You told me of? ‘T has been my custom ever
To parley1 with mine host.
Lover’s Progress.
Morton reached the borough2 town without meeting with any remarkable3 adventure, and alighted at the little inn. It had occurred to him more than once, while upon his journey, that his resumption of the dress which he had worn while a youth, although favourable4 to his views in other respects, might render it more difficult for him to remain incognito5. But a few years of campaigns and wandering had so changed his appearance that he had great confidence that in the grown man, whose brows exhibited the traces of resolution and considerate thought, none would recognise the raw and bashful stripling who won the game of the popinjay. The only chance was that here and there some Whig, whom he had led to battle, might remember the Captain of the Milnwood Marksmen; but the risk, if there was any, could not be guarded against.
The Howff seemed full and frequented as if possessed6 of all its old celebrity7. The person and demeanour of Niel Blane, more fat and less civil than of yore, intimated that he had increased as well in purse as in corpulence; for in Scotland a landlord’s complaisance8 for his guests decreases in exact proportion to his rise in the world. His daughter had acquired the air of a dexterous9 barmaid, undisturbed by the circumstances of love and war, so apt to perplex her in the exercise of her vocation10. Both showed Morton the degree of attention which could have been expected by a stranger travelling without attendants, at a time when they were particularly the badges of distinction. He took upon himself exactly the character his appearance presented, went to the stable and saw his horse accommodated, then returned to the house, and seating himself in the public room (for to request one to himself would, in those days, have been thought an overweening degree of conceit), he found himself in the very apartment in which he had some years before celebrated11 his victory at the game of the popinjay — a jocular preferment which led to so many serious consequences.
He felt himself, as may well be supposed, a much changed man since that festivity; and yet, to look around him, the groups assembled in the Howff seemed not dissimilar to those which the same scene had formerly12 presented. Two or three burghers husbanded their “dribbles o’ brandy;” two or three dragoons lounged over their muddy ale, and cursed the inactive times that allowed them no better cheer. Their cornet did not, indeed, play at backgammon with the curate in his cassock, but he drank a little modicum13 of aqua mirabilis with the grey-cloaked Presbyterian minister. The scene was another, and yet the same, differing only in persons, but corresponding in general character.
Let the tide of the world wax or wane14 as it will, Morton thought as he looked around him, enough will be found to fill the places which chance renders vacant; and in the usual occupations and amusements of life, human beings will succeed each other as leaves upon the same tree, with the same individual difference and the same general resemblance.
After pausing a few minutes, Morton, whose experience had taught him the readiest mode of securing attention, ordered a pint15 of claret; and as the smiling landlord appeared with the pewter measure foaming16 fresh from the tap (for bottling wine was not then in fashion), he asked him to sit down and take a share of the good cheer. This invitation was peculiarly acceptable to Niel Blane, who, if he did not positively17 expect it from every guest not provided with better company, yet received it from many, and was not a whit18 abashed19 or surprised at the summons. He sat down, along with his guest, in a secluded20 nook near the chimney; and while he received encouragement to drink by far the greater share of the liquor before them, he entered at length, as a part of his expected functions, upon the news of the country — the births, deaths, and marriages; the change of property; the downfall of old families, and the rise of new. But politics, now the fertile source of eloquence21, mine host did not care to mingle22 in his theme; and it was only in answer to a question of Morton that he replied, with an air of indifference23, “Um! ay! we aye hae sodgers amang us, mair or less. There’s a wheen German horse down at Glasgow yonder; they ca’ their commander Wittybody, or some sic name, though he’s as grave and grewsome an auld24 Dutchman as e’er I saw.”
“Wittenbold, perhaps?” said Morton — “an old man, with grey hair and short black moustaches; speaks seldom?”
“And smokes for ever,” replied Niel Blane. “I see your honour kens26 the man. He may be a very gude man too, for aught I see — that is, considering he is a sodger and a Dutchman; but if he were ten generals, and as mony Wittybodies, he has nae skill in the pipes; he gar’d me stop in the middle of Torphichen’s Rant27 — the best piece o’ music that ever bag gae wind to.”
“But these fellows,” said Morton, glancing his eye towards the soldiers that were in the apartment, are not of his corps28?”
“Na, na, these are Scotch29 dragoons,” said mine host — “our ain auld caterpillars30; these were Claver’se’s lads a while syne31, and wad be again, maybe, if he had the lang ten in his hand.”
“Is there not a report of his death?” inquired Morton.
“Troth is there,” said the landlord; “your honour is right — there is sic a fleeing rumour32; but, in my puir opinion, it’s lang or the deil die. I wad hae the folks here look to themsells. If he makes an outbreak, he’ll be doun frae the Hielands or I could drink this glass — and whare are they then? A’ thae hell-rakers o’ dragoons wad be at his whistle in a moment. Nae doubt they’re Willie’s men e’en now, as they were James’s a while syne; and reason good — they fight for their pay; what else hae they to fight for? They hae neither lands nor houses, I trow. There’s ae gude thing o’ the change, or the Revolution, as they ca’ it — folks may speak out afore thae birkies now, and nae fear o’ being hauled awa to the guard-house, or having the thumikins screwed on your finger-ends, just as I wad drive the screw through a cork33.”
There was a little pause, when Morton, feeling confident in the progress he had made in mine host’s familiarity, asked, though with the hesitation34 proper to one who puts a question on the answer to which rests something of importance, “Whether Blane knew a woman in that neighbourhood called Elizabeth Maclure?”
“Whether I ken25 Bessie Maclure?” answered the landlord, with a landlord’s laugh — “How can I but ken my ain wife’s (haly be her rest!)— my ain wife’s first gudeman’s sister, Bessie Maclure? An honest wife she is, but sair she’s been trysted wi’ misfortunes — the loss o’ twa decent lads o’ sons, in the time o’ the persecution35, as they ca’ it nowadays; and doucely and decently she has borne her burden, blaming nane and condemning36 nane. If there’s an honest woman in the world, it’s Bessie Maclure. And to lose her twa sons, as I was saying, and to hae dragoons clinked down on her for a month bypast — for, be Whig or Tory uppermost, they aye quarter thae loons on victuallers — to lose, as I was saying —”
“This woman keeps an inn, then?” interrupted Morton.
“A public, in a puir way,” replied Blane, looking round at his own superior accommodations — “a sour browst o’ sma’ ale that she sells to folk that are over drouthy wi’ travel to be nice; but naething to ca’ a stirring trade or a thriving changehouse.”
“Can you get me a guide there?” said Morton.
“Your honour will rest here a’ the night? Ye’ll hardly get accommodation at Bessie’s,” said Niel, whose regard for his deceased wife’s relative by no means extended to sending company from his own house to hers.
“There is a friend,” answered Morton, “whom I am to meet with there, and I only called here to take a stirrup-cup and inquire the way.”
“Your honour had better,” answerd the landlord, with the perseverance37 of his calling, “send some ane to warn your friend to come on here.”
“I tell you, landlord,” answered Morton, impatiently, “that will not serve my purpose; I must go straight to this woman Maclure’s house, and I desire you to find me a guide.”
“Aweel, sir, ye’ll choose for yoursell, to be sure,” said Niel Blane, somewhat disconcerted; “but deil a guide ye’ll need if ye gae doun the water for twa mile or sae, as gin ye were bound for Milnwoodhouse, and then tak the first broken disjasked-looking road that makes for the hills — ye’ll ken ‘t by a broken ash-tree that stands at the side o’ a burn just where the roads meet; and then travel out the path — ye canna miss Widow Maclure’s public, for deil another house or hauld is on the road for ten lang Scots miles, and that’s worth twenty English. I am sorry your honour would think o’ gaun out o’ my house the night. But my wife’s gude-sister is a decent woman, and it’s no lost that a friend gets.”
Morton accordingly paid his reckoning and departed. The sunset of the summer day placed him at the ash-tree, where the path led up towards the moors38.
“Here,” he said to himself, “my misfortunes commenced; for just here, when Burley and I were about to separate on the first night we ever met, he was alarmed by the intelligence that the passes were secured by soldiers lying in wait for him. Beneath that very ash sate39 the old woman who apprised40 him of his danger. How strange that my whole fortunes should have become inseparably interwoven with that man’s, without anything more on my part than the discharge of an ordinary duty of humanity! Would to Heaven it were possible I could find my humble41 quiet and tranquillity42 of mind upon the spot where I lost them!”
Thus arranging his reflections betwixt speech and thought, he turned his horse’s head up the path.
Evening lowered around him as he advanced up the narrow dell which had once been a wood, but was now a ravine divested44 of trees, unless where a few, from their inaccessible45 situation on the edge of precipitous banks, or clinging among rocks and huge stones, defied the invasion of men and of cattle, like the scattered46 tribes of a conquered country, driven to take refuge in the barren strength of its mountains. These too, wasted and decayed, seemed rather to exist than to flourish, and only served to indicate what the landscape had once been. But the stream brawled47 down among them in all its freshness and vivacity48, giving the life and animation49 which a mountain rivulet50 alone can confer on the barest and most savage51 scenes, and which the inhabitants of such a country miss when gazing even upon the tranquil43 winding52 of a majestic53 stream through plains of fertility, and beside palaces of splendour. The track of the road followed the course of the brook54, which was now visible, and now only to be distinguished55 by its brawling56 heard among the stones or in the clefts57 of the rock that occasionally interrupted its course.
“Murmurer that thou art,” said Morton, in the enthusiasm of his reverie, “why chafe58 with the rocks that stop thy course for a moment? There is a sea to receive thee in its bosom59; and there is an eternity60 for man when his fretful and hasty course through the vale of time shall be ceased and over. What thy petty fuming61 is to the deep and vast billows of a shoreless ocean, are our cares, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows to the objects which must occupy us through the awful and boundless62 succession of ages!”
Thus moralizing, our traveller passed on till the dell opened, and the banks, receding63 from the brook, left a little green vale, exhibiting a croft, or small field, on which some corn was growing, and a cottage, whose walls were not above five feet high, and whose thatched roof, green with moisture, age, houseleek, and grass, had in some places suffered damage from the encroachment64 of two cows, whose appetite this appearance of verdure had diverted from their more legitimate65 pasture. An ill-spelt and worse-written inscription66 intimated to the traveller that he might here find refreshment67 for man and horse — no unacceptable intimation, rude as the hut appeared to be, considering the wild path he had trod in approaching it, and the high and waste mountains which rose in desolate68 dignity behind this humble asylum69.
It must indeed have been, thought Morton, in some such spot as this that Burley was likely to find a congenial confident.
As he approached, he observed the good dame70 of the house herself, seated by the door; she had hitherto been concealed71 from him by a huge alder-bush.
“Good evening, Mother,” said the traveller. “Your name is Mistress Maclure?”
“Elizabeth Maclure, sir, a poor widow,” was the reply.
“Can you lodge72 a stranger for a night?”
“I can, sir, if he will be pleased with the widow’s cake and the widow’s cruse.”
“I have been a soldier, good dame,” answered Morton, “and nothing can come amiss to me in the way of entertainment.”
“A sodger, sir?” said the old woman, with a sigh — “God send ye a better trade!”
“It is believed to be an honourable73 profession, my good dame; I hope you do not think the worse of me for having belonged to it?”
“I judge no one, sir,” replied the woman, “and your voice sounds like that of a civil gentleman; but I hae witnessed sae muckle ill wi’ sodgering in this puir land that I am e’en content that I can see nae mair o’t wi’ these sightless organs.”
As she spoke74 thus, Morton observed that she was blind.
“Shall I not be troublesome to you, my good dame?” said he, compassionately75; “your infirmity seems ill calculated for your profession.”
“Na, sir,” answered the old woman, “I can gang about the house readily eneugh; and I hae a bit lassie to help me, and the dragoon lads will look after your horse when they come hame frae their patrol, for a sma’ matter; they are civiller now than lang syne.”
Upon these assurances, Morton alighted.
“Peggy, my bonny bird,” continued the hostess, addressing a little girl of twelve years old, who had by this time appeared, “tak the gentleman’s horse to the stable, and slack his girths, and tak aff the bridle76, and shake down a lock o’ hay before him, till the dragoons come back. — Come this way, sir,” she continued; “ye’ll find my house clean, though it’s a puir ane.”
Morton followed her into the cottage accordingly.
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1
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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2
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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3
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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4
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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5
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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6
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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7
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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8
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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9
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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10
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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12
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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15
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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17
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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18
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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21
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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28
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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29
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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30
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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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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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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44
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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45
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
brawled
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| 打架，争吵( brawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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50
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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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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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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53
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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54
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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58
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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61
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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67
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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68
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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69
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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70
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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71
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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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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73
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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74
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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75
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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76
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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