is shyness, which was so painful
as a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was
regarded as an interesting study. "'Twere blush, blush, blush with
me every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me."

"I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very
bashful man."

"'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul," said the maltster. "And
how long have ye have suffered from it, Joseph?" [a]

[Transcriber's note a: Alternate text, appears in all three
editions on hand: "'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul,"
said the maltster. "And ye have suffered from it a long time, we
know."

"Ay, ever since..."]

"Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes--mother was concerned to her heart
about it--yes. But 'twas all nought."

"Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, Joseph Poorgrass?"

"Oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. They took me to Greenhill
Fair, and into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were
women-folk riding round--standing upon horses, with hardly anything
on but their smocks; but it didn't cure me a morsel. And then I
was put errand-man at the Women's Skittle Alley at the back of the
Tailor's Arms in Casterbridge. 'Twas a horrible sinful situation,
and a very curious place for a good man. I had to stand and look
ba'dy people in the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use--I
was just as bad as ever after all. Blushes hev been in the family
for generations. There, 'tis a happy providence that I be no worse."

"True," said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profounder
view of the subject. "'Tis a thought to look at, that ye might have
been worse; but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee,
Joseph. For ye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman,
dang it all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?"

"'Tis--'tis," said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation. "Yes, very
awkward for the man."

"Ay, and he's very timid, too," observed Jan Coggan. "Once he had
been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and
lost his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn't
ye, Master Poorgrass?"

"No, no, no; not that story!" expostulated the modest man, forcing a
laugh to bury his concern.

"--And so 'a lost himself quite," continued Mr. Coggan, with an
impassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide,
must run its course and would respect no man.