up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep and wide saying, that no
miracle can be wrought without faith--without the worker's faith in
himself, as well as the recipient's faith in him. And the greater part of
the worker's faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe
in him.

Let me be persuaded that my neighbour Jenkins considers me a blockhead,
and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let me
discover that the lovely Phoebe thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall
never be able to fix her blandly with my disengaged eye again. Thank
heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be
useful and agreeable--that we don't know exactly what our friends think
of us--that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the
figure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By the
help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming
and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to
dream that other men admire our talents--and our benignity is
undisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good--and we do
a little. Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday evening,
when he was the subject of the conversation at Cross Farm. He had been
dining at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary squire of the parish, and,
stimulated by unwonted gravies and port-wine, had been delivering his
opinion on affairs parochial and otherwise with considerable animation.
And he was now returning home in the moonlight--a little chill, it is
true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible with clerical dignity,
and a fur boa round one's neck, with a waterproof cape over one's
shoulders, doesn't frighten away the cold from one's legs; but entirely
unsuspicious, not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of his oratorical powers,
but also of the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar as
soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. Miss Julia had