Chapter I
The Workshop
with a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian
sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer farreaching
visions of the past. This is what I undertake to
do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will
show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter
and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the
eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.
The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy
upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pinewood
from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door mingled
itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading
their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the
slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that
flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak
panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of
those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself
a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws,
occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of
the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a
wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong
baritone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and
hammer singing—
“Awake, my soul, and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;