As You Like It.
It is fortunate for tale-tellers that they are not tied down like theatrical2 writers to the unities3 of time and place, but may conduct their personages to Athens and Thebes at their pleasure, and bring them back at their convenience. Time, to use Rosalind’s simile4, has hitherto paced with the hero of our tale; for betwixt Morton’s first appearance as a competitor for the popinjay and his final departure for Holland hardly two months elapsed. Years, however, glided5 away ere we find it possible to resume the thread of our narrative6, and Time must be held to have galloped7 over the interval8. Craving9, therefore, the privilege of my cast, I entreat10 the reader’s attention to the continuation of the narrative, as it starts from a new era, being the year immediately subsequent to the British Revolution.
Scotland had just begun to repose12 from the convulsion occasioned by a change of dynasty, and, through the prudent13 tolerance14 of King William, had narrowly escaped the horrors of a protracted15 civil war. Agriculture began to revive, and men, whose minds had been disturbed by the violent political concussions16, and the general change of government in Church and State, had begun to recover their ordinary temper, and to give the usual attention to their own private affairs, in lieu of discussing those of the public. The Highlanders alone resisted the newly established order of things, and were in arms in a considerable body under the Viscount of Dundee, whom our readers have hitherto known by the name of Grahame of Claverhouse. But the usual state of the Highlands was so unruly that their being more or less disturbed was not supposed greatly to affect the general tranquillity17 of the country, so long as their disorders18 were confined within their own frontiers. In the Lowlands, the Jacobites, now the undermost party, had ceased to expect any immediate11 advantage by open resistance, and were, in their turn, driven to hold private meetings, and form associations for mutual19 defence, which the government termed treason, while they cried out persecution20.
The triumphant21 Whigs, while they re-established Presbytery as the national religion, and assigned to the General Assemblies of the Kirk their natural influence, were very far from going the lengths which the Cameronians and more extravagant22 portion of the nonconformists under Charles and James loudly demanded. They would listen to no proposal for re-establishing the Solemn League and Covenant23; and those who had expected to find in King William a zealous25 Covenanted26 Monarch27, were grievously disappointed when he intimated, with the phlegm peculiar28 to his country, his intention to tolerate all forms of religion which were consistent with the safety of the State. The principles of indulgence thus espoused29 and gloried in by the Government gave great offence to the more violent party, who condemned30 them as diametrically contrary to Scripture31 — for which narrow-spirited doctrine32 they cited various texts, all, as it may well be supposed, detached from their context, and most of them derived33 from the charges given to the Jews in the Old Testament34 dispensation to extirpate35 idolaters out of the Promised Land. They also murmured highly against the influence assumed by secular37 persons in exercising the rights of patronage38, which they termed a rape39 upon the chastity of the Church. They censured40 and condemned as Erastian many of the measures by which Government after the Revolution showed an inclination41 to interfere42 with the management of the Church, and they positively43 refused to take the oath of allegiance to King William and Queen Mary until they should, on their part, have sworn to the Solemn League — and Covenant, the Magna Charta, as they termed it, of the Presbyterian Church.
This party, therefore, remained grumbling44 and dissatisfied, and made repeated declarations against defections and causes of wrath45, which, had they been prosecuted46 as in the two former reigns47, would have led to the same consequence of open rebellion. But as the murmurers were allowed to hold their meetings uninterrupted, and to testify as much as they pleased against Socinianism, Erastianism, and all the compliances and defections of the time, their zeal24, unfanned by persecution, died gradually away, their numbers became diminished, and they sunk into the scattered48 remnant of serious, scrupulous49, and harmless enthusiasts50, of whom Old Mortality, whose legends have afforded the groundwork of my tale, may be taken as no bad representative. But in the years which immediately succeeded the Revolution, the Cameronians continued a sect52 strong in numbers and vehement53 in their political opinions, whom Government wished to discourage, while they prudently54 temporised with them. These men formed one violent party in the State; and the Episcopalian and Jacobite interest, notwithstanding their ancient and national animosity, yet repeatedly endeavoured to intrigue55 among them, and avail themselves of their discontents, to obtain their assistance in recalling the Stewart family. The Revolutionary Government in the mean while, was supported by the great bulk of the Lowland interest, who were chiefly disposed to a moderate Presbytery, and formed in a great measure the party who in the former oppressive reigns were stigmatized56 by the Cameronians for having exercised that form of worship under the declaration of Indulgence issued by Charles II. Such was the state of parties in Scotland immediately subsequent to the Revolution.
It was on a delightful57 summer evening that a stranger, well mounted, and having the appearance of a military man of rank, rode down a winding58 descent which terminated in view of the romantic ruins of Bothwell Castle and the river Clyde, which winds so beautifully between rocks and woods to sweep around the towers formerly59 built by Aymer de Valence. Bothwell Bridge was at a little distance, and also in sight. The opposite field, once the scene of slaughter60 and conflict, now lay as placid61 and quiet as the surface of a summer lake. The trees and bushes, which grew around in romantic variety of shade, were hardly seen to stir under the influence of the evening breeze. The very murmur36 of the river seemed to soften62 itself into unison63 with the stillness of the scene around.
The path through which the traveller descended64 was occasionally shaded by detached trees of great size, and elsewhere by the hedges and boughs65 of flourishing orchards66, now laden67 with summer fruits.
The nearest object of consequence was a farmhouse68, or, it might be, the abode69 of a small proprietor70, situated71 on the side of a sunny bank which was covered by apple and pear trees. At the foot of the path which led up to this modest mansion72 was a small cottage, pretty much in the situation of a porter’s lodge73, though obviously not designed for such a purpose. The hut seemed comfortable, and more neatly74 arranged than is usual in Scotland. It had its little garden, where some fruit-trees and bushes were mingled75 with kitchen herbs; a cow and six sheep fed in a paddock hard by; the cock strutted76 and crowed, and summoned his family around him before the door; a heap of brushwood and turf, neatly made up, indicated that the winter fuel was provided; and the thin blue smoke which ascended77 from the straw-bound chimney, and winded slowly out from among the green trees, showed that the evening meal was in the act of being made ready. To complete the little scene of rural peace and comfort, a girl of about five years old was fetching water in a pitcher78 from a beautiful fountain of the purest transparency, which bubbled up at the root of a decayed old oak-tree about twenty yards from the end of the cottage.
The stranger reined79 up his horse and called to the little nymph, desiring to know the way to Fairy Knowe. The child set down her water-pitcher, hardly understanding what was said to her, put her fair flaxen hair apart on her brows, and opened her round blue eyes with the wondering “What’s your wull?” which is usually a peasant’s first answer, if it can be called one, to all questions whatever.
“I wish to know the way to Fairy Knowe.”
“Mammie, mammie,” exclaimed the little rustic80, running towards the door of the hut, “come out and speak to the gentleman.”
Her mother appeared — a handsome young country-woman, to whose features, originally sly and espiegle in expression, matrimony had given that decent matronly air which peculiarly marks the peasant’s wife of Scotland. She had an infant in one arm, and with the other she smoothed down her apron81, to which hung a chubby82 child of two years old. The elder girl, whom the traveller had first seen, fell back behind her mother as soon as she appeared, and kept that station, occasionally peeping out to look at the stranger.
“What was your pleasure, sir?” said the woman, with an air of respectful breeding not quite common in her rank of life, but without anything resembling forwardness.
The stranger looked at her with great earnestness for a moment, and then replied, “I am seeking a place called Fairy Knowe, and a man called Cuthbert Headrigg. You can probably direct me to him?”
“It’s my gudeman, sir,” said the young woman, with a smile of welcome. “Will you alight, sir, and come into our puir dwelling83? — Cuddie, Cuddie,”— a white-headed rogue84 of four years appeared at the door of the hut —“rin awa, my bonny man, and tell your father a gentleman wants him. Or, stay — Jenny, ye’ll hae mair sense: rin ye awa and tell him; he’s down at the Four-acres Park. — Winna ye light down and bide85 a blink, sir? Or would ye take a mouthfu’ o’ bread and cheese, or a drink o’ ale, till our gudeman comes. It’s gude ale, though I shouldna say sae that brews86 it; but ploughmanlads work hard, and maun hae something to keep their hearts abune by ordinar, sae I aye pit a gude gowpin o’ maut to the browst.”
As the stranger declined her courteous87 offers, Cuddie, the reader’s old acquaintance, made his appearance in person. His countenance88 still presented the same mixture of apparent dulness with occasional sparkles, which indicated the craft so often found in the clouted89 shoe. He looked on the rider as on one whom he never had before seen, and, like his daughter and wife, opened the conversation with the regular query90, “What’s your wull wi’ me, sir?”
“I have a curiosity to ask some questions about this country,” said the traveller, “and I was directed to you as an intelligent man who can answer them.”
“Nae doubt, sir,” said Cuddie, after a moment’s hesitation91. “But I would first like to ken51 what sort of questions they are. I hae had sae mony questions speered at me in my day, and in sic queer ways, that if ye kend a’, ye wadna wonder at my jalousing a’ thing about them. My mother gar ‘d me learn the Single Carritch, whilk was a great vex92; then I behoved to learn about my godfathers and godmothers to please the auld93 leddy; and whiles I jumbled94 them thegether and pleased nane o’ them; and when I cam to man’s yestate, cam another kind o’ questioning in fashion that I liked waur than Effectual Calling; and the ‘did promise and vow’ of the tape were yokit to the end o’ the tother. Sae ye see, sir, I aye like to hear questions asked befor I answer them.”
“You have nothing to apprehend95 from mine, my good friend; they only relate to the state of the country.”
“Country?” replied Cuddie; “ou, the country’s weel eneugh, an it werena that dour96 deevil, Claver’se (they ca’ him Dundee now), that’s stirring about yet in the Highlands, they say, wi’ a’ the Donalds and Duncans and Dugalds, that ever wore bottomless breeks, driving about wi’ him, to set things asteer again, now we hae gotten them a’ reasonably weel settled. But Mackay will pit him down, there’s little doubt o’ that; he’ll gie him his fairing, I’ll be caution for it.”
“What makes you so positive of that, my friend?” asked the horseman.
“I heard it wi’ my ain lugs,” answered Cuddie, foretauld to him by a man that had been three hours stane dead, and came back to this earth again just to tell him his mind. It was at a place they ca’ Drumshinnel.”
“Indeed?” said the stranger. “I can hardly believe you, my friend.”
“Ye might ask my mither, then, if she were in life,” said Cuddie; “it was her explained it a’ to me, for I thought the man had only been wounded. At ony rate, he spake of the casting out of the Stewarts by their very names, and the vengeance97 that was brewing98 for Claver’se and his dragoons. They ca’d the man Habakkuk Mucklewrath; his brain was a wee ajee, but he was a braw preacher for a’ that.”
“You seem,” said the stranger, “to live in a rich and peaceful country.”
“It’s no to compleen o’, sir, an we get the crap weel in,” quoth Cuddie; “but if ye had seen the blude rinnin’ as fast on the tap o’ that brigg yonder as ever the water ran below it, ye wadna hae thought it sae bonnie a spectacle.”
“You mean the battle some years since? I was waiting upon Monmouth that morning, my good friend, and did see some part of the action,” said the stranger.
“Then ye saw a bonny stour,” said Cuddie, “that sail serve me for fighting a’ the days o’ my life. I judged ye wad be a trooper, by your red scarlet99 lace-coat and your looped hat.”
“And which side were you upon, my friend?” continued the inquisitive100 stranger.
“Aha, lad?” retorted Cuddie, with a knowing look, or what he designed for such — “there ‘s nae use in telling that, unless I kend wha was asking me.”
“I commend your prudence101, but it is unnecessary; I know you acted on that occasion as servant to Henry Morton.”
“Ay!” said Cuddie, in surprise, “how came ye by that secret? No that I need care a bodee about it, for the sun’s on our side o’ the hedge now. I wish my master were living to get a blink o’t”
“And what became of him?” said the rider.
“He was lost in the vessel102 gaun to that weary Holland — clean lost; and a’ body perished, and my poor master amang them. Neither man nor mouse was ever heard o’ mair.” Then Cuddie uttered a groan103.
“You had some regard for him, then?” continued the stranger.
“How could I help it? His face was made of a fiddle104, as they say, for a’ body that looked on him liked him. And a braw soldier he was. Oh, an ye had but seen him down at the brigg there, fleeing about like a fleeing dragon to gar folk fight that had unto little will till ‘t! There was he and that sour Whigamore they ca’d Burley: if twa men could hae won a field, we wadna hae gotten our skins paid that day.”
“You mention Burley: do you know if he yet lives?”
“I kenna muckle about him. Folk say he was abroad, and our sufferers wad hold no communion wi’ him, because o’ his having murdered the archbishop. Sae he cam hame ten times dourer than ever, and broke aff wi’ mony o’ the Presbyterians; and at this last coming of the Prince of Orange he could get nae countenance nor command for fear of his deevilish temper, and he hasna been heard of since; only some folk say that pride and anger hae driven him clean wud.”
“And — and,” said the traveller, after considerable hesitation — “do you know anything of Lord Evan dale?”
“Div I ken onything o’ Lord Evandale? Div I no? Is not my young leddy up by yonder at the house, that’s as gude as married to him?”
“And are they not married, then?” said the rider, hastily.
“No, only what they ca’ betrothed105 — me and my wife were witnesses. It’s no mony months bypast; it was a lang courtship — few folk kend the reason by Jenny and mysell. But will ye no light down? I downa bide to see ye sitting up there, and the clouds are casting up thick in the west ower Glasgow-ward, and maist skeily folk think that bodes106 rain.”
In fact, a deep black cloud had already surmounted107 the setting sun; a few large drops of rain fell, and the murmurs108 of distant thunder were heard.
“The deil’s in this man,” said Cuddie to himself; “I wish he would either light aff or ride on, that he may quarter himsell in Hamilton or the shower begin.”
But the rider sate109 motionless on his horse for two or three moments after his last question, like one exhausted110 by some uncommon111 effort. At length, recovering himself as if with a sudden and painful effort, he asked Cuddie “if Lady Margaret Bellenden still lived.”
“She does,” replied Cuddie, “but in a very sma’ way. They hae been a sad changed family since thae rough times began; they hae suffered eneugh first and last — and to lose the auld Tower and a’ the bonny barony and the holms that I hae pleughed sae often, and the Mains, and my kale-yard, that I suld hae gotten back again, and a’ for naething, as ‘a body may say, but just the want o’ some bits of sheep-skin that were lost in the confusion of the taking of Tillietudlem.”
“I have heard something of this,” said the stranger, deepening his voice and averting112 his head. “I have some interest in the family, and would willingly help them if I could. Can you give me a bed in your house to-night, my friend?”
“It’s but a corner of a place, sir,” said Cuddie, “but we’se try, rather than ye suld ride on in the rain and thunner; for, to be free wi’ ye, sir, I think ye seem no that ower weel.”
“I am liable to a dizziness,” said the stranger, but it will soon wear off.”
“I ken we can gie ye a decent supper, sir,” said Cuddie; “and we’ll see about a bed as weel as we can. We wad be laith a stranger suld lack what we have, though we are jimply provided for in beds rather; for Jenny has sae mony bairns (God bless them and her) that troth I maun speak to Lord Evandale to gie us a bit eik, or outshot o’ some sort, to the onstead.”
“I shall be easily accommodated,” said the stranger, as he entered the house.
“And ye may rely on your naig being weel sorted,” said Cuddie; “I ken weel what belangs to suppering a horse, and this is a very gude ane.” Cuddie took the horse to the little cow-house, and called to his wife to attend in the mean while to the stranger’s accommodation. The officer entered, and threw himself on a settle at some distance from the fire, and carefully turning his back to the little lattice window. Jenny, or Mrs. Headrigg, if the reader pleases, requested him to lay aside the cloak, belt, and flapped hat which he wore upon his journey, but he excused himself under pretence113 of feeling cold, and, to divert the time till Cuddie’s return, he entered into some chat with the children, carefully avoiding, during the interval, the inquisitive glances of his landlady114.
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1
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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unities
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| n.统一体( unity的名词复数 )；（艺术等） 完整；（文学、戏剧） （情节、时间和地点的）统一性；团结一致 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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concussions
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| n.震荡( concussion的名词复数 )；脑震荡；冲击；震动 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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extirpate
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| v.除尽，灭绝 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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52
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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53
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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54
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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brews
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| n.（尤指某地酿造的）啤酒( brew的名词复数 )；酿造物的种类；（茶）一次的冲泡量；（不同思想、环境、事件的）交融v.调制( brew的第三人称单数 )；酝酿；沏（茶）；煮（咖啡） | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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clouted
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| adj.缀补的，凝固的v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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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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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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102
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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103
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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104
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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106
bodes
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的第三人称单数 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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107
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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108
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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109
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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110
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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111
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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112
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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113
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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114
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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