He knew
nothing of weekday services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday
sermon if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing; liking
the afternoon service best, because the prayers were the shortest,
and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience,
broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or
port-wine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty
aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered the
guineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of the
irresponsible, for had he not kept up his character by going to church
on the Sunday afternoons?
Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modern
standard. He never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, or
read Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus.
Chapter LIII
The Harvest Supper
As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clock
sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its way
towards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of "Harvest
Home!" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more
musical through the growing distance, the falling dying sound still
reached him, as he neared the Willow Brook.
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