I am a man of varied6 tastes and a score of interests. As an undergraduate I had been filled with the old mania7 for the complete life. I distinguished8 myself in the Schools, rowed in my college eight, and reached the distinction of practising for three weeks in the Trials. I had dabbled9 in a score of learned activities, and when the time came that I won the inevitable10 St. Chad’s fellowship on my chaotic11 acquirements, and I found myself compelled to select if I would pursue a scholar’s life, I had some toil12 in finding my vocation13. In the end I resolved that the ancient life of the North, of the Celts and the Northmen and the unknown Pictish tribes, held for me the chief fascination14. I had acquired a smattering of Gaelic, having been brought up as a boy in Lochaber, and now I set myself to increase my store of languages. I mastered Erse and Icelandic, and my first book — a monograph15 on the probable Celtic elements in the Eddie songs — brought me the praise of scholars and the deputy-professor’s chair of Northern Antiquities16. So much for Oxford17. My vacations had been spent mainly in the North — in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isles18, in Scandinavia and Iceland, once even in the far limits of Finland. I was a keen sportsman of a sort, an old-experienced fisher, a fair shot with gun and rifle, and in my hillcraft I might well stand comparison with most men. April has ever seemed to me the finest season of the year even in our cold northern altitudes, and the memory of many bright Aprils had brought me up from the South on the night before to Allerfoot, whence a dogcart had taken me up Glen Aller to the inn at Allermuir; and now the same desire had set me on the heather with my face to the cold brown hills.
You are to picture a sort of plateau, benty and rock-strewn, running ridge20-wise above a chain of little peaty lochs and a vast tract21 of inexorable bog22. In a mile the ridge ceased in a shoulder of hill, and over this lay the head of another glen, with the same doleful accompaniment of sunless lochs, mosses23, and a shining and resolute24 water. East and west and north, in every direction save the south, rose walls of gashed25 and serrated hills. It was a grey day with blinks of sun, and when a ray chanced to fall on one of the great dark faces, lines of light and colour sprang into being which told of mica26 and granite27. I was in high spirits, as on the eve of holiday; I had breakfasted excellently on eggs and salmon-steaks; I had no cares to speak of, and my prospects28 were not uninviting. But in spite of myself the landscape began to take me in thrall29 and crush me. The silent vanished peoples of the hills seemed to be stirring; dark primeval faces seemed to stare at me from behind boulders30 and jags of rock. The place was so still, so free from the cheerful clamour of nesting birds, that it seemed a temenos sacred to some old-world god. At my feet the lochs lapped ceaselessly; but the waters were so dark that one could not see bottom a foot from the edge. On my right the links of green told of snakelike mires31 waiting to crush the unwary wanderer. It seemed to me for the moment a land of death, where the tongues of the dead cried aloud for recognition.
My whole morning’s walk was full of such fancies. I lit a pipe to cheer me, but the things would not be got rid of. I thought of the Gaels who had held those fastnesses; I thought of the Britons before them, who yielded to their advent32. They were all strong peoples in their day, and now they had gone the way of the earth. They had left their mark on the levels of the glens and on the more habitable uplands, both in names and in actual forts, and graves where men might still dig curios. But the hills — that black stony33 amphitheatre before me — it seemed strange that the hills bore no traces of them. And then with some uneasiness I reflected on that older and stranger race who were said to have held the hill-tops. The Picts, the Picti — what in the name of goodness were they? They had troubled me in all my studies, a sort of blank wall to put an end to speculation34. We knew nothing of them save certain strange names which men called Pictish, the names of those hills in front of me — the Muneraw, the Yirnie, the Calmarton. They were the corpus vile35 for learned experiment; but Heaven alone knew what dark abyss of savagery36 once yawned in the midst of the desert.
And then I remembered the crazy theories of a pupil of mine at St. Chad’s, the son of a small landowner on the Aller, a young gentleman who had spent his substance too freely at Oxford, and was now dreeing his weird37 in the Backwoods. He had been no scholar; but a certain imagination marked all his doings, and of a Sunday night he would come and talk to me of the North. The Picts were his special subject, and his ideas were mad. ‘Listen to me,’ he would say, when I had mixed him toddy and given him one of my cigars; ‘I believe there are traces — ay, and more than traces — of an old culture lurking38 in those hills and waiting to be discovered. We never hear of the Picts being driven from the hills. The Britons drove them from the lowlands, the Gaels from Ireland did the same for the Britons; but the hills were left unmolested. We hear of no one going near them except outlaws39 and tinklers. And in that very place you have the strangest mythology40. Take the story of the Brownie. What is that but the story of a little swart man of uncommon41 strength and cleverness, who does good and ill indiscriminately, and then disappears. There are many scholars, as you yourself confess, who think that the origin of the Brownie was in some mad belief in the old race of the Picts, which still survived somewhere in the hills. And do we not hear of the Brownie in authentic42 records right down to the year 1756? After that, when people grew more incredulous, it is natural that the belief should have begun to die out; but I do not see why stray traces should not have survived till late.’
‘Do you not see what that means?’ I had said in mock gravity. ‘Those same hills are, if anything, less known now than they were a hundred years ago. Why should not your Picts or Brownies be living to this day?’
‘Why not, indeed?’ he had rejoined, in all seriousness.
I laughed, and he went to his rooms and returned with a large leather-bound book. It was lettered, in the rococo43 style of a young man’s taste, ‘Glimpses of the Unknown,’ and some of the said glimpses he proceeded to impart to me. It was not pleasant reading; indeed, I had rarely heard anything so well fitted to shatter sensitive nerves. The early part consisted of folk-tales and folk-sayings, some of them wholly obscure, some of them with a glint of meaning, but all of them with some hint of a mystery in the hills. I heard the Brownie story in countless44 versions. Now the thing was a friendly little man, who wore grey breeches and lived on brose; now he was a twisted being, the sight of which made the ewes miscarry in the lambing-time. But the second part was the stranger, for it was made up of actual tales, most of them with date and place appended. It was a most Bedlamite catalogue of horrors, which, if true, made the wholesome45 moors46 a place instinct with tragedy. Some told of children carried away from villages, even from towns, on the verge47 of the uplands. In almost every case they were girls, and the strange fact was their utter disappearance48. Two little girls would be coming home from school, would be seen last by a neighbour just where the road crossed a patch of heath or entered a wood, and then — no human eye ever saw them again. Children’s cries had startled outlying shepherds in the night, and when they had rushed to the door they could hear nothing but the night wind. The instances of such disappearances49 were not very common — perhaps once in twenty years — but they were confined to this one tract of country, and came in a sort of fixed50 progression from the middle of last century, when the record began. But this was only one side of the history. The latter part was all devoted51 to a chronicle of crimes which had gone unpunished, seeing that no hand had ever been traced. The list was fuller in last century; in the earlier years of the present it had dwindled52; then came a revival53 about the ‘fifties; and now again in our own time it had sunk low. At the little cottage of Auchterbrean, on the roadside in Glen Aller, a labourer’s wife had been found pierced to the heart. It was thought to be a case of a woman’s jealousy54, and her neighbour was accused, convicted, and hanged. The woman, to be sure, denied the charge with her last breath; but circumstantial evidence seemed sufficiently55 strong against her. Yet some people in the glen believed her guiltless. In particular, the carrier who had found the dead woman declared that the way in which her neighbour received the news was a sufficient proof of innocence56; and the doctor who was first summoned professed57 himself unable to tell with what instrument the wound had been given. But this was all before the days of expert evidence, so the woman had been hanged without scruple58. Then there had been another story of peculiar59 horror, telling of the death of an old man at some little lonely shieling called Carrickfey. But at this point I had risen in protest, and made to drive the young idiot from my room.
‘It was my grandfather who collected most of them,’ he said. ‘He had theories,[*] but people called him mad, so he was wise enough to hold his tongue. My father declares the whole thing mania; but I rescued the book had it bound, and added to the collection. It is a queer hobby; but, as I say, I have theories, and there are more things in heaven and earth —’ But at this he heard a friend’s voice in the Quad60., and dived out, leaving the banal61 quotation62 unfinished.
[* In the light of subsequent events I have jotted63 down the materials to which I refer. The last authentic record of the Brownie is in the narrative64 of the shepherd of Clachlands, taken down towards the close of last century by the Reverend Mr. Gillespie, minister of Allerkirk, and included by him in his ‘Songs and Legends of Glen Aller’.
The authorities on the strange carrying-away of children are to be found in a series of articles in a local paper, the Allerfoot Advertiser’, September and October 1878, and a curious book published anonymously65 at Edinburgh in 1848, entitled ‘The Weathergaw’. The records of the unexplained murders in the same neighbourhood are all contained in Mr. Fordoun’s ‘Theory of Expert Evidence’, and an attack on the book in the ‘Law Review’ for June 1881. The Carrickfey case has a pamphlet to itself — now extremely rare — a copy of which was recently obtained in a bookseller’s shop in Dumfries by a well-known antiquary, and presented to the library of the Supreme66 Court in Edinburgh.]
Strange though it may seem, this madness kept coming back to me as I crossed the last few miles of moor5. I was now on a rough tableland, the watershed67 between two lochs, and beyond and above me rose the stony backs of the hills. The burns fell down in a chaos68 of granite boulders, and huge slabs69 of grey stone lay flat and tumbled in the heather. The full waters looked prosperously for my fishing, and I began to forget all fancies in anticipation70 of sport.
Then suddenly in a hollow of land I came on a ruined cottage. It had been a very small place, but the walls were still half-erect, and the little moorland garden was outlined on the turf. A lonely apple-tree, twisted and gnarled with winds, stood in the midst.
From higher up on the hill I heard a loud roar, and I knew my excellent friend the shepherd of Farawa, who had come thus far to meet me. He greeted me with the boisterous71 embarrassment72 which was his way of prefacing hospitality. A grave reserved man at other times, on such occasions he thought it proper to relapse into hilarity73. I fell into step with him, and we set off for his dwelling74. But first I had the curiosity to look back to the tumble-down cottage and ask him its name.
A queer look came into his eyes. ‘They ca’ the place Carrickfey,’ he said. Naebody has daured to bide75 there this twenty year sin’ — but I see ye ken19 the story.’ And, as if glad to leave the subject, he hastened to discourse76 on fishing.
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1
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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6
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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10
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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monograph
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| n.专题文章，专题著作 | |
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16
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mica
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| n.云母 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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mires
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| n.泥潭( mire的名词复数 ) | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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42
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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43
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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46
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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48
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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disappearances
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| n.消失( disappearance的名词复数 )；丢失；失踪；失踪案 | |
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50
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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51
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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52
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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watershed
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| n.转折点，分水岭，分界线 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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