that ye know nothing of—and that’s travelled a’most from the North Pole.” 

 Christopher Coney was silenced, and as he could get no public sympathy, he mumbled his feelings to himself: “Be dazed, if I loved my country half as well as the young feller do, I’d live by claning my neighbour’s pigsties afore I’d go away! For my part I’ve no more love for my country than I have for Botany Bay!” 

 “Come,” said Longways; “let the young man draw onward with his ballet, or we shall be here all night.” 

 “That’s all of it,” said the singer apologetically. 

 “Soul of my body, then we’ll have another!” said the general dealer. 

 “Can you turn a strain to the ladies, sir?” inquired a fat woman with a figured purple apron, the waiststring of which was overhung so far by her sides as to be invisible. 

 “Let him breathe—let him breathe, Mother Cuxsom. He hain’t got his second wind yet,” said the master glazier. 

 “Oh yes, but I have!” exclaimed the young man; and he at once rendered “O Nannie” with faultless modulations, and another or two of the like sentiment, winding up at their earnest request with “Auld Lang Syne.” 

 By this time he had completely taken possession of the hearts of the Three Mariners’ inmates, including even old Coney. Notwithstanding an occasional odd gravity which awoke their sense of the ludicrous for the moment, they began to view him through a golden haze which the tone of his mind seemed to raise around him. Casterbridge had sentiment—Casterbridge had romance; but this stranger’s sentiment was of differing quality. Or rather, perhaps, the difference was mainly superficial; he was to them like the poet of a new school who takes his contemporaries by storm; who is not really new, but is the first to articulate what all his listeners have felt, though but dumbly till then. 

 The silent landlord came and leant over the settle while the young man sang; and even Mrs. Stannidge managed to unstick herself from the framework of her chair in the bar and get as far as the door-post, which movement she accomplished by rolling herself round, as a cask is trundled on the chine by a drayman without losing much of its perpendicular. 

 “And are you going to bide in Casterbridge, sir?” she asked. 

 “Ah—no!” said the Scotchman, with melancholy fatality in his voice, “I’m only passing 

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