bit weak, like; for I wasn't agoin' to be told the rights o' things by my own fireside. But you see when a man's got brains himself, there's no knowing where they'll run to; an' a pleasant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads and 'cute wenches, till it's like as if the world was turned topsy-turvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing.

That's the worst on't wi' the crossing o' breeds: you can never justly calkilate what'll come on't.

That's the fault I have to find wi' you, Bessy; if you see a stick i' the road, you're allays thinkin' you can't step over it. You'd want me not to hire a good waggoner, 'cause he'd got a mole on his face.

An over-'cute woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep-she'll fetch none the bigger price for that.

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Fine feathers make fine birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those diminutive women; they look silly by the side o' the men-out o' proportion. When I chose my wife, I chose her the right sizeneither too little nor too big.

it

Mr. Tulliver.-The old mill 'ud miss me, I think, Luke. There's a story as when the mill changes hands, the river's angry-I've heard my father say many a time. There's no telling whether there mayn't be summat in the story, for this is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it—it's been too many for me, I know.

Luke.-Ay, sir, what wi' the rust on the wheat, an' the firin' o' the ricks an' that, as I've seen i' my time— things often looks comical: there's the bacon fat wi' our last pig runs away like butter-it leaves nought but a scratchin'.

Mr. Tulliver.-I should go off my head in a new place. I should be like as if I'd lost my way. It's all hard, whichever way I look at it-the harness 'ull gall me-but it 'ud be summat to draw along the old road, instead of a new un.

Luke.-Ay, sir, you'd be a deal better here nor in some new place. I can't abide new places mysen: things is allays awk'ard-narrow-wheeled waggins, belike, and the stiles all another sort, an' oat-cake i' some places, tow'rt th' head o' the Floss, there. It's poor work, changing your country-side.

Mr. Tulliver.-But I doubt, Luke, they'll be for getting rid o' Ben, and making you do with a lad—and I must help a bit wi' the mill. You'll have a worse place.

Luke.-Ne'er mind, sir, I shan't plague mysen. I'n been wi' you twenty year, an' you can't get twenty year wi' whistlin' for 'em, no more nor you can make the trees grow you mun wait till God A'mighty sends 'em. I can't abide new victual nor new faces, I can't -you niver know but what they'll gripe you.

It is mere cowardice to seek safety in negations. No character becomes strong in that way.

A feeling of revenge is not worth much, that you should care to keep it.

I don't think any of the strongest effects our natures are susceptible of can ever be explained. We can neither detect the process by which they are arrived at, nor the mode in which they act on us. The greatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine child; he couldn't have told how he did it, and we can't tell why we feel it to be divine. I think there are stores laid up in our human nature that our understandings can make no complete inventory of. Certain strains of music affect me so strangely-I can never hear them without their changing my whole attitude of mind for a time, and if the effect would last, I might be capable of heroisms.

Giants have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse.

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Love gives insight, and insight often gives foreboding.

--0

I think of too many things-sow all sorts of seeds, and get no great harvest from any one of them. I'm cursed with susceptibility in every direction, and effective faculty in none. I care for painting and music; I care for classic literature, and mediæval literature, and modern literature; I flutter all ways, and fly in

none.

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It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings are deadened? I delight in fine pictures-I long to be able to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what I That is pain to me, and always will be pain, until my faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes.

want.

—0—

Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the scene over which his soul has brooded with love: he would tremble to see it confided to other hands; he would never believe that it could bear for another all the meaning and the beauty it bears for him.