1 Stow quotes the inscription8, still extant, from the table fast chained in St. Peter’s Church, Cornhill; and says, “he was after some chronicle buried at London, and after some chronicle buried at Glowcester”— but, oh! these incorrect chroniclers! when Alban Butler, in the “Lives of the Saints,” v. xii., and Murray’s “Handbook,” and the Sacristan at Chur, all say Lucius was killed there, and I saw his tomb with my own eyes!
The pretty little city stands, so to speak, at the end of the world — of the world of today, the world of rapid motion, and rushing railways, and the commerce and intercourse9 of men. From the northern gate, the iron road stretches away to Zurich, to Basle, to Paris, to home. From the old southern barriers, before which a little river rushes, and around which stretch the crumbling10 battlements of the ancient town, the road bears the slow diligence or lagging vetturino by the shallow Rhine, through the awful gorges11 of the Via Mala, and presently over the Splugen to the shores of Como.
I have seldom seen a place more quaint12, pretty, calm, and pastoral, than this remote little Chur. What need have the inhabitants for walls and ramparts, except to build summer-houses, to trail vines, and hang clothes to dry on them? No enemies approach the great mouldering13 gates: only at morn and even the cows come lowing past them, the village maidens14 chatter15 merrily round the fountains, and babble16 like the ever-voluble stream that flows under the old walls. The schoolboys, with book and satchel17, in smart uniforms, march up to the gymnasium, and return thence at their stated time. There is one coffee-house in the town, and I see one old gentleman goes to it. There are shops with no customers seemingly, and the lazy tradesmen look out of their little windows at the single stranger sauntering by. There is a stall with baskets of queer little black grapes and apples, and a pretty brisk trade with half a dozen urchins18 standing19 round. But, beyond this, there is scarce any talk or movement in the street. There’s nobody at the book-shop. “If you will have the goodness to come again in an hour,” says the banker, with his mouthful of dinner at one o’clock, “you can have the money.” There is nobody at the hotel, save the good landlady20, the kind waiters, the brisk young cook who ministers to you. Nobody is in the Protestant church —(oh! strange sight, the two confessions21 are here at peace!)— nobody in the Catholic church: until the sacristan, from his snug22 abode23 in the cathedral close, espies24 the traveller eying the monsters and pillars before the old shark-toothed arch of his cathedral, and comes out (with a view to remuneration possibly) and opens the gate, and shows you the venerable church, and the queer old relics25 in the sacristy, and the ancient vestments (a black velvet26 cope, amongst other robes, as fresh as yesterday, and presented by that notorious “pervert,” Henry of Navarre and France), and the statue of St. Lucius who built St. Peter’s Church, on Cornhill.
What a quiet, kind, quaint, pleasant, pretty old town! Has it been asleep these hundreds and hundreds of years, and is the brisk young Prince of the Sidereal27 Realms in his screaming car drawn28 by his snorting steel elephant coming to waken it? Time was when there must have been life and bustle29 and commerce here. Those vast, venerable walls were not made to keep out cows, but men-at-arms, led by fierce captains, who prowled about the gates, and robbed the traders as they passed in and out with their bales, their goods, their pack-horses, and their wains. Is the place so dead that even the clergy30 of the different denominations31 can’t quarrel? Why, seven or eight, or a dozen, or fifteen hundred years ago (they haven’t the register at St. Peter’s up to that remote period. I dare say it was burnt in the fire of London)— a dozen hundred years ago, when there was some life in the town, St. Lucius was stoned here on account of theological differences, after founding our church in Cornhill.
There was a sweet pretty river walk we used to take in the evening and mark the mountains round glooming with a deeper purple; the shades creeping up the golden walls; the river brawling32, the cattle calling, the maids and chatter-boxes round the fountains babbling33 and bawling34; and several times in the course of our sober walks we overtook a lazy slouching boy, or hobble-dehoy, with a rusty35 coat, and trousers not too long, and big feet trailing lazily one after the other, and large lazy hands dawdling36 from out the tight sleeves, and in the lazy hands a little book, which my lad held up to his face, and which I dare say so charmed and ravished him, that he was blind to the beautiful sights around him; unmindful, I would venture to lay any wager37, of the lessons he had to learn for tomorrow; forgetful of mother, waiting supper, and father preparing a scolding; — absorbed utterly38 and entirely39 in his book.
What was it that so fascinated the young student, as he stood by the river shore? Not the Pons Asinorum. What book so delighted him, and blinded him to all the rest of the world, so that he did not care to see the apple-woman with her fruit, or (more tempting40 still to sons of Eve) the pretty girls with their apple cheeks, who laughed and prattled41 round the fountain! What was the book? Do you suppose it was Livy, or the Greek grammar? No; it was a NOVEL that you were reading, you lazy, not very clean, good-for-nothing, sensible boy! It was D’Artagnan locking up General Monk42 in a box, or almost succeeding in keeping Charles the First’s head on. It was the prisoner of the Chateau43 d’If cutting himself out of the sack fifty feet under water (I mention the novels I like best myself — novels without love or talking, or any of that sort of nonsense, but containing plenty of fighting, escaping, robbery, and rescuing)— cutting himself out of the sack, and swimming to the island of Monte Cristo. O Dumas! O thou brave, kind, gallant44 old Alexandre! I hereby offer thee homage45, and give thee thanks for many pleasant hours. I have read thee (being sick in bed) for thirteen hours of a happy day, and had the ladies of the house fighting for the volumes. Be assured that lazy boy was reading Dumas (or I will go so far as to let the reader here pronounce the eulogium, or insert the name of his favorite author); and as for the anger, or it may be, the reverberations of his schoolmaster, or the remonstrances46 of his father, or the tender pleadings of his mother that he should not let the supper grow cold — I don’t believe the scapegrace cared one fig6. No! Figs47 are sweet, but fictions are sweeter.
Have you ever seen a score of white-bearded, white-robed warriors48, or grave seniors of the city, seated at the gate of Jaffa or Beyrout, and listening to the story-teller reciting his marvels49 out of “Antar” or the “Arabian Nights?” I was once present when a young gentleman at table put a tart50 away from him, and said to his neighbor, the Younger Son (with rather a fatuous51 air), “I never eat sweets.”
“Not eat sweets! and do you know why?” says T.
“Because I am past that kind of thing,” says the young gentleman.
“Because you are a glutton52 and a sot!” cries the Elder (and Juvenis winces54 a little). “All people who have natural, healthy appetites, love sweets; all children, all women, all Eastern people, whose tastes are not corrupted55 by gluttony and strong drink.” And a plateful of raspberries and cream disappeared before the philosopher.
You take the allegory? Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary appetites love them — almost all women; — a vast number of clever, hard-headed men. Why, one of the most learned physicians in England said to me only yesterday, “I have just read So-and-So for the second time” (naming one of Jones’s exquisite56 fictions). Judges, bishops57, chancellors58, mathematicians59, are notorious novel-readers; as well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers. Who has not read about Eldon, and how he cried over novels every night when he was not at whist?
As for that lazy naughty boy at Chur, I doubt whether HE will like novels when he is thirty years of age. He is taking too great a glut53 of them now. He is eating jelly until he will be sick. He will know most plots by the time he is twenty, so that HE will never be surprised when the Stranger turns out to be the rightful earl — when the old waterman, throwing off his beggarly gabardine, shows his stars and the collars of his various orders, and clasping Antonia to his bosom60, proves himself to be the prince, her long-lost father. He will recognize the novelist’s same characters, though they appear in red-heeled pumps and ailes-de-pigeon, or the garb61 of the nineteenth century. He will get weary of sweets, as boys of private schools grow (or used to grow, for I have done growing some little time myself, and the practice may have ended too)— as private school-boys used to grow tired of the pudding before their mutton at dinner.
And pray what is the moral of this apologue? The moral I take to be this: the appetite for novels extending to the end of the world; far away in the frozen deep, the sailors reading them to one another during the endless night; — far away under the Syrian stars, the solemn sheikhs and elders hearkening to the poet as he recites his tales; far away in the Indian camps, where the soldiers listen to ——‘s tales, or ——‘s, after the hot day’s march; far away in little Chur yonder, where the lazy boy pores over the fond volume, and drinks it in with all his eyes; — the demand being what we know it is, the merchant must supply it, as he will supply saddles and pale ale for Bombay or Calcutta.
But as surely as the cadet drinks too much pale ale, it will disagree with him; and so surely, dear youth, will too much novels cloy62 on thee. I wonder, do novel-writers themselves read many novels? If you go into Gunter’s, you don’t see those charming young ladies (to whom I present my most respectful compliments) eating tarts63 and ices, but at the proper eventide they have good plain wholesome64 tea and bread-and-butter. Can anybody tell me does the author of the “Tale of Two Cities” read novels? does the author of the “Tower of London” devour65 romances? does the dashing “Harry Lorrequer” delight in “Plain or Ringlets” or “Sponge’s Sporting Tour?” Does the veteran, from whose flowing pen we had the books which delighted our young days, “Darnley,” and “Richelieu,” and “Delorme,”2 relish66 the works of Alexandre the Great, and thrill over the “Three Musqueteers?” Does the accomplished67 author of the “Caxtons” read the other tales in Blackwood? (For example, that ghost-story printed last August, and which for my part, though I read it in the public reading-room at the “Pavilion Hotel” at Folkestone, I protest frightened me so that I scarce dared look over my shoulder.) Does “Uncle Tom” admire “Adam Bede;” and does the author of the “Vicar of Wrexhill” laugh over the “Warden” and the “The Three Clerks?” Dear youth of ingenuous68 countenance69 and ingenuous pudor! I make no doubt that the eminent70 parties above named all partake of novels in moderation — eat jellies — but mainly nourish themselves upon wholesome roast and boiled.
2 By the way, what a strange fate is that which befell the veteran novelist! He was appointed her Majesty’s Consul-General in Venice, the only city in Europe where the famous “Two Cavaliers” cannot by any possibility be seen riding together.
Here, dear youth aforesaid! our Cornhill Magazine owners strive to provide thee with facts as well as fiction; and though it does not become them to brag72 of their Ordinary, at least they invite thee to a table where thou shalt sit in good company. That story of the “Fox”3 was written by one of the gallant seamen73 who sought for poor Franklin under the awful Arctic Night: that account of China4 is told by the man of all the empire most likely to know of what he speaks: those pages regarding Volunteers5 come from an honored hand that has borne the sword in a hundred famous fields, and pointed71 the British guns in the greatest siege in the world.
3 “The Search for Sir John Franklin. (From the Private Journal of an Officer of the ‘Fox.’)”
4 “The Chinese and the Outer Barbarians74.” By Sir John Bowring.
5 “Our Volunteers.” By Sir John Burgoyne.
Shall we point out others? We are fellow-travellers, and shall make acquaintance as the voyage proceeds. In the Atlantic steamers, on the first day out (and on high-and holy-days subsequently), the jellies set down on table are richly ornamented75; medioque in fonte leporum rise the American and British flags nobly emblazoned in tin. As the passengers remark this pleasing phenomenon, the Captain no doubt improves the occasion by expressing a hope, to his right and left, that the flag of Mr. Bull and his younger Brother may always float side by side in friendly emulation76. Novels having been previously77 compared to jellies — here are two (one perhaps not entirely saccharine78, and flavored with an amari aliquid very distasteful to some palates)— two novels6 under two flags, the one that ancient ensign which has hung before the well-known booth of “Vanity Fair;” the other that fresh and handsome standard which has lately been hoisted79 on “Barchester Towers.” Pray, sir, or madam, to which dish will you be helped?
6 “Lovel the Widower” and “Framley Parsonage.”
So have I seen my friends Captain Lang and Captain Comstock press their guests to partake of the fare on that memorable80 “First day out,” when there is no man, I think, who sits down but asks a blessing81 on his voyage, and the good ship dips over the bar, and bounds away into the blue water.
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1
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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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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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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espies
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| v.看到( espy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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sidereal
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| adj.恒星的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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48
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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49
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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51
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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54
winces
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| 避开，畏缩( wince的名词复数 ) | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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56
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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chancellors
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| 大臣( chancellor的名词复数 )； （某些美国大学的）校长； （德国或奥地利的）总理； （英国大学的）名誉校长 | |
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mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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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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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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cloy
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| v.（吃甜食）生腻，吃腻 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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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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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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73
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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74
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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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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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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