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It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth. Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband? asked Mr. Hempseed. He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he was an authority and an important personage not only at The Fishermans Rest, where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the neighbourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the Scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the rivulets of moisture which trickled down the window panes. No, replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, I dunno, Mr. Empseed, as I ever did. An Ive been in these parts nigh on sixty years. Aye! you wouldnt recllect the first three years of them sixty, Mr. Jellyband, quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. I dunno as I ever seed an infant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an Ive lived ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband. The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument. It do seem more like April than September, dont it? continued Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle upon the fire. Aye! that it do, assented the worthy host, but then what can you xpect, Mr. Empseed, I says, with sich a government as weve got? Mr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom, tempered by deeply-rooted mistrust of the British climate and the British Government. I dont xpect nothing, Mr. Jellyband, he said. Pore folks like us is of no account up there in Lunnon, I knows that, and its not often as I do complain. But when it comes to sich wet weather in September, and all me fruit a-rottin and a-dyin like the Guptian mothers first born, and doin no more good than they did, pore dears, save to a lot of Jews, pedlars and sich, with their oranges and sich like foreign ungodly fruit, which nobodyd buy if English apples and pears was nicely swelled. As the Scriptures say Thats quite right, Mr. Empseed, retorted Jellyband, and as I says, what can you xpect? Theres all them Frenchy devils over the Channel yonder a-murderin their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke a-fightin and a-wranglin between them, if we Englishmen should low them to go on in their ungodly way. Let em murder! says Mr. Pitt. Stop em! says Mr. Burke. And let em murder, says I, and be demmed to em, said Mr. Hempseed, emphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend Jellybands political arguments, wherein he always got out of his depth, and had but little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which had earned for him so high a reputation in the neighbourhood and so many free tankards of ale at The Fishermans Rest. Let em murder, he repeated again, but dont lets ave sich rain in September, for that is agin the law and the Scriptures which says |
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