With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian
sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer
far-reaching visions of the past. This is what
I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop
of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy
workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder,
in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the
eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.
The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there,
busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting.
A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike pile of planks
outside the open door mingled itself with the scent
of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer
snow close to the open window opposite; the slanting
sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that
flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine
grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against
the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a
rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant
bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws,
occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at
the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a
shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece.
It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged
which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer
singing—
Awake, my soul, and
with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty
run;
Shake off dull sloth...
Here some measurement was to be taken which required
more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice
subsided into a low whistle; but it presently broke
out again with renewed vigour—
Let all thy converse
be sincere,
Thy conscience as the
noonday clear.
Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and
the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular
man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and
a head so well poised that when he drew himself up
to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the
air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve
rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely
to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long
supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready
for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness
Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name; but
the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its
contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance
of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked,
prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture
of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly
hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such
as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest
intelligence.
