Silas Marner: Imagery 9 key examples

The money has ceased to be just a pile of physical objects to Silas; the coins themselves are precious to him individually. Each coin is a friend. Eliot says he would "on no account" trade or exchange them, as he feels that the money is self-aware, and the pile's growing size brings him comfort. The reader can sense how intensely he feels about his treasure as he fondles and coos over it, craving its presence. It is of note here that Eliot contrasts a very tangible, touchable thing (coins, not "wealth") with thirst, a need of Silas's physical body. This association between the real and the psychological pervades the whole passage. Three verbs describing obsession appear one after the other—"handled," "counted," "drew"— all words which refer to both mental and physical action. Through this tactile language, the reader sees that accumulating and protecting the gold has consumed Silas body and soul.

The way that Eliot personifies the gold in this passage also emphasizes the weaver's loneliness. Silas's work isolates him from the world, and his reliance on the gold for "company" is a sad substitute for human love. When Eppie enters the story as Silas's replacement "treasure," she brings him happiness and real companionship. She is a real solution to Silas's problem, whereas the gold only made his detachment from society worse.

The "moisture" of the clay and the "red, muddy water" of the quarry-ponds foreshadow the destruction of Dunstan's mortal body in the hole he doesn't know is waiting for him. As he thinks about the dreariness of the Stone-Pits "first," and the realization that Silas's gold is hidden comes "second," Eliot links his future crime of theft with his impending punishment.

The "rattling" of Silas's loom reminds Dunstan that the expert weaver's money must be hidden somewhere; the silence of the "deserted" quarry is only broken by this sensory language of production. As the sounds of Silas's loom interrupt his life and prevent him from seeing people, it seems fitting that Dunstan hears them just before his own life is interrupted, and the deep water of the pit prevents people from seeing him at all.

Silas's work literally interrupts and subsumes his religious life. The sound of the loom implicitly covers the sound of the church bells, as does the "frost" outside his windows. The "frost" here also refers to Silas's own coldness. His own nature is "killing" the sound as much as his loom does. In other words, it's the frost inside Marner's house, his coldness and loneliness, that is actually the problem.

His solitude is nourished by the isolation his work brings: all noise, even the bells, is "an accident of the day," just a part of time passing. The sounds of the loom cut him off from the village, keeping him from important social gatherings like those at church, and scaring the village children. Silas's relationship with his work takes the place of religion after the disaster of luck he experiences in Lantern Yard. The rhythmic clatter of the loom sets the rhythm of his days.

The flow of emotion in Silas's "soul" is there, Eliot implies, and the horrible events of the weaver's previous existence in Lantern Yard have only "blocked" it. With the right impulse, it can be made to wash open. Silas now only has a trickle of "soul" he can access, but Eliot implies that "fountains" are forthcoming. This is yet more visual imagery that ties Silas's development to the power of growth in the natural world; elsewhere he is described as a flower blooming and as a tree budding. 

The essential goodness of Silas's character is emphasized by the smallness of the gesture needed to restore the flow. The "little groove of sand" blocking Silas's progress, a tiny rib of earth that blocks the "rivulet," only needs a tiny push to re-open. It gets a huge one, with Eppie, but that's beside the point. Through this description of a rivulet, the narrator confirms that Silas is a good man underneath all his miserliness. The "water" of his good nature just needs to be given a path.

The carol that Dolly mentions is "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," a classic Christian hymn that celebrates the birth of Christ. Like the baby Jesus in the Christmas story, the baby Eppie has just appeared in Silas's home, bringing change and revitalizing his world. The "better" world that Dolly speaks of is just around the corner for Silas, just as Christians sing about when they celebrate the coming of Christ in this song. However, the "hammer-like rhythm"of the carols—as Eliot describes it when the narrative switches back to focusing on Silas—has a very different effect on the weaver than it does Dolly. The sound interferes with the rhythm of his weaving, and he doesn't get any encouragement from the music. It's not until Eppie opens his heart and he re-engages with a gentler version of Christianity that he's able to feel affected by it. 

Eliot makes a humorous use of Northern Dialect here.  "Erol angils" instead of "herald angels" implies that Dolly gets a sense of what the music is about without actually understanding what it's invoking. Carols transport Dolly to heaven in this segment, as she "can't help thinking" she is in a "better place," away from the "illnesses, and the hard dying." The Christmas music apparently offers an escape from the grindingly repetitive and hard "times and times" for England's rural poor. Dolly doesn't have to understand what the words mean to be moved by the carol. The intense sensory language of the swell and murmur of this affecting music, from the low notes of the "bassoon" to the "voices," carries Dolly's bliss and transportation through to the reader.

Ants, like Silas Marner, are associated with total devotion to work and with stockpiling supplies and nesting materials. When his gold disappears, the old weaver is "baffled by a blank," like an ant whose journey to the nest is physically interrupted. He cannot understand the scene in front of him. Without the gold, he has no purpose. The author lists all the materials of his work: the loom, the weaving, and the "growing pattern in the cloth" as still present. However, the "hole in the ground" which Silas the "ant" has been filling with the fruits of his labors is empty and yawning.

Through the theft of his gold, Silas's psychological comfort and his imaginary companionship are also stolen. He is mentally reduced to the status of a lost insect. Even the thought of replenishing the gold doesn't help, as Eliot says in the same chapter that "The thought of the money he would get by his actual work could bring no joy." Before he adopts Eppie, losing the gold leaves him utterly abject and directionless.

The sensory language of the adorable "soft yellow rings" of Eppie's hair in contrast to the "hard" coins Silas is expecting suggests the total change in his character that is about to unfold. Silas wasn't expecting to encounter human warmth in his cottage, let alone his life as a whole. The sweet little girl completely overturns his world, allowing him to "touch" other people again.

Eppie is so sweet and innocent that even the narrator seems lost for words to describe her; Eliot, who's rarely repetitive, uses the word "soft" twice here. Everything about Eppie is relaxed, "round," and pliant, which is quite the opposite of the "resisting outline" of coins. The metal treasure-heap Silas had previously guarded like a miserly dragon has been replaced, to his "utter amazement," with a little girl.

The violence of the old weaver's beating heart as he takes in the scene is also contrasted with Eppie's relaxation and peaceful slumber. Silas was obsessively excited by the gold coins when they were in his possession, and protecting and accumulating them overtook his life to the exclusion of everything else. However, after he adopts Eppie (whom he also wants to protect and help to grow), he stops being lonely and opens himself up to the world. Rather than making his heart pound, she becomes the site of his rest and his peace. Rather than keeping him prisoner inside with his loom, she opens the doors to his heart.

Eliot's novel portrays having a bad character as affecting one's looks negatively, and a good character as being visible in pleasant features and an inviting aura. If you're kind and benevolent, in Silas Marner it will be reflected in your appearance. 

This goes both ways, as pleasant countenances in Silas Marner allow a reader to diagnose things about characters' personalities that might not otherwise be obvious. Readers can "see" things in good people that aren't necessarily visible to the eye in this book; for example, Nancy's eyes are described here as "veracious," which means "truthful." Truthfulness as a character trait isn't really a thing one can usually see, but it's so present in Nancy's character that it's as clear as the color of her irises. Eliot also implies that perceptive people particularly like to see the evidence of a good life well lived on others' faces. She notes, pointing the reader towards this association, that Nancy's beauty would be of interest to those "who love human faces best for what they tell of human experience." Eliot's narrator is very interested in character studies and implies that the reader should be, too.

Images of "calm external beauty" and beckoning rural scenery dominate the first half of this passage. Although the vista is stunning, it's quickly marred by the "vague fear" that Nancy begins to feel. The raven's presence at the end of this quotation casts a shadow over the rest of the passage. Rather than being comforting, the gorgeous landscape only makes her unease with her current situation more acute. The "placid" churchyard, the "brightness" of the grass, and the "glowing autumn" of the Rectory contrast with the macabre simile of the "slow wing" of the raven that immediately follows them. The shadows of the gravestones "across the bright green hillocks," in hindsight, seem sinister, and the "glowing colors" of the leaves actually reflective of the death of summer foliage.

The raven is a symbol of death in all of Eliot's novels and in a great deal of the literature that precedes them. The bird is so recognizable as a harbinger of death that its mere presence is enough to chill Nancy deeply. Eliot uses these juxtaposed images of life and death to foreshadow the startling news Godfrey is about to convey to her about Molly and Eppie. Nancy feels that something bad is coming before she can even really know it, and so does the reader.