George Eliot

Adam Bede George Eliot

With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chancecomer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this dropof ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenterand builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of ourLord 1799. The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and window-framesand wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike pile of planks outside the open door mingleditself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the openwindow opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew beforethe 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, andwas lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance atthe tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. Itwas to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of planeand hammer singing