Look at Adam through the rest of the
day, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in
his hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a
floor-joist or a window-frame is to be overcome; or as he pushes one of
the younger workmen aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight of
timber, saying, "Let alone, lad! Thee'st got too much gristle i' thy
bones yet"; or as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of a
workman on the other side of the room and warns him that his distances
are not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the bare muscular
arms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like trodden
meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong
barytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn
psalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet
presently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought which
jars with the singing. Perhaps, if you had not been already in
the secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories what warm
affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic
body with the broken finger-nails--in this rough man, who knew no better
lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional
hymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and for
whom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the
changes of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by
fragmentary knowledge.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353