 linen caps. Now and then
there was a new arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his
supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing
to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited
enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the Methodists on the
Green, and identify themselves in that way with the expectant audience, for
there was not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of
having come out to hear the »preacher-woman,« - they had only come out to see
»what war a-goin' on, like.« The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood
of the blacksmith's shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers
never swarm: a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable
of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his
interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away
from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the
dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was
by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the
blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against
the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own
jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had
renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a
new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr. Joshua
Rann. Mr. Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any
doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin and
stomach, and the twirling of his thumbs, are more subtle indications, intended
to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of
the parish clerk. »Old Joshway,« as he is irreverently called by his neighbours,
is in a state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened his lips
except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello,
»Sehon, King of the Amorites: for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King
of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever,« - a quotation which may seem to have
slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every
