In those Arcadian days the stranger, on arriving at the homestead of a man whom he had never seen, and whose name possibly he had scarcely heard, was warranted by custom, on riding up to the door, in proposing to stay all night. It was the rule of the period. If there was no inn within a dozen miles, it became an unquestioned right.
The owner or manager of the station, if at home, welcomed the stranger with more or less courtesy, according to his disposition6, assisting the guest, whom Allah had sent him, to take off his saddle and place it in the verandah of the cottage, to turn out his horse in the paddock, or, in default of that "improvement," to hobble or tether the trusty steed on good pasture.
If the personages referred to were absent, the traveller, unless he happened to be abnormally diffident, informed the cook, hut-keeper, or any station hand whom he might chance to encounter, that he had come to stay all night, turned his horse out, and entering the plainly-furnished abode7, made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of.
If his host delayed his coming, supper was served. The 283stranger foraged8 about among the books and newspapers, and with the aid of tobacco, managed to spend the evening, retiring to rest in the apartment indicated, with perfect cheerfulness and self-possession.
If, as chiefly happened, the hard-worked colonist9 returned from the quest of lost sheep or strayed cattle before bedtime, he usually expressed himself much gratified by the unexpected companionship, and after a cheery confab about the latest news, politics, prospects10 (pastoral), and a parting smoke, both retired11 to the couches where unbroken slumbers12 were the rule. It was a mutual13 benefit. The monotonous14 life of the squatter15 was cheered by the advent16 of a fresh face, fresh news and ideas. The weary traveller found frank entertainment for man and beast, company and a guide, possibly, for the morrow's journey.
In these strictly17 equestrian18 days (for gentlefolk) no man could carry more than a limited change of apparel in the leather valise strapped19 to the fore-part of the saddle. Saddlebags were occasionally used, but they were held to be cumbrous. The journeys were rough and protracted20. Clean linen21 has ever been unwillingly22 dispensed23 with by the Briton. In that barbaric epoch24, Crimean shirts could not be, the quarrel with the Sultan about the mythical25 keys not having arisen. Paper collars, much more celluloids, were in the future. The only recognised departure from the full-dress white raiment, the 'biled shirt' of the American humorist to come, was the check or 'regatta' shirt.
Now this was a garment of compromise, not disreputably soiled after a couple of days' use. Still its existence as a respectable article of apparel had a limit. When that was reached, the stranger was permitted to levy26 on the host's wardrobe, if a bachelor, to the extent of one coloured shirt, leaving his own in lieu. This was held to be fair exchange—the alien vestment, when washed, being, if of ordinary texture27 and age, of equal average value to the one taken; the host doing likewise when on his travels. The chief and perhaps only undesirable28 result was, that every proprietor29 on a frequented line of road had a collection of the most varied30 and cosmopolitan31 autographs in marking ink, on his shirts, probably ever noticed in one gentleman's wardrobe.
Now this was all very well in the days when Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were in the free and independent condition of 284bachelors. They could smoke their pipe unconcernedly with Jackson the cattle-dealer, or Tomkins the working overseer from an out-station, or Binks, who was nobody in particular, or Jinks, who was a cheeky sort of a fellow, but with no harm in him. But all this was changed when Jones or Smith took unto himself a wife. He then desired to have his evenings to himself; and though a gentleman or an agreeable stranger was always welcome, he by no means cared about entertaining half-and-half people, or being bothered with making talk for uncongenial persons all the evening. Yet he did not quite like to send all wayfarers32 whom he did not know or care about to the 'men's hut.' Some of them doubtless were more at home there, or managed to pass the evening without complaint; still, mistakes were occasionally made. Therefore some kind of intermediate arrangement came to be needed.
When an inn was within a mile or two, the difficulty was removed. No stranger could desire to be entertained at the house of a man he did not know, merely because it was cheaper. If he were mean enough to make the attempt, he received a rebuff—possibly no more than his due. Still, in some instances, the squatter, even if unmarried, dreaded33 the hotel as the nucleus34 of a township, and bore the enforced intrusion rather than risk the invasion of his Run.
It became thus one of the unwritten laws of Bushland that, though a bachelor station was fair game, and introductions might be dispensed with, more circumspection35 must be exercised in the case of the homestead which contained a lady. Even if the hospitality was unrestricted as of yore, the restraint was felt by the more homely36 of the wayfarers, and a sensible lowering of the average of visitors took place.
And even when there was no such adequate reason, the resident proprietor was occasionally, by nature or on principle, opposed to the indiscriminate entertainment of chance-comers, and cast about for some method of ensuring privacy. The late Mr. Charles Ebden discovered that 'Carlsruhe,' named after a continental37 reminiscence of travel, was by no means likely to be the 'Charles' Rest' which the name promised. So he made a bold innovation, the fame of which went through the length and breadth of the land: he established a 'visitors' hut.'
There appeared to be no great harm in this—merely a 285comfortable cottage, wherein the visitor was supplied with an evening meal, bed, and breakfast, all comfortably arranged. His horse would of course be cared for, paddocked, and brought up in the morning. One would fancy this gratuitous38 entertainment would have been voted sufficient. But the roving pastoralists were dissatisfied. They did not want merely meat and drink—they wanted a welcome: to have speech also with the master of the house. He was suspected of considering himself too good for his surroundings. And so 'Carlsruhe' was gradually avoided—not that the perhaps too fastidious 'Count' Ebden cared a jot39.
An amusing contretemps with respect to this novel disposal of guests was that related of the late Sir James Hawthorn40. The good old gentleman arrived late one evening at 'Carlsruhe,' naturally concluding that he would receive special consideration. It did not so chance, however, whether from non-recognition—he was not a knight41 then, but a doctor—or some other cause. Before leaving the visitors' hut in the morning, he left a formal note of thanks for his night's lodging42, and enclosed a cheque for a guinea as payment.
But the Colonial Treasurer43 of the future was equal to the occasion. He made answer by post, in a carefully-worded epistle, acknowledging 'a most extraordinary communication, containing a cheque, for which he was totally unable to conceive any reasonable explanation, and had forwarded to Secretary of the Lunatic Asylum44.'
After the changes which turned the homesteads of the larger stations into small villages, the 'big house,' as it came to be called, was no longer expected to accommodate the proprietor, the overseer, and the young gentleman learning Colonial experience, in addition to every wanderer that turned up. The overseer generally had a commodious45 if, perhaps, plainly-furnished cottage allotted46 to him. This came to be known as the 'barracks,' and to be used as a convenient abode for strangers and pilgrims, as well as for the storekeeper, the working overseers, and the young gentlemen. Here, in summer, they could sleep on the verandah, smoke and yarn47 on the same, or, in winter, around the cheerful fire, without danger of disturbing the squatter's domestic arrangements. This of course without prejudice to personal friends or strangers of distinction.
286As to the pilgrims, they might be described as 'human warious.' There was first the squatter proper, young, middle-aged48, or elderly, on his way from one station to the other, returning from new country or from a journey with fat cattle or sheep. He was of course welcome, being, presumably, ready and willing to repay the accommodation in kind. Then there were overseers and managers, cattle and sheep buyers, agents and drovers. These were pastoral personages, and, of course, to be considered. The dealers49, even when roughish in manner, were a power in the land, capable too of drawing cheques to an amount which secured respect. They could not in any case be sent to the men's hut. Tourists, bona-fide travellers, and globe-trotters, having business of some sort, others without any particular aim or destination,—these gentry50 in the 'barracks' were evidently the 'right men in the right place.'
It must be surmised51 also that adventurers travelled about among the stations as a pleasant way of seeing the country and spending a few months at free quarters. A man of prepossessing appearance and agreeable manners, 'who wanted to buy a station—a real first-class property, you know,' made his appearance in a certain district just 'after the gold.' He was courteously52 treated, and shown a variety of stations. He passed a whole summer in the leisurely53 inspection54 of sheep and cattle properties, none of which quite suited his taste. He became quite a well-known inhabitant. Many people believed at last that he had so invested, and accepted him as a recognised identity. But he never did buy a station or any stock—eventually contenting himself with a Government billet of a moderate description, under circumstances which proved the presumption55 of his being a capitalist to have been erroneous.
As a general rule it may be stated that the farther back, the more distant the station, the more liberal and invariable the hospitality. When men went seldom to town, when books and newspapers were scarce, the lonely squatter was well disposed towards any kind of stranger guest above the level of shepherd or stock-rider. He was a change, an animated56 evening newspaper, and as such intrinsically valuable. His visit, besides, was of a transitory or fleeting57 nature, so that only his good qualities were apparent.
Even this form of enjoyment58 was subject to abatement59. There was the pilgrim now and then who declined to proceed 287on his pilgrimage, especially when he fell upon a comfortable bachelor abode, with cuisine60, library, and liquor reasonably up to date. Not infrequently the pilgrim's steed would stray, which the owner would search for in such a perfunctory manner that it seemed as if years might roll on before he was run in. One really most agreeable and gifted person——he afterwards became Premier61 in a neighbouring colony—was celebrated62 as protracting63 his visits by this device. One morning there appeared in a provincial64 paper the startling announcement, 'Mr. Blank's horse is found.' It was the making of him. The laughter was so general that he left that colony, and attained65 in another to political eminence66 and material prosperity.
Not always, however, was even the bona-fide squatter on his travels made welcome. A friend of mine arrived at a station late in the evening. 'I am Mr. Blake,' he said, 'of Kilrush'—a name well known throughout his own and other districts for generous, unstinted hospitality. The proprietor stood at his door, but offered no welcome.
'How far is it to the next place?' inquired the traveller.
'Sixteen miles; you can't miss the road.'
'Thanks; much obliged.' So he put spurs to his weary steed—he had come far since sunrise—and departed, reaching the station, so obligingly referred to, long after dark on a cold night.
In the following year the same squatter arrived at Kilrush. He was cordially received—invited to stay a day and rest his horse. 'I killed him with kindness,' were my friend's words—relating the affair to me years afterwards—'and when he rode away, did everything possible, short of holding his stirrup for him.
'"Mr. Blake," said he, "you've behaved to me like a gentleman! I am afraid I didn't give you that idea when you called at Bareacres. I feel ashamed of myself, I assure you."
'"So you ought to be," I said, looking him straight in the face. He muttered something and rode away.'
点击收听单词发音
1 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4 metes | |
v.(对某人)施以,给予(处罚等)( mete的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8 foraged | |
v.搜寻(食物),尤指动物觅(食)( forage的过去式和过去分词 );(尤指用手)搜寻(东西) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9 colonist | |
n.殖民者,移民 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12 slumbers | |
睡眠,安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15 squatter | |
n.擅自占地者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18 equestrian | |
adj.骑马的;n.马术 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19 strapped | |
adj.用皮带捆住的,用皮带装饰的;身无分文的;缺钱;手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词);用皮带抽打;包扎;给…打绷带 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23 dispensed | |
v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
24 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
25 mythical | |
adj.神话的;虚构的;想像的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
26 levy | |
n.征收税或其他款项,征收额 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
27 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
28 undesirable | |
adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
29 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
30 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
31 cosmopolitan | |
adj.世界性的,全世界的,四海为家的,全球的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
32 wayfarers | |
n.旅人,(尤指)徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
33 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
34 nucleus | |
n.核,核心,原子核 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
35 circumspection | |
n.细心,慎重 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
36 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
37 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
38 gratuitous | |
adj.无偿的,免费的;无缘无故的,不必要的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
39 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
40 hawthorn | |
山楂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
41 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
42 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
43 treasurer | |
n.司库,财务主管 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
44 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
45 commodious | |
adj.宽敞的;使用方便的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
46 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
47 yarn | |
n.纱,纱线,纺线;奇闻漫谈,旅行轶事 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
48 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
49 dealers | |
n.商人( dealer的名词复数 );贩毒者;毒品贩子;发牌者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
50 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
51 surmised | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 );揣测;猜想 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
52 courteously | |
adv.有礼貌地,亲切地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
53 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
54 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
55 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
56 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
57 fleeting | |
adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
58 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
59 abatement | |
n.减(免)税,打折扣,冲销 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
60 cuisine | |
n.烹调,烹饪法 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
61 premier | |
adj.首要的;n.总理,首相 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
62 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
63 protracting | |
v.延长,拖延(某事物)( protract的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
64 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
65 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
66 eminence | |
n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |