Jude the Obscure (Oxford World's Classics)

At Marygreen
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mental leap, and only got back to it by a rough recalling. A few yards
below the brow of the hill on which he paused a team of horses made
its appearance, having reached the place by dint of half an hour’s
serpentine progress from the bottom of the immense declivity. They
had a load of coals behind them, a fuel that could only be got into the
upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter,
a second man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of
the wheels, and allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while
those in charge took a 
flagon off the load and indulged in a drink
round.
They were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude addressed
them, inquiring if they had come from Christminster.
‘Heaven forbid, with this load!’ said they.
‘The place I mean is that one yonder.’ He was getting so romantic-
ally attached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his
mistress, he felt bashful at mentioning its name again. He pointed to
the light in the sky––hardly perceptible to their older eyes.
‘Yes. There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the nor’-east than
elsewhere, though I shouldn’t ha’ noticed it myself; and no doubt it
med be Christminster.’
Here a little book of tales, which Jude had tucked up under his
arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it grew
dark, slipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while he
picked it up and straightened the leaves.
‘Ah, young man,’ he observed, ‘you’d have to get your head
screwed on t’other way before you could read what they read there.’
‘Why?’ asked the boy.
‘O––they never look at anything that folks like we can under-
stand,’ the carter continued, by way of passing the time. ‘On’y for-
eign tongues used in the days of the Tower of Babel, when no two
families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-
hawk will whir. ’Tis all learning there; nothing but learning, except
religion. And that’s learning too, for I never could understand it.
Yes; ’tis a serious-minded place. Not but there’s wenches in the
streets o’ nights. . . . You know, I suppose, that they raise pa’sons
there like radishes in a bed? And though it do take––how many years,
Bob?––
five years to turn a lirruping hobble-de-hoy chap into a sol-
emn preaching man with no corrupt passions, they’ll do it, if it can
be done, and polish un o
ff like the workmen they be, and turn un out
Jude the Obscure
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wi’ a long face and a long black coat and waistcoat, and a religious
collar and hat, same as they used to wear in the Scriptures, so that
his own mother wouldn’t know un sometimes. . . . There, ’tis their
business, like anybody else’s.’
‘But how should you know——’
‘Now don’t you interrupt, my boy; never interrupt your senyers.
Move the fore hoss aside, Bobby; here’s som’at coming. . . . You must
mind that I be a-talking of the College life. ’Em lives on a lofty level;
there’s no gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of ’em.
As we be here in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their
minds––noble-minded men enough, no doubt––some on ’em––able
to earn hundreds by thinking out loud. And some on ’em be strong
young fellows that can earn a’most as much in silver cups. As for
music, there’s beautiful music everywhere in Christminster. You
med be religious, or you med not, but you can’t help striking in your
homely note with the rest. And there’s a street in the place––the
main street––that ha’n’t another like it in the world. I should think I
did know a little about Christminster.’
By this time the horses had recovered breath, and bent to their
collars again. Jude, throwing a last adoring look at the distant
halo, turned and walked beside his remarkably well-informed friend,
who had no objection to tell him as they moved on more yet of the
city––its towers and halls and churches. The waggon turned into a
cross-road, whereupon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his
information, and said he only wished he could talk half as well about
Christminster as he.
‘Well, ’tis oonly what has come in my way,’ said the carter
unboastfully. ‘I’ve never been there, no more than you; but I’ve
picked up the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it.
A-getting about the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of
society, one can’t help hearing of things. A friend o’ mine, that used
to clane the boots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was
in his prime, why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later
years.’
Jude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply
that he forgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the
yearning of his heart to 
find something to anchor on, to cling to; for
some place which he could call admirable;* should he 
find that place
in this city if he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, without