Then
come the harvest suppers--noble spectacles. The steady champ of resolute
jaws sounds in a rhythm which is almost majestic; the fearsome
destruction wrought on solid joints would rouse the helpless envy of the
dyspeptics of Pall Mall, and the playful consumption of ale--no small
beer, but golden Rodney--might draw forth an ode from a teetotal
Chancellor of the Exchequer. August winds up in a blaze of gladness for
the reaper. On ordinary evenings he sits stolidly in the dingy parlour
and consumes mysterious malt liquor to an accompaniment of grumbling and
solemn puffing of acrid tobacco, but the harvest supper is a wildly
luxurious affair which lasts until eleven o'clock. Are there not songs
too? The village tenor explains--with a powerful accent--that he only
desires Providence to let him like a soldier fall. Of course he breaks
down, but there is no adverse criticism. Friendly hearers say, "Do yowe
try back, Willum, and catch that up at start agin;" and Willum does try
back in the most excruciating manner. Then the elders compare the
artist with singers of bygone days, and a grunting chorus of stories
goes on. Then comes the inevitable poaching song. Probably the singer
has been in prison a dozen times over, but he is regarded as a moral and
law-abiding character by his peers; and even his wife, who suffered
during his occasional periods of seclusion, smiles as he drones out the
jolting chorus.
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