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You want to find out a mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell you again, there is no such escape possible except by perverting or mutilating one's nature.
-0It is a way of eking out one's imperfect life and being three people at once-to sing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while—or else to sing and paint.
'The Creation' has a sort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as if it were written for the birthday fête of a German Grand-Duke.
· Miss Maggie.—I think you never read any book but the Bible-did you, Luke ?
Luke (the miller).— Nay, Miss—an' not much o' that. I’m no reader, I aren't.
Maggie.—But if I lent you one of my books, Luke ? I've not got any very pretty books that would be easy for you to read ; but there's 'Pug's Tour of Europe'
—that would tell you all about the different sorts of people in the world, and if you didn't understand the reading, the pictures would help you—they show the looks and ways of the people, and what they do. There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know—and one sitting on a barrel.
Luke.—Nay, Miss, I'n no opinion o' Dutchmen. There ben't much good i' knowin' about them.
Maggie.—But they're our fellow-creatures, Lukewe ought to know about our fellow-creatures.
Luke.—Not much o’ fellow-creaturs, I think, Miss; all I know—my old master, as war a knowin' man, used to say, says he, ' If e'er I sow my wheat wi’out brinin', I'm a Dutchman,' says he ; an' that war as much as to say as a Dutchman war a fool, or next door. Nay, nay, I aren't goin' to bother mysen about
Dutchmen. There's fools enoo—an' rogues enoo· wi’out lookin' i' books for 'em.
Maggie.—0, well, perhaps you would like 'Animated Nature' better-that's not Dutchmen, you know, but elephants, and kangaroos, and the civet cat, and the sun-fish, and a bird sitting on its tail-I forget its name. There are countries full of those creatures, instead of horses and cows, you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, Luke ?
Luke.—Nay, Miss, I ’n got to keep count o’the flour ancorn—I can't do wi' knowin' so many things be. sides my work. That's what brings folks to the gallows-knowin' everything but what they'n got to get their bread by. An' they're mostly lies, I think, what 's printed i' the books : them printed sheets are, anyhow, as the men cry i' the streets.
I can't think what witchery it is in you, Maggie, that makes you look best in shabby clothes; though you really must have a new dress now. But do you know, last night I was trying to fancy you in a handsome fashionable dress, and do what I would, that old limp merino would come back as the only right thing for you. I wonder if Marie Antoinette looked all the grander when her gown was darned at the elbows. Now, if I were to put anything shabby on, I should be quite unnoticeable—I should be a mere rag.—Lucy Deane.
I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he says 'thank you. It's rather hard upon him that he must use the same words with which all the world declines a disagreeable invitation—don't you think so, Miss Tulliver ?-Stephen Guest.
-OLucy Deane.-Well, it will not go on much longer, for the bazaar is to take place on Monday week.
Stephen Guest.—Thank heaven! Kenn himself said the other day, that he didn't like this plan of making vanity do the work of charity ; but just as the British public is not reasonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St. Ogg's has not got force of motive enough to build and endow schools without calling in the force of folly.
Them fine-talking men from the big towns mostly wear the false shirt-fronts ; they wear a frill till it's all a mess, and then hide it with a bib.---Mrs. Tulliver.
-0% It's dreadful to think on, people playing with their own insides in that way! And it's flying i' the face o' Providence ; for what are the doctors for, if we aren't to call 'em in ?-Mrs. Pullet.
- Mrs. Tulliver.—There's never so much pleasure i? wearing a bonnet the second year, especially when the crowns are so chancy-never two summers alike.
Mrs. Pullet.—Ah, it's the way i' this world.
END OF THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.' .