It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read the inscriptions3 on the tombs of the good people (a great number of good people were buried there), passing on from one to another with increasing interest.
It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in the air. First, one sleek4 bird, hovering5 near his ragged6 house as it swung and dangled7 in the wind, uttered his hoarse8 cry, quite by chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but talking to himself. Another answered, and he called again, but louder than before; then another spoke9 and then another; and each time the first, aggravated10 by contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs11 lower down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey church turrets12 and old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled13 and dropped again, and still went on; and all this noisy contention14 amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting15 on fresh branches, and frequent change of place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay so still beneath the moss16 and turf below, and the strife17 in which they had worn away their lives.
Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down, and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which had started from some green mound18 it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of whitened-green mouldering19 from the pew sides and leaving the naked wood to view. There were the seats where the poor old people sat, worn spare, and yellow like themselves; the rugged20 font where children had their names, the homely21 altar where they knelt in after life, the plain black tressels that bore their weight on their last visit to the cool old shady church. Everything told of long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in the porch was frayed22 into a fringe, and hoary23 with old age.
She was looking at a humble24 stone which told of a young man who had died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a faltering25 step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent26 with the weight of years, who tottered27 to the foot of that same grave and asked her to read the writing on the stone. The old woman thanked her when she had done, saying that she had had the words by heart for many a long, long year, but could not see them now.
‘Were you his mother?’ said the child.
‘I was his wife, my dear.’
She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was fifty-five years ago.
‘You wonder to hear me say that,’ remarked the old woman, shaking her head. ‘You’re not the first. Older folk than you have wondered at the same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn’t change us more than life, my dear.’
‘Do you come here often?’ asked the child.
‘I sit here very often in the summer time,’ she answered, ‘I used to come here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless God!’
‘I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,’ said the old woman after a short silence. ‘I like no flowers so well as these, and haven’t for five-and-fifty years. It’s a long time, and I’m getting very old.’
Then growing garrulous28 upon a theme which was new to one listener though it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned and prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when she first came to that place, a young creature strong in love and grief, she had hoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to be. But that time passed by, and although she continued to be sad when she came there, still she could bear to come, and so went on until it was pain no longer, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she had learned to like. And now that five-and-fifty years were gone, she spoke of the dead man as if he had been her son or grandson, with a kind of pity for his youth, growing out of her own old age, and an exalting29 of his strength and manly30 beauty as compared with her own weakness and decay; and yet she spoke about him as her husband too, and thinking of herself in connexion with him, as she used to be and not as she was now, talked of their meeting in another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and she, separated from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of that comely31 girl who seemed to have died with him.
The child left her gathering32 the flowers that grew upon the grave, and thoughtfully retraced33 her steps.
The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still doomed34 to contemplate35 the harsh realities of existence, was packing among his linen36 the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night’s performance; while his companion received the compliments of all the loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in importance to that merry outlaw37, and loved him scarcely less. When he had sufficiently38 acknowledged his popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they all sat down together.
‘And where are you going to-day?’ said the little man, addressing himself to Nell.
‘Indeed I hardly know — we have not determined39 yet,’ replied the child.
‘We’re going on to the races,’ said the little man. ‘If that’s your way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If you prefer going alone, only say the word and you’ll find that we shan’t trouble you.’
‘We’ll go with you,’ said the old man. ‘Nell — with them, with them.’
The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for purposes of enjoyment40 and festivity, determined to accompany these men so far. She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said, glancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was no objection to their accompanying them as far as the race town —
‘Objection!’ said the little man. ‘Now be gracious for once, Tommy, and say that you’d rather they went with us. I know you would. Be gracious, Tommy.’
‘Trotters,’ said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very greedily, as is not uncommon41 with philosophers and misanthropes42; ‘you’re too free.’
‘Why what harm can it do?’ urged the other. ‘No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps,’ replied Mr Codlin; ‘but the principle’s a dangerous one, and you’re too free I tell you.’
‘Well, are they to go with us or not?’
‘Yes, they are,’ said Mr Codlin; ‘but you might have made a favour of it, mightn’t you?’
The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged43 into the less euphonious44 one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small size of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a compound name, inconvenient45 of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had been bestowed46 was known among his intimates either as ‘Short,’ or ‘Trotters,’ and was seldom accosted47 at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal conversations and on occasions of ceremony.
Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the remonstrance48 of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose49 answer calculated to turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish50 to the cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed upon his companions that they should do the like. Mr Codlin indeed required no such persuasion51, as he had already eaten as much as he could possibly carry and was now moistening his clay with strong ale, whereof he took deep draughts52 with a silent relish and invited nobody to partake — thus again strongly indicating his misanthropical53 turn of mind.
Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging the ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and equal parts, assigning one moiety54 to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and her grandfather. These being duly discharged and all things ready for their departure, they took farewell of the landlord and landlady55 and resumed their journey.
And here Mr Codlin’s false position in society and the effect it wrought56 upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated57; for whereas he had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as ‘master,’ and had by inference left the audience to understand that he maintained that individual for his own luxurious58 entertainment and delight, here he was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that same Punch’s temple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In place of enlivening his patron with a constant fire of wit or the cheerful rattle59 of his quarter-staff on the heads of his relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming Punch utterly60 devoid61 of spine62, all slack and drooping63 in a dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck, and not one of his social qualities remaining.
Mr Codlin trudged64 heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals65 with Short, and stopping to rest and growl66 occasionally. Short led the way; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive) tied up in a bundle, and a brazen67 trumpet68 slung69 from his shoulder-blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear.
When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of good appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and carolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious70 tone common to Punches and their consorts71. If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin pitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and concealing72 Short therewith, flourished hysterically73 on the pipes and performed an air. Then the entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin having the responsibility of deciding on its length and of protracting74 or expediting the time for the hero’s final triumph over the enemy of mankind, according as he judged that the after-crop of half-pence would be plentiful75 or scant76. When it had been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and on they went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll77 across a bridge or ferry, and once exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector, being drunk in his solitude78, paid down a shilling to have it to himself. There was one small place of rich promise in which their hopes were blighted79, for a favourite character in the play having gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling80 wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the beadle, for which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but they were generally well received, and seldom left a town without a troop of ragged children shouting at their heels.
They made a long day’s journey, despite these interruptions, and were yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short beguiled81 the time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that happened. Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the hollow things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with the theatre on his back, a prey82 to the bitterest chagrin83.
They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met, and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous84 shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by which they had come. The child was at first quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants — for such they looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath the shadow of the trees — but Short, telling her there was nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a cheerful shout.
‘It’s Grinder’s lot, an’t it?’ cried Mr Short in a loud key.
‘Yes,’ replied a couple of shrill85 voices.
‘Come on then,’ said Short. ‘Let’s have a look at you. I thought it was you.’
Thus invited, ‘Grinder’s lot’ approached with redoubled speed and soon came up with the little party.
Mr Grinder’s company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young gentleman and a young lady on stilts87, and Mr Grinder himself, who used his natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a drum. The public costume of the young people was of the Highland88 kind, but the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his kilt a man’s pea jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed89 hat; the young lady too was muffled90 in an old cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her head. Their Scotch91 bonnets92, ornamented93 with plumes94 of jet black feathers, Mr Grinder carried on his instrument.
‘Bound for the races, I see,’ said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath. ‘So are we. How are you, Short?’ With that they shook hands in a very friendly manner. The young people being too high up for the ordinary salutations, saluted96 Short after their own fashion. The young gentleman twisted up his right stilt86 and patted him on the shoulder, and the young lady rattled97 her tambourine98.
‘Practice?’ said Short, pointing to the stilts.
‘No,’ returned Grinder. ‘It comes either to walkin’ in ’em or carryin’ of ’em, and they like walkin’ in ’em best. It’s wery pleasant for the prospects99. Which road are you takin’? We go the nighest.’
‘Why, the fact is,’ said Short, ‘that we are going the longest way, because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But three or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and if you keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.’
‘Where’s your partner?’ inquired Grinder.
‘Here he is,’ cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in the proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of countenance100 not often seen there; ‘and he’ll see his partner boiled alive before he’ll go on to-night. That’s what he says.’
‘Well, don’t say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to something pleasanter,’ urged Short. ‘Respect associations, Tommy, even if you do cut up rough.’
‘Rough or smooth,’ said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit them to popular admiration101, ‘rough or smooth, I won’t go further than the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and nowhere else. If you like to come there, come there. If you like to go on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do without me if you can.’
So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately presented himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a jerk, and made off with most remarkable102 agility103.
Any further controversy104 being now out of the question, Short was fain to part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose105 companion. After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see the stilts frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum toiling106 slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a parting salute95, and hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin. With this view he gave his unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would soon be at the end of their journey for that night, and stimulating107 the old man with a similar assurance, led them at a pretty swift pace towards their destination, which he was the less unwilling108 to make for, as the moon was now overcast109 and the clouds were threatening rain.
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1
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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13
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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24
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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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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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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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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40
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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42
misanthropes
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| n.厌恶人类者( misanthrope的名词复数 ) | |
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43
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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44
euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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45
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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46
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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48
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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49
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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50
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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51
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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53
misanthropical
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54
moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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55
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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56
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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57
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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59
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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60
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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62
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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66
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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69
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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70
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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71
consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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72
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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73
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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74
protracting
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| v.延长，拖延（某事物）( protract的现在分词 ) | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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79
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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80
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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82
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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83
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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84
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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85
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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86
stilt
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| n.高跷，支柱 | |
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87
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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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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89
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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90
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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91
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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95
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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96
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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97
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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98
tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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99
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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102
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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103
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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104
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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105
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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106
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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107
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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108
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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109
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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