squire, and spent the remaining days of the week in hunting or fishing, and his evenings in playing cards, quietly drinking his ale, and smoking his pipe.  But the hero of the story—­Amos Barton—­is a different sort of man from his worldly and easy rector.  He is a churchman, and yet intensely evangelical and devoted to his humble duties,—­on a salary of L80, with a large family and a sick wife.  He is narrow, but truly religious and disinterested.  The scene of the story is laid in a retired country village in the Midland Counties, at a time when the Evangelical movement was in full force in England, in the early part of last century, contemporaneous with the religious revivals of New England; when the bucolic villagers had little to talk about or interest them, before railways had changed the face of the country, or the people had been aroused to political discussions and reforms.  The sorrows of the worthy clergyman centered in an indiscreet and in part unwilling hospitality which he gave to an artful, needy, pretentious, selfish woman, but beautiful and full of soft flatteries; which hospitality provoked scandal, and caused the poor man to be driven away to another parish.  The tragic element of the story, however, centres in Mrs. Barton, who is an angel, radiant with moral beauty, affectionate, devoted, and uncomplaining, who dies at last from overwork and privations, and the cares of a large family of children.

There is no plot in this story, but its charm and power consist in a vivid description of common life, minute but not exaggerated, which enlists our sympathy with suffering and misfortune, deeply excites our interest in commonplace people living out their weary and monotonous existence.  This was a new departure in fiction,—­a novel without love-scenes or happy marriages or thrilling adventures or impossible catastrophes.  But there is great pathos in this homely tale of sorrow; with no attempts at philosophizing, no digressions, no wearisome chapters that one wishes to skip, but all spontaneous, natural, free, showing reserved power,—­the precious buds of promise destined to bloom in subsequent works, till the world should be filled with the aroma of its author’s genius.  And there is also great humor in this clerical tale, of which the following is a specimen:—­

“‘Eh, dear,’ said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair and lifting up her withered hands, ’what would Mr. Gilfil say if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about in the church in these ten years?  I don’t understand these new sort of doctrines.  When Mr. Barton comes to see me he talks about my sins and my need of marcy.  Now, Mr. Hackett, I’ve never been a sinner.  From the first beginning, when I went into service, I’ve al’ys did my duty to my employers.  I was as good a wife as any in the country, never aggravating my husband.  The cheese-factor used to say that my cheeses was al’ys to be depended upon.’”