YEOMAN
Why, you don’t suppose that Boney himself is to be burned here?
RUSTIC
What—not Boney that’s to be burned?
A WOMAN
Why, bless the poor man, no! This is only a mommet they’ve made of
him, that’s got neither chine nor chitlings. His innerds be only a
lock of straw from Bridle’s barton.
LONGWAYS
He’s made, neighbour, of a’ old cast jacket and breeches from our
barracks here. Likeways Grammer Pawle gave us Cap’n Meggs’s old
Zunday shirt that she’d saved for tinder-box linnit; and Keeper
Tricksey of Mellstock emptied his powder-horn into a barm-bladder,
to make his heart wi’.
RUSTIC [vehemently]
Then there’s no honesty left in Wessex folk nowadays at all! “Boney’s
going to be burned on Durnover Green to-night,”— that was what I
thought, to be sure I did, that he’d been catched sailing from his
islant and landed at Budmouth and brought to Casterbridge Jail, the
natural retreat of malefactors!—False deceivers—making me lose a
quarter who can ill afford it; and all for nothing!
LONGWAYS
’Tisn’t a mo’sel o’ good for thee to cry out against Wessex folk, when
’twas all thy own stunpoll ignorance.
[The VICAR OF DURNOVER removes his pipe and spits perpendicularly.]
VICAR
My dear misguided man, you don’t imagine that we should be so inhuman
in this Christian country as to burn a fellow creature alive?
RUSTIC
Faith, I won’t say I didn’t! Durnover folk have never had the
highest of Christian character, come to that. And I didn’t know
but that even a pa’son might backslide to such things in these gory
times—I won’t say on a Zunday, but on a week-night like this—when
we think what a blasphemious rascal he is, and that there’s not a
more charnel-minded villain towards womenfolk in the whole world.
[The effigy has by this time been kindled, and they watch it burn,
the flames making the faces of the crowd brass-bright, and lighting
the grey tower of Durnover Church hard by.]
WOMAN [singing]
Bayonets and firelocks!
I wouldn’t my mammy should know’t
But I’ve been kissed in a sentry-box,
Wrapped up in a soldier’s coat!
PRIVATE CANTLE
Talk of backsliding to burn Boney, I can backslide to anything
when my blood is up, or rise to anything, thank God for’t! Why,
I shouldn’t mind fighting Boney single-handed, if so be I had
the choice o’ weapons, and fresh Rainbarrow flints in my flint-box,
and could get at him downhill. Yes, I’m a dangerous hand with a
pistol now and then!... Hark, what’s that? [A horn is heard
eastward on the London Road.] Ah, here comes the mail. Now we may
learn something. Nothing boldens my nerves like news of slaughter!
[Enter mail-coach and steaming horses. It halts for a minute while
the wheel is skidded and the horses stale.]