The old folk are gone, too, and their very names are passing from the countryside. Long before my day the Hawkshaws had disappeared from Calidon, but there was a respectable Edinburgh burgess family who had come there in the seventeenth century; now these have given place to a rawer burgess graft12 from the West. The farmers are mostly new men, and even the peasant, who should be the enduring stock, has shifted his slow bones. I learned from the postman that in Woodilee to-day there was no Monfries, no Sprot, but one Pennecuik, and only two bearers of the names of Ritchie and Shillinglaw, which had once been plentiful13 as ragwort. In such a renovated14 world it was idle to hope to find surviving the tales which had perplexed15 my childhood. No one could tell me when or why the kirk by the Crossbasket march became a ruin, and its gravestones lay buried in weeds. Most did not even know that it had been a kirk.
I was not greatly surprised by this, for the kirk of Woodilee had not been used for the better part of three centuries; and even as a child I could not find many to tell me of its last minister. The thing had sunk from a tale to an “owercome,” a form of words which every one knew but which few could interpret. It was Jess Blane, the grieve’s daughter, who first stirred my curiosity. In a whirl of wrath16 at some of my doings she prayed that the fate of the minister of Woodilee might be mine — a fate which she expounded17 as to be “claught by the Deil and awa’ wi’.” A little scared, I carried the affair to my nurse, who was gravely scandalized, and denounced Jess as a “shamefu’ tawpie, fyling the wean’s mind wi’ her black lees.” “Dinna you be feared, dearie,” she reassured18 me. “It wasna the Deil that cam’ for the minister o’ Woodilee. I’ve aye heard tell that he was a guid man and a kind man. It was the Fairies, hinny. And he leev’d happy wi’ them and dee’d happy, and never drank out o’ an empty cup.” I took my information, I remember, to the clan19 of children who were my playmates, and they spread it among their households and came back with confirmation20 or contradiction. Some held for the Devil, some for the Fairies — a proof that tradition spoke21 with two voices. The Fairy school slightly outnumbered the others, and in a battle one April evening close to the ruined kirk we routed the diabolists and established our version as the canon. But save for that solitary22 fact — that the minister of Woodilee had gone off with the Fairies — the canon remained bare.
Years later I got the tale out of many books and places: a folio in the library of a Dutch college, the muniment-room of a Catholic family in Lancashire, notes in a copy of the second Latin edition of Wishart’s Montrose, the diaries of a captain of Hebron’s and of a London glove-maker, the exercise book of a seventeenth-century Welsh schoolgirl. I could piece the story together well enough, but at first I found it hard to fit it to the Woodilee that I knew — that decorous landscape, prim23, determinate, without a hint of mystery; the bare hilltops, bleak24 at seasons, but commonly of a friendly Pickwickian baldness, skirted with methodically-planned woods of selected conifers, and girdled with mathematical stone dykes25; the even, ruled fields of the valley bottom; the studied moderation of the burns in a land meticulously26 drained; the dapper glass and stone and metal of the village. Two miles off, it was true, ran the noble untamed streams of Aller; beyond them the hills rose in dark fields to mid-sky, with the glen of the Rood making a sword-cut into their heart. But Woodilee itself — whither had fled the savour? Once, I knew from the books, the great wood of Melanudrigill had descended27 from the heights and flowed in black waves to the village brink28. But I could not re-create the picture out of glistening29 asphalted highway, singing telegraph wires, spruce dwellings30, model pastures, and manicured woodlands.
Then one evening from the Hill of Deer I saw with other eyes. There was a curious leaden sky, with a blue break about sunset, so that the shadows lay oddly. My first thought, as I looked at the familiar scene, was that, had I been a general in a campaign, I should have taken special note of Woodilee, for it was a point of vantage. It lay right in the pass between the Scottish midlands and the south — the pass of road and water — yes, and — shall I say? — of spirit, for it was in the throat of the hills, on the march between the sown and the desert. I was looking east, and to my left and behind me the open downs, farmed to their last decimal of capacity, were the ancient land of Manann, the capital province of Pictdom. The colliery headgear on the horizon, the trivial moorish31 hilltops, the dambrod-pattern fields, could never tame wholly for me that land’s romance, and on this evening I seemed to be gazing at a thing antique and wolfish, tricked out for the moment with a sheep’s coat. . . . To my right rose the huddle32 of great hills which cradle all our rivers. To them time and weather bring little change, yet in that eerie33 light, which revealed in hard outline while it obscured in detail, they seemed too remote and awful to be the kindly34 giants with whose glens I daily conversed35. . . . At my feet lay Woodilee, and a miracle had been wrought36, for a gloom like the shadow of an eclipse seemed to have crept over the parish. I saw an illusion, which I knew to be such, but which my mind accepted, for it gave me the vision I had been seeking.
It was the Woodilee of three hundred years ago. And my mind, once given the cue, set out things not presented by the illuded eye. . . . There were no highways — only tracks, miry in the bogs37 and stony38 on the braes, which led to Edinburgh on one hand and to Carlisle on the other. I saw few houses, and these were brown as peat, but on the knowe of the old kirkton I saw the four grey walls of the kirk, and the manse beside it among elders and young ashes. Woodilee was not now a parish lying open to the eye of sun and wind. It was no more than a tiny jumble39 of crofts, bounded and pressed in upon by something vast and dark, which clothed the tops of all but the highest hills, muffled40 the ridges41, choked the glens and overflowed42 almost to the edge of the waters — which lay on the landscape like a shaggy fur cast loosely down. My mouth shaped the word “Melanudrigill,” and I knew that I saw Woodilee as no eye had seen it for three centuries, when, as its name tells, it still lay in the shadow of a remnant of the Wood of Caledon, that most ancient forest where once Merlin harped43 and Arthur mustered44 his men. . . .
An engine whistled in the valley, a signal-box sprang into light, and my vision passed. But as I picked my way down the hillside in the growing dusk I realized that all memory of the encircling forest had not gone from Woodilee in my childhood, though the name of Melanudrigill had been forgotten. I could hear old Jock Dodds, who had been keeper on Calidon for fifty years, telling tales for my delectation as he sat and smoked on the big stone beside the smithy. He would speak of his father, and his father’s father, and the latter had been a great hero with his flintlock gun. “He would lie in the moss45 or three on the winter mornin’s, and him an auld46 man, and get the wild swans and the grey geese when they cam’ ower frae Clyde to Aller. Ay, and mony’s the deer he would kill.” And when I pointed47 out that there were no deer in the countryside, Jock shook his head and said that in his grandfather’s day the Black Wood was not all destroyed. “There was a muckle lump on Windyways, and anither this side o’ Reiverslaw.” But if I asked for more about the Wood, Jock was vague. Some said it had been first set by the Romans, others by Auld Michael Scott himself. . . . “A grand hidy-hole for beasts and an unco bit for warlocks.” . . . Its downfall had begun long ago in the Dear Years, and the last of it had been burnt for firewood in his father’s day, in the winter of the Sixteen Drifty Days. . . .
I remembered, too, that there had been places still sacrosanct48 and feared. To Mary Cross, a shapeless stone in a field of bracken, no one would go in the spring or summer gloaming, but the girls decked it with wild flowers at high noon of Midsummer Day. There was a stretch of Woodilee burn, between the village and the now-drained Fennan Moss, where trout49, it was believed, were never found. Above all, right in the heart of Reiverslaw’s best field of turnips50 was a spring, which we children knew as Katie Thirsty, but which the old folk called the Minister’s Well, and mentioned always with a shake of the head or a sigh, for it was there, they said, that the minister of Woodilee had left the earth for Fairyland.
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1 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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2 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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3 thatch | |
vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部;n.茅草(屋) | |
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4 sewer | |
n.排水沟,下水道 | |
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5 slates | |
(旧时学生用以写字的)石板( slate的名词复数 ); 板岩; 石板瓦; 石板色 | |
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6 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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7 meddled | |
v.干涉,干预(他人事务)( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 nettles | |
n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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9 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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10 dyke | |
n.堤,水坝,排水沟 | |
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11 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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12 graft | |
n.移植,嫁接,艰苦工作,贪污;v.移植,嫁接 | |
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13 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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14 renovated | |
翻新,修复,整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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16 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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17 expounded | |
论述,详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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19 clan | |
n.氏族,部落,宗族,家族,宗派 | |
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20 confirmation | |
n.证实,确认,批准 | |
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21 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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22 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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23 prim | |
adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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24 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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25 dykes | |
abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 );坝;堰;沟 | |
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26 meticulously | |
adv.过细地,异常细致地;无微不至;精心 | |
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27 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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28 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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29 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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30 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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31 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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32 huddle | |
vi.挤作一团;蜷缩;vt.聚集;n.挤在一起的人 | |
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33 eerie | |
adj.怪诞的;奇异的;可怕的;胆怯的 | |
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34 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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35 conversed | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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36 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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37 bogs | |
n.沼泽,泥塘( bog的名词复数 );厕所v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
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38 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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39 jumble | |
vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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40 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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41 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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42 overflowed | |
溢出的 | |
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43 harped | |
vi.弹竖琴(harp的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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44 mustered | |
v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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45 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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46 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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47 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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48 sacrosanct | |
adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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49 trout | |
n.鳟鱼;鲑鱼(属) | |
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50 turnips | |
芜青( turnip的名词复数 ); 芜菁块根; 芜菁甘蓝块根; 怀表 | |
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