第 166 节
作者:
温暖寒冬 更新:2024-04-09 19:50 字数:9286
distance; to contemplate his own thatching walking about to get
each rick from the proper point of view。 As he curtsied along; with
his eyes upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at
the summits of the beehive ricks; which indeed were gold of the
best sort; you might have imagined him to be engaged in some
pagan act of adoration。 Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to
have stockings full of coin; concerning which his master cracked a
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joke with him every pay…night: not a new unseasoned joke; but a
good old one; that had been tried many times before and had worn
well。 “Th’ young measter’s a merry mon;” Kester frequently
remarked; for having begun his career by frightening away the
crows under the last Martin Poyser but one; he could never cease
to account the reigning Martin a young master。 I am not ashamed
of commemorating old Kester。 You and I are indebted to the hard
hands of such men—hands that have long ago mingled with the
soil they tilled so faithfully; thriftily making the best they could of
the earth’s fruits; and receiving the smallest share as their own
wages。
Then; at the end of the table; opposite his master; there was
Alick; the shepherd and head…man; with the ruddy face and broad
shoulders; not on the best terms with old Kester; indeed; their
intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl; for though they
probably differed little concerning hedging and ditching and the
treatment of ewes; there was a profound difference of opinion
between them as to their own respective merits。 When Tityrus and
Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm; they are not
sentimentally polite to each other。 Alick; indeed; was not by any
means a honeyed man。 His speech had usually something of a
snarl in it; and his broad…shouldered aspect something of the bull…
dog expression—“Don’t you meddle with me; and I won’t meddle
with you。” But he was honest even to the splitting of an oat…grain
rather than he would take beyond his acknowledged share; and as
“close…fisted” with his master’s property as if it had been his
own—throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to the
chickens; because a large handful affected his imagination
painfully with a sense of profusion。 Good…tempered Tim; the
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waggoner; who loved his horses; had his grudge against Alick in
the matter of corn。 They rarely spoke to each other; and never
looked at each other; even over their dish of cold potatoes; but
then; as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all
mankind; it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more
than transient fits of unfriendliness。 The bucolic character at
Hayslope; you perceive; was not of that entirely genial; merry;
broad…grinning sort; apparently observed in most districts visited
by artists。 The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight on a field…
labourer’s face; and there was seldom any gradation between
bovine gravity and a laugh。 Nor was every labourer so honest as
our friend Alick。 At this very table; among Mr。 Poyser’s men; there
is that big Ben Tholoway; a very powerful thresher; but detected
more than once in carrying away his master’s corn in his
pockets—an action which; as Ben was not a philosopher; could
hardly be ascribed to absence of mind。 However; his master had
forgiven him; and continued to employ him; for the Tholoways had
lived on the Common time out of mind; and had always worked for
the Poysers。 And on the whole; I daresay; society was not much
the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the treadmill;
for his views of depredation were narrow; and the House of
Correction might have enlarged them。 As it was; Ben ate his roast
beef to…night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more
than a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last
harvest supper; and felt warranted in thinking that Alick’s
suspicious eye; for ever upon him; was an injury to his innocence。
But now the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn;
leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking…cans; and the
foaming brown jugs; and the bright brass candlesticks; pleasant to
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behold。 now; the great ceremony of the evening was to begin—the
harvest…song; in which every man must join。 He might be in tune;
if he liked to be singular; but he must not sit with closed lips。 The
movement was obliged to be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum。
As to the origin of this song—whether it came in its actual state
from the brain of a single rhapsodist; or was gradually perfected
by a school or succession of rhapsodists; I am ignorant。 There is a
stamp of unity; of individual genius upon it; which inclines me to
the former hypothesis; though I am not blind to the consideration
that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of
many minds which was a condition of primitive thought; foreign to
our modern consciousness。 Some will perhaps think that they
detect in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line; which later
rhapsodists; failing in imaginative vigour; have supplied by the
feeble device of iteration。 Others; however; may rather maintain
that this very iteration is an original felicity; to which none but the
most prosaic minds can be insensible。
The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking
ceremony。 (That is perhaps a painful fact; but then; you know; we
cannot reform our forefathers。) During the first and second
quatrain; sung decidedlyforte ; no can was filled。
“Here’s a health unto our master;
The founder of the feast;
Here’s a health unto our master
And to our mistress!
And may his doings prosper;
Whate’er he takes in hand;
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For we are all his servants;
And are at his command。
But now; immediately before the third quatrain or chorus; sung
fortissimo ; with emphatic raps of the table; which gave the effect of
cymbals and drum together; Alick’s can was filled; and he was
bound to empty it before the chorus ceased。
“Then drink; boys; drink!
And see ye do not spill;
For if ye do; ye shall drink two;
For ’tis our master’s will。
When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady…
handed manliness; it was the turn of old Kester; at his right
hand—and so on; till every man had drunk his initiatory pint
under the stimulus of the chorus。 Tom Saft—the rogue—took care
to spill a little by accident; but Mrs。 Poyser (too officiously; Tom
thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty。
To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse
of obvious why the “Drink; boys; drink!” should have such an
immediate and often…repeated encore; but once entered; he would
have seen that all faces were at present sober; and most of them
serious—it was t