Country life; London (England) -- Description and travel; Natural history -- Outdoor books
Just as his body needed food and drink, so did his mind require
recreation, and that chiefly consists of conversation. The drinking and
the smoking are in truth but the attributes of the labourer's
public-house evening. It is conversation that draws him thither, just
as it draws men with money in their pockets to the club and the houses
of their friends. Any one can drink or smoke alone; it needs several
for conversation, for company. You pass a public-house--the reaper's
house--in the summer evening. You see a number of men grouped about
trestle-tables out of doors, and others sitting at the open window;
there is an odour of tobacco, a chink of glasses and mugs. You can
smell the tobacco and see the ale; you cannot see the indefinite power
which holds men there--the magnetism of company and conversation.
_Their_ conversation, not _your_ conversation; not the last book, the
last play; not saloon conversation; but theirs--talk in which neither
you nor any one of your condition could really join. To us there would
seem nothing at all in that conversation, vapid and subjectless; to
them it means much. We have not been through the same circumstances:
our day has been differently spent, and the same words have therefore a
varying value. Certain it is, that it is conversation that takes men to
the public-house. Had Roger been a horse he would have hastened to
borrow some food, and, having eaten that, would have cast himself at
once upon his rude bed. Not being an animal, though his life and work
were animal, he went with his friends to talk. Let none unjustly
condemn him as a blackguard for that--no, not even though they had seen
him at ten o'clock unsteadily walking to his shed, and guiding himself
occasionally with his hands to save himself from stumbling. He
blundered against the door, and the noise set the swallows on the beams
twittering. He reached his bedstead, and sat down and tried to unlace
his boots, but could not. He threw himself upon the sacks and fell
asleep. Such was one twenty-four hours of harvest-time.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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