Thomas, with an enforced idleness grafted2 on the natural and voluntary power of his disposition4, was not of this mind; objecting that a man compelled to lie on his back on a floor, a sofa, a table, a line of chairs, or anything he could get to lie upon, was not in racing5 condition, and that he desired nothing better than to lie where he was, enjoying himself in looking at the flies on the ceiling. But, Francis Goodchild, who had been walking round his companion in a circuit of twelve miles for two days, and had begun to doubt whether it was reserved for him ever to be idle in his life, not only overpowered this objection, but even converted Thomas Idle to a scheme he formed (another idle inspiration), of conveying the said Thomas to the sea-coast, and putting his injured leg under a stream of salt-water.
Plunging6 into this happy conception headforemost, Mr. Goodchild immediately referred to the county-map, and ardently7 discovered that the most delicious piece of sea-coast to be found within the limits of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, the Isle8 of Man, and the Channel Islands, all summed up together, was Allonby on the coast of Cumberland. There was the coast of Scotland opposite to Allonby, said Mr. Goodchild with enthusiasm; there was a fine Scottish mountain on that Scottish coast; there were Scottish lights to be seen shining across the glorious Channel, and at Allonby itself there was every idle luxury (no doubt) that a watering-place could offer to the heart of idle man. Moreover, said Mr. Goodchild, with his finger on the map, this exquisite9 retreat was approached by a coach-road, from a railway-station called Aspatria—a name, in a manner, suggestive of the departed glories of Greece, associated with one of the most engaging and most famous of Greek women. On this point, Mr. Goodchild continued at intervals10 to breathe a vein11 of classic fancy and eloquence12 exceedingly irksome to Mr. Idle, until it appeared that the honest English pronunciation of that Cumberland country shortened Aspatria into ‘Spatter.’ After this supplementary13 discovery, Mr. Goodchild said no more about it.
By way of Spatter, the crippled Idle was carried, hoisted15, pushed, poked16, and packed, into and out of carriages, into and out of beds, into and out of tavern17 resting-places, until he was brought at length within sniff18 of the sea. And now, behold19 the apprentices gallantly21 riding into Allonby in a one-horse fly, bent22 upon staying in that peaceful marine23 valley until the turbulent Doncaster time shall come round upon the wheel, in its turn among what are in sporting registers called the ‘Fixtures’ for the month.
‘Do you see Allonby!’ asked Thomas Idle.
‘I don’t see it yet,’ said Francis, looking out of window.
‘It must be there,’ said Thomas Idle.
‘I don’t see it,’ returned Francis.
‘It must be there,’ repeated Thomas Idle, fretfully.
‘Lord bless me!’ exclaimed Francis, drawing in his head, ‘I suppose this is it!’
‘A watering-place,’ retorted Thomas Idle, with the pardonable sharpness of an invalid24, ‘can’t be five gentlemen in straw hats, on a form on one side of a door, and four ladies in hats and falls, on a form on another side of a door, and three geese in a dirty little brook25 before them, and a boy’s legs hanging over a bridge (with a boy’s body I suppose on the other side of the parapet), and a donkey running away. What are you talking about?’
‘Allonby, gentlemen,’ said the most comfortable of landladies26 as she opened one door of the carriage; ‘Allonby, gentlemen,’ said the most attentive27 of landlords, as he opened the other.
Thomas Idle yielded his arm to the ready Goodchild, and descended28 from the vehicle. Thomas, now just able to grope his way along, in a doubled-up condition, with the aid of two thick sticks, was no bad embodiment of Commodore Trunnion, or of one of those many gallant20 Admirals of the stage, who have all ample fortunes, gout, thick sticks, tempers, wards29, and nephews. With this distinguished30 naval31 appearance upon him, Thomas made a crab-like progress up a clean little bulk-headed staircase, into a clean little bulk-headed room, where he slowly deposited himself on a sofa, with a stick on either hand of him, looking exceedingly grim.
‘Francis,’ said Thomas Idle, ‘what do you think of this place?’
‘I think,’ returned Mr. Goodchild, in a glowing way, ‘it is everything we expected.’
‘Hah!’ said Thomas Idle.
‘There is the sea,’ cried Mr. Goodchild, pointing out of window; ‘and here,’ pointing to the lunch on the table, ‘are shrimps32. Let us—’ here Mr. Goodchild looked out of window, as if in search of something, and looked in again,—‘let us eat ’em.’
The shrimps eaten and the dinner ordered, Mr. Goodchild went out to survey the watering-place. As Chorus of the Drama, without whom Thomas could make nothing of the scenery, he by-and-by returned, to have the following report screwed out of him.
In brief, it was the most delightful33 place ever seen.
‘But,’ Thomas Idle asked, ‘where is it?’
‘It’s what you may call generally up and down the beach, here and there,’ said Mr. Goodchild, with a twist of his hand.
‘Proceed,’ said Thomas Idle.
It was, Mr. Goodchild went on to say, in cross-examination, what you might call a primitive34 place. Large? No, it was not large. Who ever expected it would be large? Shape? What a question to ask! No shape. What sort of a street? Why, no street. Shops? Yes, of course (quite indignant). How many? Who ever went into a place to count the shops? Ever so many. Six? Perhaps. A library? Why, of course (indignant again). Good collection of books? Most likely—couldn’t say—had seen nothing in it but a pair of scales. Any reading-room? Of course, there was a reading-room. Where? Where! why, over there. Where was over there? Why, there! Let Mr. Idle carry his eye to that bit of waste ground above high-water mark, where the rank grass and loose stones were most in a litter; and he would see a sort of long, ruinous brick loft35, next door to a ruinous brick out-house, which loft had a ladder outside, to get up by. That was the reading-room, and if Mr. Idle didn’t like the idea of a weaver’s shuttle throbbing36 under a reading-room, that was his look out. He was not to dictate37, Mr. Goodchild supposed (indignant again), to the company.
‘By-the-by,’ Thomas Idle observed; ‘the company?’
Well! (Mr. Goodchild went on to report) very nice company. Where were they? Why, there they were. Mr. Idle could see the tops of their hats, he supposed. What? Those nine straw hats again, five gentlemen’s and four ladies’? Yes, to be sure. Mr. Goodchild hoped the company were not to be expected to wear helmets, to please Mr. Idle.
Beginning to recover his temper at about this point, Mr. Goodchild voluntarily reported that if you wanted to be primitive, you could be primitive here, and that if you wanted to be idle, you could be idle here. In the course of some days, he added, that there were three fishing-boats, but no rigging, and that there were plenty of fishermen who never fished. That they got their living entirely38 by looking at the ocean. What nourishment39 they looked out of it to support their strength, he couldn’t say; but, he supposed it was some sort of Iodine40. The place was full of their children, who were always upside down on the public buildings (two small bridges over the brook), and always hurting themselves or one another, so that their wailings made more continual noise in the air than could have been got in a busy place. The houses people lodged42 in, were nowhere in particular, and were in capital accordance with the beach; being all more or less cracked and damaged as its shells were, and all empty—as its shells were. Among them, was an edifice43 of destitute44 appearance, with a number of wall-eyed windows in it, looking desperately45 out to Scotland as if for help, which said it was a Bazaar46 (and it ought to know), and where you might buy anything you wanted—supposing what you wanted, was a little camp-stool or a child’s wheelbarrow. The brook crawled or stopped between the houses and the sea, and the donkey was always running away, and when he got into the brook he was pelted47 out with stones, which never hit him, and which always hit some of the children who were upside down on the public buildings, and made their lamentations louder. This donkey was the public excitement of Allonby, and was probably supported at the public expense.
The foregoing descriptions, delivered in separate items, on separate days of adventurous48 discovery, Mr. Goodchild severally wound up, by looking out of window, looking in again, and saying, ‘But there is the sea, and here are the shrimps—let us eat ’em.’
There were fine sunsets at Allonby when the low flat beach, with its pools of water and its dry patches, changed into long bars of silver and gold in various states of burnishing49, and there were fine views—on fine days—of the Scottish coast. But, when it rained at Allonby, Allonby thrown back upon its ragged50 self, became a kind of place which the donkey seemed to have found out, and to have his highly sagacious reasons for wishing to bolt from. Thomas Idle observed, too, that Mr. Goodchild, with a noble show of disinterestedness51, became every day more ready to walk to Maryport and back, for letters; and suspicions began to harbour in the mind of Thomas, that his friend deceived him, and that Maryport was a preferable place.
Therefore, Thomas said to Francis on a day when they had looked at the sea and eaten the shrimps, ‘My mind misgives52 me, Goodchild, that you go to Maryport, like the boy in the story-book, to ask it to be idle with you.’
‘Judge, then,’ returned Francis, adopting the style of the story-book, ‘with what success. I go to a region which is a bit of water-side Bristol, with a slice of Wapping, a seasoning53 of Wolverhampton, and a garnish54 of Portsmouth, and I say, “Will you come and be idle with me?” And it answers, “No; for I am a great deal too vaporous, and a great deal too rusty55, and a great deal too muddy, and a great deal too dirty altogether; and I have ships to load, and pitch and tar3 to boil, and iron to hammer, and steam to get up, and smoke to make, and stone to quarry57, and fifty other disagreeable things to do, and I can’t be idle with you.” Then I go into jagged up-hill and down-hill streets, where I am in the pastrycook’s shop at one moment, and next moment in savage58 fastnesses of moor59 and morass60, beyond the confines of civilisation61, and I say to those murky62 and black-dusty streets, “Will you come and be idle with me?” To which they reply, “No, we can’t, indeed, for we haven’t the spirits, and we are startled by the echo of your feet on the sharp pavement, and we have so many goods in our shop-windows which nobody wants, and we have so much to do for a limited public which never comes to us to be done for, that we are altogether out of sorts and can’t enjoy ourselves with any one.” So I go to the Post-office, and knock at the shutter63, and I say to the Post-master, “Will you come and be idle with me?” To which he rejoins, “No, I really can’t, for I live, as you may see, in such a very little Post-office, and pass my life behind such a very little shutter, that my hand, when I put it out, is as the hand of a giant crammed64 through the window of a dwarf’s house at a fair, and I am a mere65 Post-office anchorite in a cell much too small for him, and I can’t get out, and I can’t get in, and I have no space to be idle in, even if I would.” So, the boy,’ said Mr. Goodchild, concluding the tale, ‘comes back with the letters after all, and lives happy never afterwards.’
But it may, not unreasonably66, be asked—while Francis Goodchild was wandering hither and thither67, storing his mind with perpetual observation of men and things, and sincerely believing himself to be the laziest creature in existence all the time—how did Thomas Idle, crippled and confined to the house, contrive68 to get through the hours of the day?
Prone69 on the sofa, Thomas made no attempt to get through the hours, but passively allowed the hours to get through him. Where other men in his situation would have read books and improved their minds, Thomas slept and rested his body. Where other men would have pondered anxiously over their future prospects70, Thomas dreamed lazily of his past life. The one solitary71 thing he did, which most other people would have done in his place, was to resolve on making certain alterations72 and improvements in his mode of existence, as soon as the effects of the misfortune that had overtaken him had all passed away. Remembering that the current of his life had hitherto oozed73 along in one smooth stream of laziness, occasionally troubled on the surface by a slight passing ripple14 of industry, his present ideas on the subject of self-reform, inclined him—not as the reader may be disposed to imagine, to project schemes for a new existence of enterprise and exertion74—but, on the contrary, to resolve that he would never, if he could possibly help it, be active or industrious75 again, throughout the whole of his future career.
It is due to Mr. Idle to relate that his mind sauntered towards this peculiar76 conclusion on distinct and logically-producible grounds. After reviewing, quite at his ease, and with many needful intervals of repose77, the generally-placid spectacle of his past existence, he arrived at the discovery that all the great disasters which had tried his patience and equanimity78 in early life, had been caused by his having allowed himself to be deluded79 into imitating some pernicious example of activity and industry that had been set him by others. The trials to which he here alludes80 were three in number, and may be thus reckoned up: First, the disaster of being an unpopular and a thrashed boy at school; secondly81, the disaster of falling seriously ill; thirdly, the disaster of becoming acquainted with a great bore.
The first disaster occurred after Thomas had been an idle and a popular boy at school, for some happy years. One Christmas-time, he was stimulated82 by the evil example of a companion, whom he had always trusted and liked, to be untrue to himself, and to try for a prize at the ensuing half-yearly examination. He did try, and he got a prize—how, he did not distinctly know at the moment, and cannot remember now. No sooner, however, had the book—Moral Hints to the Young on the Value of Time—been placed in his hands, than the first troubles of his life began. The idle boys deserted83 him, as a traitor84 to their cause. The industrious boys avoided him, as a dangerous interloper; one of their number, who had always won the prize on previous occasions, expressing just resentment85 at the invasion of his privileges by calling Thomas into the play-ground, and then and there administering to him the first sound and genuine thrashing that he had ever received in his life. Unpopular from that moment, as a beaten boy, who belonged to no side and was rejected by all parties, young Idle soon lost caste with his masters, as he had previously86 lost caste with his schoolfellows. He had forfeited87 the comfortable reputation of being the one lazy member of the youthful community whom it was quite hopeless to punish. Never again did he hear the headmaster say reproachfully to an industrious boy who had committed a fault, ‘I might have expected this in Thomas Idle, but it is inexcusable, sir, in you, who know better.’ Never more, after winning that fatal prize, did he escape the retributive imposition, or the avenging88 birch. From that time, the masters made him work, and the boys would not let him play. From that time his social position steadily89 declined, and his life at school became a perpetual burden to him.
So, again, with the second disaster. While Thomas was lazy, he was a model of health. His first attempt at active exertion and his first suffering from severe illness are connected together by the intimate relations of cause and effect. Shortly after leaving school, he accompanied a party of friends to a cricket-field, in his natural and appropriate character of spectator only. On the ground it was discovered that the players fell short of the required number, and facile Thomas was persuaded to assist in making up the complement90. At a certain appointed time, he was roused from peaceful slumber91 in a dry ditch, and placed before three wickets with a bat in his hand. Opposite to him, behind three more wickets, stood one of his bosom92 friends, filling the situation (as he was informed) of bowler93. No words can describe Mr. Idle’s horror and amazement94, when he saw this young man—on ordinary occasions, the meekest95 and mildest of human beings—suddenly contract his eye-brows, compress his lips, assume the aspect of an infuriated savage, run back a few steps, then run forward, and, without the slightest previous provocation96, hurl97 a detestably hard ball with all his might straight at Thomas’s legs. Stimulated to preternatural activity of body and sharpness of eye by the instinct of self-preservation, Mr. Idle contrived98, by jumping deftly99 aside at the right moment, and by using his bat (ridiculously narrow as it was for the purpose) as a shield, to preserve his life and limbs from the dastardly attack that had been made on both, to leave the full force of the deadly missile to strike his wicket instead of his leg; and to end the innings, so far as his side was concerned, by being immediately bowled out. Grateful for his escape, he was about to return to the dry ditch, when he was peremptorily100 stopped, and told that the other side was ‘going in,’ and that he was expected to ‘field.’ His conception of the whole art and mystery of ‘fielding,’ may be summed up in the three words of serious advice which he privately101 administered to himself on that trying occasion—avoid the ball. Fortified102 by this sound and salutary principle, he took his own course, impervious103 alike to ridicule104 and abuse. Whenever the ball came near him, he thought of his shins, and got out of the way immediately. ‘Catch it!’ ‘Stop it!’ ‘Pitch it up!’ were cries that passed by him like the idle wind that he regarded not. He ducked under it, he jumped over it, he whisked himself away from it on either side. Never once, through the whole innings did he and the ball come together on anything approaching to intimate terms. The unnatural105 activity of body which was necessarily called forth106 for the accomplishment107 of this result threw Thomas Idle, for the first time in his life, into a perspiration108. The perspiration, in consequence of his want of practice in the management of that particular result of bodily activity, was suddenly checked; the inevitable109 chill succeeded; and that, in its turn, was followed by a fever. For the first time since his birth, Mr. Idle found himself confined to his bed for many weeks together, wasted and worn by a long illness, of which his own disastrous110 muscular exertion had been the sole first cause.
The third occasion on which Thomas found reason to reproach himself bitterly for the mistake of having attempted to be industrious, was connected with his choice of a calling in life. Having no interest in the Church, he appropriately selected the next best profession for a lazy man in England—the Bar. Although the Benchers of the Inns of Court have lately abandoned their good old principles, and oblige their students to make some show of studying, in Mr. Idle’s time no such innovation as this existed. Young men who aspired111 to the honourable112 title of barrister were, very properly, not asked to learn anything of the law, but were merely required to eat a certain number of dinners at the table of their Hall, and to pay a certain sum of money; and were called to the Bar as soon as they could prove that they had sufficiently113 complied with these extremely sensible regulations. Never did Thomas move more harmoniously114 in concert with his elders and betters than when he was qualifying himself for admission among the barristers of his native country. Never did he feel more deeply what real laziness was in all the serene115 majesty116 of its nature, than on the memorable117 day when he was called to the Bar, after having carefully abstained118 from opening his law-books during his period of probation119, except to fall asleep over them. How he could ever again have become industrious, even for the shortest period, after that great reward conferred upon his idleness, quite passes his comprehension. The kind Benchers did everything they could to show him the folly120 of exerting himself. They wrote out his probationary121 exercise for him, and never expected him even to take the trouble of reading it through when it was written. They invited him, with seven other choice spirits as lazy as himself, to come and be called to the Bar, while they were sitting over their wine and fruit after dinner. They put his oaths of allegiance, and his dreadful official denunciations of the Pope and the Pretender, so gently into his mouth, that he hardly knew how the words got there. They wheeled all their chairs softly round from the table, and sat surveying the young barristers with their backs to their bottles, rather than stand up, or adjourn122 to hear the exercises read. And when Mr. Idle and the seven unlabouring neophytes, ranged in order, as a class, with their backs considerately placed against a screen, had begun, in rotation124, to read the exercises which they had not written, even then, each Bencher, true to the great lazy principle of the whole proceeding125, stopped each neophyte123 before he had stammered126 through his first line, and bowed to him, and told him politely that he was a barrister from that moment. This was all the ceremony. It was followed by a social supper, and by the presentation, in accordance with ancient custom, of a pound of sweetmeats and a bottle of Madeira, offered in the way of needful refreshment127, by each grateful neophyte to each beneficent Bencher. It may seem inconceivable that Thomas should ever have forgotten the great do-nothing principle instilled128 by such a ceremony as this; but it is, nevertheless, true, that certain designing students of industrious habits found him out, took advantage of his easy humour, persuaded him that it was discreditable to be a barrister and to know nothing whatever about the law, and lured129 him, by the force of their own evil example, into a conveyancer’s chambers130, to make up for lost time, and to qualify himself for practice at the Bar. After a fortnight of self-delusion131, the curtain fell from his eyes; he resumed his natural character, and shut up his books. But the retribution which had hitherto always followed his little casual errors of industry followed them still. He could get away from the conveyancer’s chambers, but he could not get away from one of the pupils, who had taken a fancy to him,—a tall, serious, raw-boned, hard-working, disputatious pupil, with ideas of his own about reforming the Law of Real Property, who has been the scourge132 of Mr. Idle’s existence ever since the fatal day when he fell into the mistake of attempting to study the law. Before that time his friends were all sociable133 idlers like himself. Since that time the burden of bearing with a hard-working young man has become part of his lot in life. Go where he will now, he can never feel certain that the raw-boned pupil is not affectionately waiting for him round a corner, to tell him a little more about the Law of Real Property. Suffer as he may under the infliction134, he can never complain, for he must always remember, with unavailing regret, that he has his own thoughtless industry to thank for first exposing him to the great social calamity135 of knowing a bore.
These events of his past life, with the significant results that they brought about, pass drowsily136 through Thomas Idle’s memory, while he lies alone on the sofa at Allonby and elsewhere, dreaming away the time which his fellow-apprentice gets through so actively137 out of doors. Remembering the lesson of laziness which his past disasters teach, and bearing in mind also the fact that he is crippled in one leg because he exerted himself to go up a mountain, when he ought to have known that his proper course of conduct was to stop at the bottom of it, he holds now, and will for the future firmly continue to hold, by his new resolution never to be industrious again, on any pretence138 whatever, for the rest of his life. The physical results of his accident have been related in a previous chapter. The moral results now stand on record; and, with the enumeration139 of these, that part of the present narrative140 which is occupied by the Episode of The Sprained141 Ankle may now perhaps be considered, in all its aspects, as finished and complete.
‘How do you propose that we get through this present afternoon and evening?’ demanded Thomas Idle, after two or three hours of the foregoing reflections at Allonby.
Mr. Goodchild faltered142, looked out of window, looked in again, and said, as he had so often said before, ‘There is the sea, and here are the shrimps;—let us eat ’em’!’
But, the wise donkey was at that moment in the act of bolting: not with the irresolution143 of his previous efforts which had been wanting in sustained force of character, but with real vigour144 of purpose: shaking the dust off his mane and hind-feet at Allonby, and tearing away from it, as if he had nobly made up his mind that he never would be taken alive. At sight of this inspiring spectacle, which was visible from his sofa, Thomas Idle stretched his neck and dwelt upon it rapturously.
‘Francis Goodchild,’ he then said, turning to his companion with a solemn air, ‘this is a delightful little Inn, excellently kept by the most comfortable of landladies and the most attentive of landlords, but—the donkey’s right!’
The words, ‘There is the sea, and here are the—’ again trembled on the lips of Goodchild, unaccompanied however by any sound.
‘Let us instantly pack the portmanteaus,’ said Thomas Idle, ‘pay the bill, and order a fly out, with instructions to the driver to follow the donkey!’
Mr. Goodchild, who had only wanted encouragement to disclose the real state of his feelings, and who had been pining beneath his weary secret, now burst into tears, and confessed that he thought another day in the place would be the death of him.
So, the two idle apprentices followed the donkey until the night was far advanced. Whether he was recaptured by the town-council, or is bolting at this hour through the United Kingdom, they know not. They hope he may be still bolting; if so, their best wishes are with him.
It entered Mr. Idle’s head, on the borders of Cumberland, that there could be no idler place to stay at, except by snatches of a few minutes each, than a railway station. ‘An intermediate station on a line—a junction145—anything of that sort,’ Thomas suggested. Mr. Goodchild approved of the idea as eccentric, and they journeyed on and on, until they came to such a station where there was an Inn.
‘Here,’ said Thomas, ‘we may be luxuriously146 lazy; other people will travel for us, as it were, and we shall laugh at their folly.’
It was a Junction-Station, where the wooden razors before mentioned shaved the air very often, and where the sharp electric-telegraph bell was in a very restless condition. All manner of cross-lines of rails came zig-zagging into it, like a Congress of iron vipers147; and, a little way out of it, a pointsman in an elevated signal-box was constantly going through the motions of drawing immense quantities of beer at a public-house bar. In one direction, confused perspectives of embankments and arches were to be seen from the platform; in the other, the rails soon disentangled themselves into two tracks and shot away under a bridge, and curved round a corner. Sidings were there, in which empty luggage-vans and cattle-boxes often butted148 against each other as if they couldn’t agree; and warehouses149 were there, in which great quantities of goods seemed to have taken the veil (of the consistency150 of tarpaulin), and to have retired151 from the world without any hope of getting back to it. Refreshment-rooms were there; one, for the hungry and thirsty Iron Locomotives where their coke and water were ready, and of good quality, for they were dangerous to play tricks with; the other, for the hungry and thirsty human Locomotives, who might take what they could get, and whose chief consolation152 was provided in the form of three terrific urns153 or vases of white metal, containing nothing, each forming a breastwork for a defiant154 and apparently155 much-injured woman.
Established at this Station, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Goodchild resolved to enjoy it. But, its contrasts were very violent, and there was also an infection in it.
First, as to its contrasts. They were only two, but they were Lethargy and Madness. The Station was either totally unconscious, or wildly raving156. By day, in its unconscious state, it looked as if no life could come to it,—as if it were all rust56, dust, and ashes—as if the last train for ever, had gone without issuing any Return-Tickets—as if the last Engine had uttered its last shriek157 and burst. One awkward shave of the air from the wooden razor, and everything changed. Tight office-doors flew open, panels yielded, books, newspapers, travelling-caps and wrappers broke out of brick walls, money chinked, conveyances158 oppressed by nightmares of luggage came careering into the yard, porters started up from secret places, ditto the much-injured women, the shining bell, who lived in a little tray on stilts159 by himself, flew into a man’s hand and clamoured violently. The pointsman aloft in the signal-box made the motions of drawing, with some difficulty, hogsheads of beer. Down Train! More bear! Up Train! More beer. Cross junction Train! More beer! Cattle Train! More beer. Goods Train! Simmering, whistling, trembling, rumbling160, thundering. Trains on the whole confusion of intersecting rails, crossing one another, bumping one another, hissing161 one another, backing to go forward, tearing into distance to come close. People frantic163. Exiles seeking restoration to their native carriages, and banished164 to remoter climes. More beer and more bell. Then, in a minute, the Station relapsed into stupor165 as the stoker of the Cattle Train, the last to depart, went gliding166 out of it, wiping the long nose of his oil-can with a dirty pocket-handkerchief.
By night, in its unconscious state, the Station was not so much as visible. Something in the air, like an enterprising chemist’s established in business on one of the boughs167 of Jack’s beanstalk, was all that could be discerned of it under the stars. In a moment it would break out, a constellation168 of gas. In another moment, twenty rival chemists, on twenty rival beanstalks, came into existence. Then, the Furies would be seen, waving their lurid169 torches up and down the confused perspectives of embankments and arches—would be heard, too, wailing41 and shrieking170. Then, the Station would be full of palpitating trains, as in the day; with the heightening difference that they were not so clearly seen as in the day, whereas the Station walls, starting forward under the gas, like a hippopotamus’s eyes, dazzled the human locomotives with the sauce-bottle, the cheap music, the bedstead, the distorted range of buildings where the patent safes are made, the gentleman in the rain with the registered umbrella, the lady returning from the ball with the registered respirator, and all their other embellishments. And now, the human locomotives, creased171 as to their countenances172 and purblind173 as to their eyes, would swarm174 forth in a heap, addressing themselves to the mysterious urns and the much-injured women; while the iron locomotives, dripping fire and water, shed their steam about plentifully175, making the dull oxen in their cages, with heads depressed176, and foam177 hanging from their mouths as their red looks glanced fearfully at the surrounding terrors, seem as though they had been drinking at half-frozen waters and were hung with icicles. Through the same steam would be caught glimpses of their fellow-travellers, the sheep, getting their white kid faces together, away from the bars, and stuffing the interstices with trembling wool. Also, down among the wheels, of the man with the sledge-hammer, ringing the axles of the fast night-train; against whom the oxen have a misgiving178 that he is the man with the pole-axe who is to come by-and-by, and so the nearest of them try to get back, and get a purchase for a thrust at him through the bars. Suddenly, the bell would ring, the steam would stop with one hiss162 and a yell, the chemists on the beanstalks would be busy, the avenging Furies would bestir themselves, the fast night-train would melt from eye and ear, the other trains going their ways more slowly would be heard faintly rattling179 in the distance like old-fashioned watches running down, the sauce-bottle and cheap music retired from view, even the bedstead went to bed, and there was no such visible thing as the Station to vex180 the cool wind in its blowing, or perhaps the autumn lightning, as it found out the iron rails.
The infection of the Station was this:—When it was in its raving state, the Apprentices found it impossible to be there, without labouring under the delusion that they were in a hurry. To Mr. Goodchild, whose ideas of idleness were so imperfect, this was no unpleasant hallucination, and accordingly that gentleman went through great exertions181 in yielding to it, and running up and down the platform, jostling everybody, under the impression that he had a highly important mission somewhere, and had not a moment to lose. But, to Thomas Idle, this contagion182 was so very unacceptable an incident of the situation, that he struck on the fourth day, and requested to be moved.
‘This place fills me with a dreadful sensation,’ said Thomas, ‘of having something to do. Remove me, Francis.’
‘Where would you like to go next?’ was the question of the ever-engaging Goodchild.
‘I have heard there is a good old Inn at Lancaster, established in a fine old house: an Inn where they give you Bride-cake every day after dinner,’ said Thomas Idle. ‘Let us eat Bride-cake without the trouble of being married, or of knowing anybody in that ridiculous dilemma183.’
Mr. Goodchild, with a lover’s sigh, assented184. They departed from the Station in a violent hurry (for which, it is unnecessary to observe, there was not the least occasion), and were delivered at the fine old house at Lancaster, on the same night.
It is Mr. Goodchild’s opinion, that if a visitor on his arrival at Lancaster could be accommodated with a pole which would push the opposite side of the street some yards farther off, it would be better for all parties. Protesting against being required to live in a trench185, and obliged to speculate all day upon what the people can possibly be doing within a mysterious opposite window, which is a shop-window to look at, but not a shop-window in respect of its offering nothing for sale and declining to give any account whatever of itself, Mr. Goodchild concedes Lancaster to be a pleasant place. A place dropped in the midst of a charming landscape, a place with a fine ancient fragment of castle, a place of lovely walks, a place possessing staid old houses richly fitted with old Honduras mahogany, which has grown so dark with time that it seems to have got something of a retrospective mirror-quality into itself, and to show the visitor, in the depth of its grain, through all its polish, the hue186 of the wretched slaves who groaned187 long ago under old Lancaster merchants. And Mr. Goodchild adds that the stones of Lancaster do sometimes whisper, even yet, of rich men passed away—upon whose great prosperity some of these old doorways188 frowned sullen189 in the brightest weather—that their slave-gain turned to curses, as the Arabian Wizard’s money turned to leaves, and that no good ever came of it, even unto the third and fourth generations, until it was wasted and gone.
It was a gallant sight to behold, the Sunday procession of the Lancaster elders to Church—all in black, and looking fearfully like a funeral without the Body—under the escort of Three Beadles.
‘Think,’ said Francis, as he stood at the Inn window, admiring, ‘of being taken to the sacred edifice by three Beadles! I have, in my early time, been taken out of it by one Beadle; but, to be taken into it by three, O Thomas, is a distinction I shall never enjoy!’
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1
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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2
grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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15
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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17
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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18
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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19
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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32
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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40
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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41
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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42
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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43
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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44
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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45
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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46
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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47
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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48
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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49
burnishing
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| n.磨光，抛光，擦亮v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的现在分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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50
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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51
disinterestedness
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52
misgives
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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54
garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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55
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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56
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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57
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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58
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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59
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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60
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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61
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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62
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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63
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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64
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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65
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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67
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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68
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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70
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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71
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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72
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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73
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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74
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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75
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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76
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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77
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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78
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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79
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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82
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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83
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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84
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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85
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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86
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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87
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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89
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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90
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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91
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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94
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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95
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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96
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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97
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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98
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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100
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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101
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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102
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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103
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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104
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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105
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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106
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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107
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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108
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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109
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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110
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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111
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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113
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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114
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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115
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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116
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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117
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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118
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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119
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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120
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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121
probationary
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| 试用的，缓刑的 | |
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122
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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123
neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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124
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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125
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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126
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
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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128
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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130
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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131
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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132
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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133
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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134
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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135
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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136
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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137
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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138
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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139
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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140
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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141
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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142
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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143
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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144
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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145
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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146
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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147
vipers
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| n.蝰蛇( viper的名词复数 )；毒蛇；阴险恶毒的人；奸诈者 | |
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148
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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149
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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150
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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151
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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152
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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153
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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154
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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155
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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157
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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158
conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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159
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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160
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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161
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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162
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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163
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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164
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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166
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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167
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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168
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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169
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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170
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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171
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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172
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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173
purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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174
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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175
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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176
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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177
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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178
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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179
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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180
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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181
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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182
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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183
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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184
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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186
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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187
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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188
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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189
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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