To speak merely by sudden memory, for instance, there was the fine old hotel in Burlington, Vermont—is it called the Van Ness House?—where we remember a line of cane-bottomed chairs on a long shady veranda16, where one could look out and see the town simmering in that waft17 of hot and dazzling sunshine that pours across Lake Champlain in the late afternoon: and The Black Lion, Lavenham, Suffolk; where (unless we confuse it with a pub in Bury St. Edmunds where we had lunch), there was, in the hallway, a very fine old engraving18 called "Pirates Decoying a Merchantman," in which one pirate, dressed in woman's clothes, stood up above the bulwarks19 waving for assistance, while the cutlassed ruffians crouched20 below ready to do their bloody21 work when the other ship came near enough. Nor have we forgotten The Saracen's Head, at Ware22, whence we went exploring down the little river Lea on Izaak Walton's trail; nor The Swan at Bibury in Gloucestershire, hard by that clear green water the Colne; nor another Swan at Tetsworth in Oxfordshire, which one reaches after bicycling over the beechy slope of the Chilterns, and where, in the narrow taproom, occurred the fabled23 encounter between a Texas Rhodes Scholar logged with port wine and seven Oxfordshire yokels24 who made merry over his power of carrying the red blood of the grape.
Our friend C.F.B., while we were meditating25 these golden matters, wrote to us that he is going on a walking or bicycling trip in England next summer, and [117]asks for suggestions. We advise him to get a copy of Muirhead's "England" (the best general guidebook we have seen) and look up his favourite authors in the index. That will refer him to the places associated with them, and he can have rare sport in hunting them out. There is no way of pilgrimage so pleasant as to follow the spoor of a well-loved writer. Referring to our black note-book, in which we keep memoranda28 of a modest pilgrimage we once made to places mentioned by two of our heroes, viz., Boswell and R.L.S., we think that if we were in C.F.B.'s shoes, one of the regions we would be most anxious to revisit would be Dove Dale, in Derbyshire. This exquisite29 little valley is reached from Ashbourne, where we commend the Green Man Inn (visited more than once by Doctor Johnson and Boswell). This neighbourhood also has memories of George Eliot, and of Izaak Walton, who used to go fishing in the little river Dove; his fishing house is still there. Unfortunately, when we were in those parts we did not have sense enough to see the Manyfold, a curious stream (a tributary30 of the Dove) which by its habit of running underground caused Johnson and Boswell to argue about miracles.
Muirhead's book will give C.F.B. sound counsel about the inns of that district, which are many and good. The whole region of the Derbyshire Peak is rarely visited by the foreign tourist. Of it, Doctor Johnson, with his sturdy prejudice, said: "He who has seen Dove Dale has no need to visit the Highlands." The metropolis31 of this moorland is Buxton: unhappily we did not make a note of the inn we visited in that [118]town; but we have a clear recollection of claret, candlelight, and reading "Weir32 of Hermiston" in bed; also a bathroom with hot water, not too common in the cheap hostelries we frequented.
We can only wish for the good C.F.B. as happy an evening as we spent (with our eccentric friend Mifflin McGill) bicycling from the Newhaven Inn in a July twilight33. The Newhaven Inn, which is only a vile34 kind of meagre roadhouse at a lonely fork in the way (where one arm of the signpost carries the romantic legend "To Haddon Hall"), lies between Ashbourne and Buxton. But it is marked on all the maps, so perhaps it has an honourable35 history. The sun was dying in red embers over the Derbyshire hills as we pedalled along. Life, liquor, and literature lay all before us; certes, we had no thought of ever writing a daily column! And finally, after our small lanterns were lit and cast their little fans of brightness along the flowing road, we ascended36 a rise and saw Buxton in the valley below, twinkling with lights—
"And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted
Lo, the valley hollow
Lamp-bestarred!"
Nor were all these ancient inns (to which our heart wistfully returns) on British soil. There was the Hotel de la Tour, in Montjoie, a quaint38 small town somewhere in that hilly region of the Ardennes along the border between Luxemburg and Belgium. Our memory [119]is rather vague as to Montjoie, for we got there late one evening, after more than seventy up-and-down miles on a bicycle, hypnotic with weariness and the smell of pine trees and a great warm wind that had buffeted39 us all day. But we have a dim, comfortable remembrance of a large clean bedroom, unlighted, in which we duskily groped and found no less than three huge beds among which we had to choose; and we can see also a dining room brilliantly papered in scarlet40, with good old prints on the walls and great wooden beams overhead. Two bottles of ice-cold beer linger in our thought: and there was some excellent work done on a large pancake, one of those durable41 fleshy German Pfannkuchen. For the odd part of it was (unless our memory is wholly amiss) Montjoie was then (1912) supposed to be part of Germany, and they pronounced it Mon-yowey. But the Reich must have felt that this was not permanent, for they had not Germanized either the name of the town or of the hostelry.
And let us add, in this affectionate summary, The Lion—(Hotel zum L?wen)—at Sigmaringen, that delicious little haunt on the upper Danube, where the castle sits on a stony42 jut43 overlooking the river. Algernon Blackwood, in one of his superb tales of fantasy (in the volume called "The Listener") has told a fascinating gruesome story of the Danube, describing a sedgy, sandy, desolate44 region below the Hungarian border where malevolent45 inhuman46 forces were apparent and resented mortal intrusion. But we cannot testify to anything sinister47 in the bright water of the Danube in the flow of its lovely youth, above Sigmaringen. [120]And if there were any evil influences, surely at Sigmaringen (the ancient home and origin of the Hohenzollerns, we believe) they would have shown themselves. In those exhilarating miles of valley, bicycled in company with a blithe48 vagabond who is now a professor at Cornell, we learned why the waltz was called "The Blue Danube." So heavenly a tint37 of transparent blue-green we have never seen elsewhere, the hurrying current sliding under steep crags of gray and yellow stone, whitened upon sudden shallows into long terraces of broken water. There was a wayside chapel49 with painted frescoes50 and Latin inscriptions51 (why didn't we make a note of them, we wonder?) and before it a cold gush52 sluicing53 from a lion's mouth into a stone basin. A blue crockery mug stood on the rim27, and the bowl was spotted54 with floating petals55 from pink and white rose-bushes. We can still see our companion, tilting56 a thirsty bearded face as he drank, outlined on such a backdrop of pure romantic beauty as only enriches irresponsible youth in its commerce with the world. The river bends sharply to the left under a prodigious57 cliff, where is some ancient castle or religious house. There he stands, excellent fellow, forever (in our memory) holding that blue mug against a Maxfield Parrish scene.
Just around that bend, if you are discreet58, a bathe can be accomplished59, and you will reach the Lion by supper time, vowing60 the Danube the loveliest of all streams.
Of the Lion itself, now that we compress the gland26 of memory more closely, we have little to report save a general sensation of cheerful comfort. That in itself is [121]favourable: the bad inns are always accurately61 tabled in mind. But stay—here is a picture that unexpectedly presents itself. On that evening (it was July 15, 1912) there was a glorious little girl, about ten years old, taking supper at the Lion with her parents. Through the yellow shine of the lamps she suddenly reappears to us, across the dining room—rather a more luxurious62 dining room than the two wayfarers63 were accustomed to visit. We can see her straight white frock, her plump brown legs in socks (not reaching the floor as she sat), her tawny64 golden hair with a red ribbon. The two dusty vagabonds watched her, and her important-looking adults, from afar. We have only the vaguest impression of her father: he was erect65 and handsome and not untouched with pride. (Heavens, were they some minor66 offshoot of the Hohenzollern tribe?) We can see the head waiter smirking67 near their table. Across nine years and thousands of miles they still radiate to us a faint sense of prosperity and breeding; and the child was like a princess in a fairy-tale. Ah, if only it had all been a fairy-tale. Could we but turn back the clock to that summer evening when the dim pine-alleys smelled so resinous68 on the Muehlberg, turn back the flow of that quick blue river, turn back history itself and rewrite it in chapters fit for the clear eyes of that child we saw.
Well, we are growing grievous: it is time to go out and have some cider. There are many other admirable inns we might soliloquize—The Seven Stars in Rotterdam (Molensteeg 19, "nabij het Postkantoor"); Gibson's Hotel, Rutland Square, Edinburgh ("Well adapted [122]for Marriages," says its card); the Hotel Davenport, Stamford, Connecticut, where so many palpitating playwrights69 have sat nervously70 waiting for the opening performance; the Tannh?user Hotel in Heidelberg, notable for the affability of the chambermaids. Perhaps you will permit us to close by quoting a description of an old Irish tavern71, from that queer book "The Life of John Buncle, Esq." (1756). This inn bore the curious name The Conniving72 House:
The Conniving-House (as the gentlemen of Trinity called it in my time, and long after) was a little public house, kept by Jack73 Macklean, about a quarter of a mile beyond Rings-end, on the top of the beach, within a few yards of the sea. Here we used to have the finest fish at all times; and in the season, green peas, and all the most excellent vegetables. The ale here was always extraordinary, and everything the best; which, with its delightful74 situation, rendered it a delightful place of a summer's evening. Many a delightful evening have I passed in this pretty thatched house with the famous Larrey Grogan, who played on the bagpipes75 extreme well; dear Jack Lattin, matchless on the fiddle76, and the most agreeable of companions; that ever charming young fellow, Jack Wall ... and many other delightful fellows; who went in the days of their youth to the shades of eternity77. When I think of them and their evening songs—We will go to Johnny Macklean's—to try if his ale be good or no, etc., and that years and infirmities begin to oppress me—What is life!
There is a fine, easy, mellow78 manner of writing, worthy79 the subject. And we—we conclude with [123]honest regret. Even to write down the names of all the inns where we have been happy would be the pleasantest possible way of spending an afternoon. But we advise you to be cautious in adopting our favourites as stopping places. Some of them are very humble80.
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1
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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parse
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| v.从语法上分析；n.从语法上分析 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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yokels
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| n.乡下佬，土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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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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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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32
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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33
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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52
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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sluicing
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| v.冲洗( sluice的现在分词 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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