The misguided young men who thus shirked their duty to the mistress from whom they had received many favours, were actuated by the low idea of making a perfectly11 idle trip, in any direction. They had no intention of going anywhere in particular; they wanted to see nothing, they wanted to know nothing, they wanted to learn nothing, they wanted to do nothing. They wanted only to be idle. They took to themselves (after Hogarth), the names of Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Goodchild; but there was not a moral pin to choose between them, and they were both idle in the last degree.
Between Francis and Thomas, however, there was this difference of character: Goodchild was laboriously13 idle, and would take upon himself any amount of pains and labour to assure himself that he was idle; in short, had no better idea of idleness than that it was useless industry. Thomas Idle, on the other hand, was an idler of the unmixed Irish or Neapolitan type; a passive idler, a born-and-bred idler, a consistent idler, who practised what he would have preached if he had not been too idle to preach; a one entire and perfect chrysolite of idleness.
The two idle apprentices found themselves, within a few hours of their escape, walking down into the North of England, that is to say, Thomas was lying in a meadow, looking at the railway trains as they passed over a distant viaduct—which was his idea of walking down into the North; while Francis was walking a mile due South against time—which was his idea of walking down into the North. In the meantime the day waned15, and the milestones16 remained unconquered.
‘Tom,’ said Goodchild, ‘the sun is getting low. Up, and let us go forward!’
‘Nay,’ quoth Thomas Idle, ‘I have not done with Annie Laurie yet.’ And he proceeded with that idle but popular ballad18, to the effect that for the bonnie young person of that name he would ‘lay him doon and dee’—equivalent, in prose, to lay him down and die.
‘What an ass14 that fellow was!’ cried Goodchild, with the bitter emphasis of contempt.
‘Which fellow?’ asked Thomas Idle.
‘The fellow in your song. Lay him doon and dee! Finely he’d show off before the girl by doing that. A sniveller! Why couldn’t he get up, and punch somebody’s head!’
‘Whose?’ asked Thomas Idle.
‘Anybody’s. Everybody’s would be better than nobody’s! If I fell into that state of mind about a girl, do you think I’d lay me doon and dee? No, sir,’ proceeded Goodchild, with a disparaging19 assumption of the Scottish accent, ‘I’d get me oop and peetch into somebody. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t have anything to do with her,’ yawned Thomas Idle. ‘Why should I take the trouble?’
‘It’s no trouble, Tom, to fall in love,’ said Goodchild, shaking his head.
‘It’s trouble enough to fall out of it, once you’re in it,’ retorted Tom. ‘So I keep out of it altogether. It would be better for you, if you did the same.’
Mr. Goodchild, who is always in love with somebody, and not unfrequently with several objects at once, made no reply. He heaved a sigh of the kind which is termed by the lower orders ‘a bellowser,’ and then, heaving Mr. Idle on his feet (who was not half so heavy as the sigh), urged him northward20.
These two had sent their personal baggage on by train: only retaining each a knapsack. Idle now applied21 himself to constantly regretting the train, to tracking it through the intricacies of Bradshaw’s Guide, and finding out where it is now—and where now—and where now—and to asking what was the use of walking, when you could ride at such a pace as that. Was it to see the country? If that was the object, look at it out of the carriage windows. There was a great deal more of it to be seen there than here. Besides, who wanted to see the country? Nobody. And again, whoever did walk? Nobody. Fellows set off to walk, but they never did it. They came back and said they did, but they didn’t. Then why should he walk? He wouldn’t walk. He swore it by this milestone17!
It was the fifth from London, so far had they penetrated22 into the North. Submitting to the powerful chain of argument, Goodchild proposed a return to the Metropolis23, and a falling back upon Euston Square Terminus. Thomas assented24 with alacrity25, and so they walked down into the North by the next morning’s express, and carried their knapsacks in the luggage-van.
It was like all other expresses, as every express is and must be. It bore through the harvest country a smell like a large washing-day, and a sharp issue of steam as from a huge brazen27 tea-urn. The greatest power in nature and art combined, it yet glided28 over dangerous heights in the sight of people looking up from fields and roads, as smoothly29 and unreally as a light miniature plaything. Now, the engine shrieked30 in hysterics of such intensity32, that it seemed desirable that the men who had her in charge should hold her feet, slap her hands, and bring her to; now, burrowed33 into tunnels with a stubborn and undemonstrative energy so confusing that the train seemed to be flying back into leagues of darkness. Here, were station after station, swallowed up by the express without stopping; here, stations where it fired itself in like a volley of cannon-balls, swooped34 away four country-people with nosegays, and three men of business with portmanteaus, and fired itself off again, bang, bang, bang! At long intervals35 were uncomfortable refreshment36-rooms, made more uncomfortable by the scorn of Beauty towards Beast, the public (but to whom she never relented, as Beauty did in the story, towards the other Beast), and where sensitive stomachs were fed, with a contemptuous sharpness occasioning indigestion. Here, again, were stations with nothing going but a bell, and wonderful wooden razors set aloft on great posts, shaving the air. In these fields, the horses, sheep, and cattle were well used to the thundering meteor, and didn’t mind; in those, they were all set scampering37 together, and a herd38 of pigs scoured39 after them. The pastoral country darkened, became coaly, became smoky, became infernal, got better, got worse, improved again, grew rugged40, turned romantic; was a wood, a stream, a chain of hills, a gorge41, a moor42, a cathedral town, a fortified43 place, a waste. Now, miserable44 black dwellings46, a black canal, and sick black towers of chimneys; now, a trim garden, where the flowers were bright and fair; now, a wilderness47 of hideous48 altars all a-blaze; now, the water meadows with their fairy rings; now, the mangy patch of unlet building ground outside the stagnant49 town, with the larger ring where the Circus was last week. The temperature changed, the dialect changed, the people changed, faces got sharper, manner got shorter, eyes got shrewder and harder; yet all so quickly, that the spruce guard in the London uniform and silver lace, had not yet rumpled50 his shirt-collar, delivered half the dispatches in his shiny little pouch51, or read his newspaper.
Carlisle! Idle and Goodchild had got to Carlisle. It looked congenially and delightfully53 idle. Something in the way of public amusement had happened last month, and something else was going to happen before Christmas; and, in the meantime there was a lecture on India for those who liked it—which Idle and Goodchild did not. Likewise, by those who liked them, there were impressions to be bought of all the vapid54 prints, going and gone, and of nearly all the vapid books. For those who wanted to put anything in missionary55 boxes, here were the boxes. For those who wanted the Reverend Mr. Podgers (artist’s proofs, thirty shillings), here was Mr. Podgers to any amount. Not less gracious and abundant, Mr. Codgers also of the vineyard, but opposed to Mr. Podgers, brotherly tooth and nail. Here, were guide-books to the neighbouring antiquities56, and eke31 the Lake country, in several dry and husky sorts; here, many physically57 and morally impossible heads of both sexes, for young ladies to copy, in the exercise of the art of drawing; here, further, a large impression of Mr. Spurgeon, solid as to the flesh, not to say even something gross. The working young men of Carlisle were drawn58 up, with their hands in their pockets, across the pavements, four and six abreast59, and appeared (much to the satisfaction of Mr. Idle) to have nothing else to do. The working and growing young women of Carlisle, from the age of twelve upwards60, promenaded61 the streets in the cool of the evening, and rallied the said young men. Sometimes the young men rallied the young women, as in the case of a group gathered round an accordion-player, from among whom a young man advanced behind a young woman for whom he appeared to have a tenderness, and hinted to her that he was there and playful, by giving her (he wore clogs63) a kick.
On market morning, Carlisle woke up amazingly, and became (to the two Idle Apprentices) disagreeably and reproachfully busy. There were its cattle market, its sheep market, and its pig market down by the river, with raw-boned and shock-headed Rob Roys hiding their Lowland dresses beneath heavy plaids, prowling in and out among the animals, and flavouring the air with fumes64 of whiskey. There was its corn market down the main street, with hum of chaffering over open sacks. There was its general market in the street too, with heather brooms on which the purple flower still flourished, and heather baskets primitive65 and fresh to behold66. With women trying on clogs and caps at open stalls, and ‘Bible stalls’ adjoining. With ‘Doctor Mantle’s Dispensary for the cure of all Human Maladies and no charge for advice,’ and with Doctor Mantle’s ‘Laboratory of Medical, Chemical, and Botanical Science’—both healing institutions established on one pair of trestles, one board, and one sun-blind. With the renowned67 phrenologist from London, begging to be favoured (at sixpence each) with the company of clients of both sexes, to whom, on examination of their heads, he would make revelations ‘enabling him or her to know themselves.’ Through all these bargains and blessings68, the recruiting-sergeant watchfully69 elbowed his way, a thread of War in the peaceful skein. Likewise on the walls were printed hints that the Oxford70 Blues71 might not be indisposed to hear of a few fine active young men; and that whereas the standard of that distinguished corps72 is full six feet, ‘growing lads of five feet eleven’ need not absolutely despair of being accepted.
Scenting73 the morning air more pleasantly than the buried majesty74 of Denmark did, Messrs. Idle and Goodchild rode away from Carlisle at eight o’clock one forenoon, bound for the village of Hesket, Newmarket, some fourteen miles distant. Goodchild (who had already begun to doubt whether he was idle: as his way always is when he has nothing to do) had read of a certain black old Cumberland hill or mountain, called Carrock, or Carrock Fell; and had arrived at the conclusion that it would be the culminating triumph of Idleness to ascend75 the same. Thomas Idle, dwelling45 on the pains inseparable from that achievement, had expressed the strongest doubts of the expediency76, and even of the sanity77, of the enterprise; but Goodchild had carried his point, and they rode away.
Up hill and down hill, and twisting to the right, and twisting to the left, and with old Skiddaw (who has vaunted himself a great deal more than his merits deserve; but that is rather the way of the Lake country), dodging78 the apprentices in a picturesque79 and pleasant manner. Good, weather-proof, warm, pleasant houses, well white-limed, scantily80 dotting the road. Clean children coming out to look, carrying other clean children as big as themselves. Harvest still lying out and much rained upon; here and there, harvest still unreaped. Well-cultivated gardens attached to the cottages, with plenty of produce forced out of their hard soil. Lonely nooks, and wild; but people can be born, and married, and buried in such nooks, and can live and love, and be loved, there as elsewhere, thank God! (Mr. Goodchild’s remark.) By-and-by, the village. Black, coarse-stoned, rough-windowed houses; some with outer staircases, like Swiss houses; a sinuous81 and stony82 gutter83 winding84 up hill and round the corner, by way of street. All the children running out directly. Women pausing in washing, to peep from doorways85 and very little windows. Such were the observations of Messrs. Idle and Goodchild, as their conveyance86 stopped at the village shoemaker’s. Old Carrock gloomed down upon it all in a very ill-tempered state; and rain was beginning.
The village shoemaker declined to have anything to do with Carrock. No visitors went up Carrock. No visitors came there at all. Aa’ the world ganged awa’ yon. The driver appealed to the Innkeeper. The Innkeeper had two men working in the fields, and one of them should be called in, to go up Carrock as guide. Messrs. Idle and Goodchild, highly approving, entered the Innkeeper’s house, to drink whiskey and eat oatcake.
The Innkeeper was not idle enough—was not idle at all, which was a great fault in him—but was a fine specimen88 of a north-country man, or any kind of man. He had a ruddy cheek, a bright eye, a well-knit frame, an immense hand, a cheery, outspeaking voice, and a straight, bright, broad look. He had a drawing-room, too, upstairs, which was worth a visit to the Cumberland Fells. (This was Mr. Francis Goodchild’s opinion, in which Mr. Thomas Idle did not concur89.)
The ceiling of this drawing-room was so crossed and recrossed by beams of unequal lengths, radiating from a centre, in a corner, that it looked like a broken star-fish. The room was comfortably and solidly furnished with good mahogany and horsehair. It had a snug90 fireside, and a couple of well-curtained windows, looking out upon the wild country behind the house. What it most developed was, an unexpected taste for little ornaments91 and nick-nacks, of which it contained a most surprising number. They were not very various, consisting in great part of waxen babies with their limbs more or less mutilated, appealing on one leg to the parental92 affections from under little cupping glasses; but, Uncle Tom was there, in crockery, receiving theological instructions from Miss Eva, who grew out of his side like a wen, in an exceedingly rough state of profile propagandism. Engravings of Mr. Hunt’s country boy, before and after his pie, were on the wall, divided by a highly-coloured nautical93 piece, the subject of which had all her colours (and more) flying, and was making great way through a sea of a regular pattern, like a lady’s collar. A benevolent94, elderly gentleman of the last century, with a powdered head, kept guard, in oil and varnish95, over a most perplexing piece of furniture on a table; in appearance between a driving seat and an angular knife-box, but, when opened, a musical instrument of tinkling96 wires, exactly like David’s harp26 packed for travelling. Everything became a nick-nack in this curious room. The copper97 tea-kettle, burnished98 up to the highest point of glory, took his station on a stand of his own at the greatest possible distance from the fireplace, and said: ‘By your leave, not a kettle, but a bijou.’ The Staffordshire-ware butter-dish with the cover on, got upon a little round occasional table in a window, with a worked top, and announced itself to the two chairs accidentally placed there, as an aid to polite conversation, a graceful99 trifle in china to be chatted over by callers, as they airily trifled away the visiting moments of a butterfly existence, in that rugged old village on the Cumberland Fells. The very footstool could not keep the floor, but got upon a sofa, and there-from proclaimed itself, in high relief of white and liver-coloured wool, a favourite spaniel coiled up for repose100. Though, truly, in spite of its bright glass eyes, the spaniel was the least successful assumption in the collection: being perfectly flat, and dismally102 suggestive of a recent mistake in sitting down on the part of some corpulent member of the family.
There were books, too, in this room; books on the table, books on the chimney-piece, books in an open press in the corner. Fielding was there, and Smollett was there, and Steele and Addison were there, in dispersed103 volumes; and there were tales of those who go down to the sea in ships, for windy nights; and there was really a choice of good books for rainy days or fine. It was so very pleasant to see these things in such a lonesome by-place—so very agreeable to find these evidences of a taste, however homely104, that went beyond the beautiful cleanliness and trimness of the house—so fanciful to imagine what a wonder a room must be to the little children born in the gloomy village—what grand impressions of it those of them who became wanderers over the earth would carry away; and how, at distant ends of the world, some old voyagers would die, cherishing the belief that the finest apartment known to men was once in the Hesket-Newmarket Inn, in rare old Cumberland—it was such a charmingly lazy pursuit to entertain these rambling105 thoughts over the choice oatcake and the genial52 whiskey, that Mr. Idle and Mr. Goodchild never asked themselves how it came to pass that the men in the fields were never heard of more, how the stalwart landlord replaced them without explanation, how his dog-cart came to be waiting at the door, and how everything was arranged without the least arrangement for climbing to old Carrock’s shoulders, and standing106 on his head.
Without a word of inquiry107, therefore, the Two Idle Apprentices drifted out resignedly into a fine, soft, close, drowsy108, penetrating109 rain; got into the landlord’s light dog-cart, and rattled111 off through the village for the foot of Carrock. The journey at the outset was not remarkable. The Cumberland road went up and down like all other roads; the Cumberland curs burst out from backs of cottages and barked like other curs, and the Cumberland peasantry stared after the dog-cart amazedly, as long as it was in sight, like the rest of their race. The approach to the foot of the mountain resembled the approaches to the feet of most other mountains all over the world. The cultivation112 gradually ceased, the trees grew gradually rare, the road became gradually rougher, and the sides of the mountain looked gradually more and more lofty, and more and more difficult to get up. The dog-cart was left at a lonely farm-house. The landlord borrowed a large umbrella, and, assuming in an instant the character of the most cheerful and adventurous113 of guides, led the way to the ascent114. Mr. Goodchild looked eagerly at the top of the mountain, and, feeling apparently115 that he was now going to be very lazy indeed, shone all over wonderfully to the eye, under the influence of the contentment within and the moisture without. Only in the bosom116 of Mr. Thomas Idle did Despondency now hold her gloomy state. He kept it a secret; but he would have given a very handsome sum, when the ascent began, to have been back again at the inn. The sides of Carrock looked fearfully steep, and the top of Carrock was hidden in mist. The rain was falling faster and faster. The knees of Mr. Idle—always weak on walking excursions—shivered and shook with fear and damp. The wet was already penetrating through the young man’s outer coat to a brand-new shooting-jacket, for which he had reluctantly paid the large sum of two guineas on leaving town; he had no stimulating117 refreshment about him but a small packet of clammy gingerbread nuts; he had nobody to give him an arm, nobody to push him gently behind, nobody to pull him up tenderly in front, nobody to speak to who really felt the difficulties of the ascent, the dampness of the rain, the denseness118 of the mist, and the unutterable folly119 of climbing, undriven, up any steep place in the world, when there is level ground within reach to walk on instead. Was it for this that Thomas had left London? London, where there are nice short walks in level public gardens, with benches of repose set up at convenient distances for weary travellers—London, where rugged stone is humanely120 pounded into little lumps for the road, and intelligently shaped into smooth slabs121 for the pavement! No! it was not for the laborious12 ascent of the crags of Carrock that Idle had left his native city, and travelled to Cumberland. Never did he feel more disastrously122 convinced that he had committed a very grave error in judgment123 than when he found himself standing in the rain at the bottom of a steep mountain, and knew that the responsibility rested on his weak shoulders of actually getting to the top of it.
The honest landlord went first, the beaming Goodchild followed, the mournful Idle brought up the rear. From time to time, the two foremost members of the expedition changed places in the order of march; but the rearguard never altered his position. Up the mountain or down the mountain, in the water or out of it, over the rocks, through the bogs124, skirting the heather, Mr. Thomas Idle was always the last, and was always the man who had to be looked after and waited for. At first the ascent was delusively125 easy, the sides of the mountain sloped gradually, and the material of which they were composed was a soft spongy turf, very tender and pleasant to walk upon. After a hundred yards or so, however, the verdant126 scene and the easy slope disappeared, and the rocks began. Not noble, massive rocks, standing upright, keeping a certain regularity127 in their positions, and possessing, now and then, flat tops to sit upon, but little irritating, comfortless rocks, littered about anyhow, by Nature; treacherous128, disheartening rocks of all sorts of small shapes and small sizes, bruisers of tender toes and trippers-up of wavering feet. When these impediments were passed, heather and slough129 followed. Here the steepness of the ascent was slightly mitigated130; and here the exploring party of three turned round to look at the view below them. The scene of the moorland and the fields was like a feeble water-colour drawing half sponged out. The mist was darkening, the rain was thickening, the trees were dotted about like spots of faint shadow, the division-lines which mapped out the fields were all getting blurred131 together, and the lonely farm-house where the dog-cart had been left, loomed87 spectral132 in the grey light like the last human dwelling at the end of the habitable world. Was this a sight worth climbing to see? Surely—surely not!
Up again—for the top of Carrock is not reached yet. The land-lord, just as good-tempered and obliging as he was at the bottom of the mountain. Mr. Goodchild brighter in the eyes and rosier133 in the face than ever; full of cheerful remarks and apt quotations134; and walking with a springiness of step wonderful to behold. Mr. Idle, farther and farther in the rear, with the water squeaking135 in the toes of his boots, with his two-guinea shooting-jacket clinging damply to his aching sides, with his overcoat so full of rain, and standing out so pyramidically stiff, in consequence, from his shoulders downwards136, that he felt as if he was walking in a gigantic extinguisher—the despairing spirit within him representing but too aptly the candle that had just been put out. Up and up and up again, till a ridge137 is reached and the outer edge of the mist on the summit of Carrock is darkly and drizzingly near. Is this the top? No, nothing like the top. It is an aggravating138 peculiarity139 of all mountains, that, although they have only one top when they are seen (as they ought always to be seen) from below, they turn out to have a perfect eruption140 of false tops whenever the traveller is sufficiently141 ill-advised to go out of his way for the purpose of ascending142 them. Carrock is but a trumpery143 little mountain of fifteen hundred feet, and it presumes to have false tops, and even precipices144, as if it were Mont Blanc. No matter; Goodchild enjoys it, and will go on; and Idle, who is afraid of being left behind by himself, must follow. On entering the edge of the mist, the landlord stops, and says he hopes that it will not get any thicker. It is twenty years since he last ascended145 Carrock, and it is barely possible, if the mist increases, that the party may be lost on the mountain. Goodchild hears this dreadful intimation, and is not in the least impressed by it. He marches for the top that is never to be found, as if he was the Wandering Jew, bound to go on for ever, in defiance146 of everything. The landlord faithfully accompanies him. The two, to the dim eye of Idle, far below, look in the exaggerative mist, like a pair of friendly giants, mounting the steps of some invisible castle together. Up and up, and then down a little, and then up, and then along a strip of level ground, and then up again. The wind, a wind unknown in the happy valley, blows keen and strong; the rain-mist gets impenetrable; a dreary147 little cairn of stones appears. The landlord adds one to the heap, first walking all round the cairn as if he were about to perform an incantation, then dropping the stone on to the top of the heap with the gesture of a magician adding an ingredient to a cauldron in full bubble. Goodchild sits down by the cairn as if it was his study-table at home; Idle, drenched148 and panting, stands up with his back to the wind, ascertains149 distinctly that this is the top at last, looks round with all the little curiosity that is left in him, and gets, in return, a magnificent view of—Nothing!
The effect of this sublime150 spectacle on the minds of the exploring party is a little injured by the nature of the direct conclusion to which the sight of it points—the said conclusion being that the mountain mist has actually gathered round them, as the landlord feared it would. It now becomes imperatively151 necessary to settle the exact situation of the farm-house in the valley at which the dog-cart has been left, before the travellers attempt to descend152. While the landlord is endeavouring to make this discovery in his own way, Mr. Goodchild plunges153 his hand under his wet coat, draws out a little red morocco-case, opens it, and displays to the view of his companions a neat pocket-compass. The north is found, the point at which the farm-house is situated154 is settled, and the descent begins. After a little downward walking, Idle (behind as usual) sees his fellow-travellers turn aside sharply—tries to follow them—loses them in the mist—is shouted after, waited for, recovered—and then finds that a halt has been ordered, partly on his account, partly for the purpose of again consulting the compass.
The point in debate is settled as before between Goodchild and the landlord, and the expedition moves on, not down the mountain, but marching straight forward round the slope of it. The difficulty of following this new route is acutely felt by Thomas Idle. He finds the hardship of walking at all greatly increased by the fatigue155 of moving his feet straight forward along the side of a slope, when their natural tendency, at every step, is to turn off at a right angle, and go straight down the declivity156. Let the reader imagine himself to be walking along the roof of a barn, instead of up or down it, and he will have an exact idea of the pedestrian difficulty in which the travellers had now involved themselves. In ten minutes more Idle was lost in the distance again, was shouted for, waited for, recovered as before; found Goodchild repeating his observation of the compass, and remonstrated157 warmly against the sideway route that his companions persisted in following. It appeared to the uninstructed mind of Thomas that when three men want to get to the bottom of a mountain, their business is to walk down it; and he put this view of the case, not only with emphasis, but even with some irritability158. He was answered from the scientific eminence159 of the compass on which his companions were mounted, that there was a frightful160 chasm161 somewhere near the foot of Carrock, called The Black Arches, into which the travellers were sure to march in the mist, if they risked continuing the descent from the place where they had now halted. Idle received this answer with the silent respect which was due to the commanders of the expedition, and followed along the roof of the barn, or rather the side of the mountain, reflecting upon the assurance which he received on starting again, that the object of the party was only to gain ‘a certain point,’ and, this haven162 attained163, to continue the descent afterwards until the foot of Carrock was reached. Though quite unexceptionable as an abstract form of expression, the phrase ‘a certain point’ has the disadvantage of sounding rather vaguely164 when it is pronounced on unknown ground, under a canopy165 of mist much thicker than a London fog. Nevertheless, after the compass, this phrase was all the clue the party had to hold by, and Idle clung to the extreme end of it as hopefully as he could.
More sideway walking, thicker and thicker mist, all sorts of points reached except the ‘certain point;’ third loss of Idle, third shouts for him, third recovery of him, third consultation166 of compass. Mr. Goodchild draws it tenderly from his pocket, and prepares to adjust it on a stone. Something falls on the turf—it is the glass. Something else drops immediately after—it is the needle. The compass is broken, and the exploring party is lost!
It is the practice of the English portion of the human race to receive all great disasters in dead silence. Mr. Goodchild restored the useless compass to his pocket without saying a word, Mr. Idle looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at Mr. Idle. There was nothing for it now but to go on blindfold167, and trust to the chapter of chances. Accordingly, the lost travellers moved forward, still walking round the slope of the mountain, still desperately168 resolved to avoid the Black Arches, and to succeed in reaching the ‘certain point.’
A quarter of an hour brought them to the brink169 of a ravine, at the bottom of which there flowed a muddy little stream. Here another halt was called, and another consultation took place. The landlord, still clinging pertinaciously170 to the idea of reaching the ‘point,’ voted for crossing the ravine, and going on round the slope of the mountain. Mr. Goodchild, to the great relief of his fellow-traveller, took another view of the case, and backed Mr. Idle’s proposal to descend Carrock at once, at any hazard—the rather as the running stream was a sure guide to follow from the mountain to the valley. Accordingly, the party descended171 to the rugged and stony banks of the stream; and here again Thomas lost ground sadly, and fell far behind his travelling companions. Not much more than six weeks had elapsed since he had sprained172 one of his ankles, and he began to feel this same ankle getting rather weak when he found himself among the stones that were strewn about the running water. Goodchild and the landlord were getting farther and farther ahead of him. He saw them cross the stream and disappear round a projection173 on its banks. He heard them shout the moment after as a signal that they had halted and were waiting for him. Answering the shout, he mended his pace, crossed the stream where they had crossed it, and was within one step of the opposite bank, when his foot slipped on a wet stone, his weak ankle gave a twist outwards174, a hot, rending175, tearing pain ran through it at the same moment, and down fell the idlest of the Two Idle Apprentices, crippled in an instant.
The situation was now, in plain terms, one of absolute danger. There lay Mr. Idle writhing176 with pain, there was the mist as thick as ever, there was the landlord as completely lost as the strangers whom he was conducting, and there was the compass broken in Goodchild’s pocket. To leave the wretched Thomas on unknown ground was plainly impossible; and to get him to walk with a badly sprained ankle seemed equally out of the question. However, Goodchild (brought back by his cry for help) bandaged the ankle with a pocket-handkerchief, and assisted by the landlord, raised the crippled Apprentice1 to his legs, offered him a shoulder to lean on, and exhorted177 him for the sake of the whole party to try if he could walk. Thomas, assisted by the shoulder on one side, and a stick on the other, did try, with what pain and difficulty those only can imagine who have sprained an ankle and have had to tread on it afterwards. At a pace adapted to the feeble hobbling of a newly-lamed man, the lost party moved on, perfectly ignorant whether they were on the right side of the mountain or the wrong, and equally uncertain how long Idle would be able to contend with the pain in his ankle, before he gave in altogether and fell down again, unable to stir another step.
Slowly and more slowly, as the clog62 of crippled Thomas weighed heavily and more heavily on the march of the expedition, the lost travellers followed the windings178 of the stream, till they came to a faintly-marked cart-track, branching off nearly at right angles, to the left. After a little consultation it was resolved to follow this dim vestige179 of a road in the hope that it might lead to some farm or cottage, at which Idle could be left in safety. It was now getting on towards the afternoon, and it was fast becoming more than doubtful whether the party, delayed in their progress as they now were, might not be overtaken by the darkness before the right route was found, and be condemned180 to pass the night on the mountain, without bit or drop to comfort them, in their wet clothes.
The cart-track grew fainter and fainter, until it was washed out altogether by another little stream, dark, turbulent, and rapid. The landlord suggested, judging by the colour of the water, that it must be flowing from one of the lead mines in the neighbourhood of Carrock; and the travellers accordingly kept by the stream for a little while, in the hope of possibly wandering towards help in that way. After walking forward about two hundred yards, they came upon a mine indeed, but a mine, exhausted and abandoned; a dismal101, ruinous place, with nothing but the wreck181 of its works and buildings left to speak for it. Here, there were a few sheep feeding. The landlord looked at them earnestly, thought he recognised the marks on them—then thought he did not—finally gave up the sheep in despair—and walked on just as ignorant of the whereabouts of the party as ever.
The march in the dark, literally182 as well as metaphorically183 in the dark, had now been continued for three-quarters of an hour from the time when the crippled Apprentice had met with his accident. Mr. Idle, with all the will to conquer the pain in his ankle, and to hobble on, found the power rapidly failing him, and felt that another ten minutes at most would find him at the end of his last physical resources. He had just made up his mind on this point, and was about to communicate the dismal result of his reflections to his companions, when the mist suddenly brightened, and begun to lift straight ahead. In another minute, the landlord, who was in advance, proclaimed that he saw a tree. Before long, other trees appeared—then a cottage—then a house beyond the cottage, and a familiar line of road rising behind it. Last of all, Carrock itself loomed darkly into view, far away to the right hand. The party had not only got down the mountain without knowing how, but had wandered away from it in the mist, without knowing why—away, far down on the very moor by which they had approached the base of Carrock that morning.
The happy lifting of the mist, and the still happier discovery that the travellers had groped their way, though by a very roundabout direction, to within a mile or so of the part of the valley in which the farm-house was situated, restored Mr. Idle’s sinking spirits and reanimated his failing strength. While the landlord ran off to get the dog-cart, Thomas was assisted by Goodchild to the cottage which had been the first building seen when the darkness brightened, and was propped184 up against the garden wall, like an artist’s lay figure waiting to be forwarded, until the dog-cart should arrive from the farm-house below. In due time—and a very long time it seemed to Mr. Idle—the rattle110 of wheels was heard, and the crippled Apprentice was lifted into the seat. As the dog-cart was driven back to the inn, the landlord related an anecdote185 which he had just heard at the farm-house, of an unhappy man who had been lost, like his two guests and himself, on Carrock; who had passed the night there alone; who had been found the next morning, ‘scared and starved;’ and who never went out afterwards, except on his way to the grave. Mr. Idle heard this sad story, and derived186 at least one useful impression from it. Bad as the pain in his ankle was, he contrived187 to bear it patiently, for he felt grateful that a worse accident had not befallen him in the wilds of Carrock.
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1
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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12
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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19
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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20
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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23
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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26
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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27
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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28
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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30
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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34
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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36
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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37
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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38
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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39
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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40
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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41
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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42
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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43
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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45
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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46
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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47
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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48
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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49
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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50
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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52
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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53
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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54
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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55
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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56
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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57
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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59
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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60
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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61
promenaded
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| v.兜风( promenade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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63
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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64
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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65
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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66
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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68
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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69
watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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70
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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71
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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72
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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73
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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74
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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75
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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76
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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77
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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78
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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79
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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80
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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81
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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82
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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83
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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84
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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85
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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86
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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87
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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88
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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91
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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93
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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96
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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97
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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98
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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99
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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100
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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101
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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103
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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104
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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105
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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106
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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108
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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109
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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110
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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111
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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112
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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113
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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114
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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115
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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116
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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117
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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118
denseness
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| 稠密，密集，浓厚； 稠度 | |
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119
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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120
humanely
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| adv.仁慈地；人道地；富人情地；慈悲地 | |
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121
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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122
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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123
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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124
bogs
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| 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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125
delusively
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| adv.困惑地，欺瞒地 | |
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126
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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127
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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128
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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129
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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130
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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132
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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133
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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134
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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135
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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136
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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137
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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138
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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139
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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140
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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141
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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142
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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143
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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144
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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145
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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147
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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148
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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149
ascertains
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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151
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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152
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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153
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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154
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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155
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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156
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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157
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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158
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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159
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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160
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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161
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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162
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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163
attained
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| （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） | |
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164
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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165
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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166
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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167
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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168
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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169
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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170
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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171
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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172
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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173
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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174
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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175
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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176
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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177
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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179
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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180
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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181
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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182
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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183
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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184
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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186
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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187
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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