The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before their cottage — rattling13 the door, with a sound of wailing15 and lamentation16, before it passed into the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch17 was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary18 blast which heralded19 his approach, and wailed20 as he was entering, and went moaning away from the door.
Though they dwelt in such a solitude21, these people held daily converse22 with the world. The romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery23, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing24 between Maine, on one side, and the Green Mountains and the shores of the St. Lawrence, on the other. The stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer25, with no companion but his staff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly26 overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft27 of the mountain, or reach the first house in the valley. And here the teamster, on his way to Portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. It was one of those primitive28 taverns29 where the traveller pays only for food and lodging30, but meets with a homely31 kindness beyond all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs.
The door was opened by a young man. His face at first wore the melancholy32 expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak7 road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly33 warmth of his reception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a chair with her apron34, to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter.
“Ah, this fire is the right thing!” cried he; “especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed; for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows35; it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way from Bartlett.”
“Then you are going towards Vermont?” said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man’s shoulders.
“Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. “I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no matter; for, when I saw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, I felt as if you had kindled36 it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you, and make myself at home.”
The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn37 his chair to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct.
“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should forget him,” said the landlord, recovering himself. “He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down; but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well upon the whole. Besides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest.”
Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear’s meat; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain brood. He was of a proud, yet gentle spirit — haughty38 and reserved among the rich and great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside. In the household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity39 of feeling, the pervading40 intelligence of New England, and a poetry of native growth, which they had gathered when they little thought of it from the mountain peaks and chasms41, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode42. He had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary43 path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. The family, too, though so kind and hospitable44, had that consciousness of unity45 among themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude46. But this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled47 the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained48 them to answer him with the same free confidence. And thus it should have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth?
The secret of the young man’s character was a high and abstracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning49 desire had been transformed to hope; and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway — though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity50 should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him.
“As yet,” cried the stranger — his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm —“as yet, I have done nothing. Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you: that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, ‘Who was he? Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die till I have achieved my destiny. Then, let Death come! I shall have built my monument!”
There was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing52 forth53 amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand this young man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor54 into which he had been betrayed.
“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s hand, and laughing himself. “You think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the top of Mount Washington, only that people might spy at me from the country round about. And, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man’s statue!”
“It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, blushing, “and be comfortable and contented55, though nobody thinks about us.”
“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing56, “there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to pass.”
“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “Is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower57?”
“No, no!” cried he, repelling58 the idea with reproachful kindness. “When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine, too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bartlett, or Bethlehem, or Littleton, or some other township round the White Mountains; but not where they could tumble on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called Squire59, and sent to General Court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. A slate60 gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one — with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn61, and something to let people know that I lived an honest man and died a Christian62.”
“There now!” exclaimed the stranger; “it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite63, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man.”
“We’re in a strange way, to-night,” said the wife, with tears in her eyes. “They say it’s a sign of something, when folks’ minds go a wandering so. Hark to the children!”
They listened accordingly. The younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door between, so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. One and all seemed to have caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish projects of what they would do when they came to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother.
“I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he. “I want you and father and grandma’m, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume!”
Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit the basin of the Flume — a brook64, which tumbles over the precipice, deep within the Notch. The boy had hardly spoken when a wagon66 rattled67 along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared to contain two or three men, who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song, which resounded68, in broken notes, between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the night.
“Father,” said the girl, “they are calling you by name.”
But the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwilling69 to show himself too solicitous70 of gain by inviting71 people to patronize his house. He therefore did not hurry to the door; and the lash51 being soon applied72, the travellers plunged73 into the Notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily74 from the heart of the mountain.
“There, mother!” cried the boy, again. “They’d have given us a ride to the Flume.”
Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious75 fancy for a night ramble76. But it happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then starting and blushing, she looked quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom77. The stranger asked what she had been thinking of.
“Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile. “Only I felt lonesome just then.”
“Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people’s hearts,” said he, half seriously. “Shall I tell the secrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and complains of lonesomeness at her mother’s side. Shall I put these feelings into words?”
“They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they could be put into words,” replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye.
All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts, so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. But while they spoke65 softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden’s nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper and drearier78 sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who in old Indian times had their dwelling79 among these mountains, and made their heights and recesses80 a sacred region. There was a wail14 along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble81 happiness. The light hovered82 about them fondly, and caressed83 them all. There were the little faces of the children, peeping from their bed apart and here the father’s frame of strength, the mother’s subdued84 and careful mien85, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak.
“Old folks have their notions,” said she, “as well as young ones. You’ve been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run on one thing and another, till you’ve set my mind a wandering too. Now what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I tell you.”
“What is it, mother?” cried the husband and wife at once.
Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them that she had provided her graveclothes some years before — a nice linen86 shroud87, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition88 had strangely recurred89 to her. It used to be said, in her younger days, that if anything were amiss with a corpse90, if only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin91 and beneath the clods would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous.
“Don’t talk so, grandmother!” said the girl, shuddering92.
“Now,”— continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly93 — “I want one of you, my children — when your mother is dressed and in the coffin — I want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all’s right?”
“Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,” murmured the stranger youth. “I wonder how mariners94 feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean — that wide and nameless sepulchre?”
For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly conception so engrossed95 the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated group were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal96 of the last trump97. Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance98, or power to move. Then the same shriek99 burst simultaneously100 from all their lips.
“The Slide! The Slide!”
The simplest words must intimate, but not portray101, the unutterable horror of the catastrophe102. The victims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot — where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas103! they had quitted their security, and fled right into the pathway of destruction. Down came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract104 of ruin. Just before it reached the house, the stream broke into two branches — shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated105 everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the thunder of the great Slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victims were at peace. Their bodies were never found.
The next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up the mountain side. Within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation106 of the Slide, and would shortly return, to thank Heaven for their miraculous107 escape. All had left separate tokens, by which those who had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their name? The story has been told far and wide, and will forever be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate.
There were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates108. Others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture109. Woe110 for the high-souled youth, with his dream of Earthly Immortality111! His name and person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt! Whose was the agony of that death moment?
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1
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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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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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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51
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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52
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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55
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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58
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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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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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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68
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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69
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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70
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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72
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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73
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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74
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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77
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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78
drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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79
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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80
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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81
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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82
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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83
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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86
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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87
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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88
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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89
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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96
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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97
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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99
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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100
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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101
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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102
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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103
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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104
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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105
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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106
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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107
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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108
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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109
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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110
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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111
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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