An English Dinner of Thanksgiving by George Eliot
Americans are not the only people who hold a feast each year
after the crops are gathered into barns.
The older boys and girls who wish to know more of the jolly English
farmer, Martin Poyser, and his household, will enjoy reading
about them in George Eliot's great novel, "Adam Bede."
IT WAS a goodly sight—that table, with Martin
Poyser's round good-humoured face and large person
at the head of it, helping his servants to the fragrant
roast beef, and pleased when the empty plates
came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good
appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef to-night—it
was so pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of
carving, and see how the others enjoyed their supper;
for were they not men who, on all the days of the year
except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner,
in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows,
and drank their beer out of wooden bottles—with relish
certainly, but with their mouths toward the zenith,
after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human
bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint conception of
the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and
fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side, and
screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey,
and watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known
as "Tom Saft," receiving his second plateful of beef. A
grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was
set down before him, between his knife and fork, which
he held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers; but the
delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a
grin—it burst out the next moment in a long-drawn
"haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter
gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey.
Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent
unctuous laugh; he turned toward Mrs. Poyser to see
if she, too, had been observant of Tom, and the eyes
of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured
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 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
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 decidedly
forte, 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,
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 on 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 the regular and respectable thing for those excellent
farm-labourors to do, as much as for elegant ladies
and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine
glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive,
had gone out to see what sort of evening it was
at an early stage in the ceremony; and had not finished
his contemplation, until a silence of five minutes declared
that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to begin
again for the next twelve-month. Much to the
regret of the boys and Totty; on them the stillness fell
rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the table,
toward which Totty, seated on her father's knee, contributed
with her small might and small fist.
When Bartle reŽntered, however, there appeared to
be a general desire for solo music after the choral.
Nancy declared that Tim the wagoner knew a song and
was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable"; whereupon
Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's
hear it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head,
and said he couldn't sing; but this encouraging invitation
of the master's was echoed all round the table. It
was a conversational opportunity: everybody could say,
"Come, Tim"—except Alick, who never relaxed into
the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last Tim's
next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began to give emphasis
to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather
savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? else I'll ma' ye
sing a toon ye wonna like." A good-tempered wagoner's
patience has limits, and Tim was not to be urged further.
"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben,
willing to show that he was not discomfited by this
check. "Sing 'My loove's a roos wi'out a thorn.'"
The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious
abstracted expression, which was due probably
to a squint of superior intensity rather than to any
mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to
Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed
his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded
as a symptom of yielding. And for some time the company
appeared to be much in earnest about the desire
to hear David's song. But in vain. The lyrism of the
evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be
drawn from that retreat just yet....