Comes me cranking in,
And cuts me from the best of all my land
A huge half-moon, a monstrous1 cantle, out
Henry IV, Part 1.
The company in the parlour at Ellangowan consisted of the Laird and a sort of person who might be the village schoolmaster, or perhaps the minister’s assistant; his appearance was too shabby to indicate the minister, considering he was on a visit to the Laird.
The Laird himself was one of those second-rate sort of persons that are to be found frequently in rural situations. Fielding has described one class as feras consumere nati; but the love of field-sports indicates a certain activity of mind, which had forsaken3 Mr. Bertram, if ever he possessed4 it. A good-humoured listlessness of countenance5 formed the only remarkable6 expression of his features, although they were rather handsome than otherwise. In fact, his physiognomy indicated the inanity8 of character which pervaded9 his life. I will give the reader some insight into his state and conversation before he has finished a long lecture to Mannering upon the propriety10 and comfort of wrapping his stirrup-irons round with a wisp of straw when he had occasion to ride in a chill evening.
Godfrey Bertram of Ellangowan succeeded to a long pedigree and a short rent-roll, like many lairds of that period. His list of forefathers11 ascended12 so high that they were lost in the barbarous ages of Galwegian independence, so that his genealogical tree, besides the Christian13 and crusading names of Godfreys, and Gilberts, and Dennises, and Rolands without end, bore heathen fruit of yet darker ages — Arths, and Knarths, and Donagilds, and Hanlons. In truth, they had been formerly14 the stormy chiefs of a desert but extensive domain15, and the heads of a numerous tribe called Mac-Dingawaie, though they afterwards adopted the Norman surname of Bertram. They had made war, raised rebellions, been defeated, beheaded, and hanged, as became a family of importance, for many centuries. But they had gradually lost ground in the world, and, from being themselves the heads of treason and traitorous16 conspiracies17, the Bertrams, or Mac-Dingawaies, of Ellangowan had sunk into subordinate accomplices18. Their most fatal exhibitions in this capacity took place in the seventeenth century, when the foul19 fiend possessed them with a spirit of contradiction, which uniformly involved them in controversy20 with the ruling powers. They reversed the conduct of the celebrated21 Vicar of Bray22, and adhered as tenaciously23 to the weaker side as that worthy24 divine to the stronger. And truly, like him, they had their reward.
Allan Bertram of Ellangowan, who flourished tempore Caroli primi, was, says my authority, Sir Robert Douglas, in his Scottish Baronage (see the title ‘Ellangowan’), ‘a steady loyalist, and full of zeal25 for the cause of His Sacred Majesty26, in which he united with the great Marquis of Montrose and other truly zealous27 and honourable28 patriots29, and sustained great losses in that behalf. He had the honour of knighthood conferred upon him by His Most Sacred Majesty, and was sequestrated as a malignant30 by the parliament, 1642, and afterwards as a resolutioner in the year 1648.’ These two cross-grained epithets31 of malignant and resolutioner cost poor Sir Allan one half of the family estate. His son Dennis Bertram married a daughter of an eminent32 fanatic33 who had a seat in the council of state, and saved by that union the remainder of the family property. But, as ill chance would have it, he became enamoured of the lady’s principles as well as of her charms, and my author gives him this character: ‘He was a man of eminent parts and resolution, for which reason he was chosen by the western counties one of the committee of noblemen and gentlemen to report their griefs to the privy34 council of Charles II. anent the coming in of the Highland35 host in 1678.’ For undertaking36 this patriotic37 task he underwent a fine, to pay which he was obliged to mortgage half of the remaining moiety38 of his paternal39 property. This loss he might have recovered by dint40 of severe economy, but on the breaking out of Argyle’s rebellion Dennis Bertram was again suspected by government, apprehended41, sent to Dunnotar Castle on the coast of the Mearns, and there broke his neck in an attempt to escape from a subterranean42 habitation called the Whigs’ Vault43, in which he was confined with some eighty of the same persuasion44. The apprizer therefore (as the holder45 of a mortgage was then called) entered upon possession, and, in the language of Hotspur, ‘came me cranking in,’ and cut the family out of another monstrous cantle of their remaining property.
Donohoe Bertram, with somewhat of an Irish name and somewhat of an Irish temper, succeeded to the diminished property of Ellangowan. He turned out of doors the Reverend Aaron Macbriar, his mother’s chaplain (it is said they quarrelled about the good graces of a milkmaid); drank himself daily drunk with brimming healths to the king, council, and bishops46; held orgies with the Laird of Lagg, Theophilus Oglethorpe, and Sir James Turner; and lastly, took his grey gelding and joined Clavers at Killiecrankie. At the skirmish of Dunkeld, 1689, he was shot dead by a Cameronian with a silver button (being supposed to have proof from the Evil One against lead and steel), and his grave is still called the Wicked Laird’s Lair2.
His son Lewis had more prudence47 than seems usually to have belonged to the family. He nursed what property was yet left to him; for Donohoe’s excesses, as well as fines and forfeitures48, had made another inroad upon the estate. And although even he did not escape the fatality49 which induced the Lairds of Ellangowan to interfere50 with politics, he had yet the prudence, ere he went out with Lord Kenmore in 1715, to convey his estate to trustees, in order to parry pains and penalties in case the Earl of Mar7 could not put down the Protestant succession. But Scylla and Charybdis — a word to the wise — he only saved his estate at expense of a lawsuit51, which again subdivided52 the family property. He was, however, a man of resolution. He sold part of the lands, evacuated53 the old cattle, where the family lived in their decadence54 as a mouse (said an old farmer) lives under a firlot. Pulling down part of these venerable ruins, he built with the stones a narrow house of three stories high, with a front like a grenadier’s cap, having in the very centre a round window like the single eye of a Cyclops, two windows on each side, and a door in the middle, leading to a parlour and withdrawing-room full of all manner of cross lights.
This was the New Place of Ellangowan, in which we left our hero, better amused perhaps than our readers, and to this Lewis Bertram retreated, full of projects for re-establishing the prosperity of his family. He took some land into his own hand, rented some from neighbouring proprietors55, bought and sold Highland cattle and Cheviot sheep, rode to fairs and trysts56, fought hard bargains, and held necessity at the staff’s end as well as he might. But what he gained in purse he lost in honour, for such agricultural and commercial negotiations57 were very ill looked upon by his brother lairds, who minded nothing but cock-fighting, hunting, coursing, and horse-racing, with now and then the alternative of a desperate duel58. The occupations which he followed encroached, in their opinion, upon the article of Ellangowan’s gentry59, and he found it necessary gradually to estrange60 himself from their society, and sink into what was then a very ambiguous character, a gentleman farmer. In the midst of his schemes death claimed his tribute, and the scanty61 remains62 of a large property descended64 upon Godfrey Bertram, the present possessor, his only son.
The danger of the father’s speculations65 was soon seen. Deprived of Laird Lewis’s personal and active superintendence, all his undertakings66 miscarried, and became either abortive67 or perilous68. Without a single spark of energy to meet or repel69 these misfortunes, Godfrey put his faith in the activity of another. He kept neither hunters nor hounds, nor any other southern preliminaries to ruin; but, as has been observed of his countrymen, he kept a man of business, who answered the purpose equally well. Under this gentleman’s supervision70 small debts grew into large, interests were accumulated upon capitals, movable bonds became heritable, and law charges were heaped upon all; though Ellangowan possessed so little the spirit of a litigant71 that he was on two occasions charged to make payment of the expenses of a long lawsuit, although he had never before heard that he had such cases in court. Meanwhile his neighbours predicted his final ruin. Those of the higher rank, with some malignity72, accounted him already a degraded brother. The lower classes, seeing nothing enviable in his situation, marked his embarrassments73 with more compassion74. He was even a kind of favourite with them, and upon the division of a common, or the holding of a black-fishing or poaching court, or any similar occasion when they conceived themselves oppressed by the gentry, they were in the habit of saying to each other, ‘Ah, if Ellangowan, honest man, had his ain that his forbears had afore him, he wadna see the puir folk trodden down this gait.’ Meanwhile, this general good opinion never prevented their taking advantage of him on all possible occasions, turning their cattle into his parks, stealing his wood, shooting his game, and so forth75, ‘for the Laird, honest man, he’ll never find it; he never minds what a puir body does.’ Pedlars, gipsies, tinkers, vagrants76 of all descriptions, roosted about his outhouses, or harboured in his kitchen; and the Laird, who was ‘nae nice body,’ but a thorough gossip, like most weak men, found recompense for his hospitality in the pleasure of questioning them on the news of the country side.
A circumstance arrested Ellangowan’s progress on the highroad to ruin. This was his marriage with a lady who had a portion of about four thousand pounds. Nobody in the neighbourhood could conceive why she married him and endowed him with her wealth, unless because he had a tall, handsome figure, a good set of features, a genteel address, and the most perfect good-humour. It might be some additional consideration, that she was herself at the reflecting age of twenty-eight, and had no near relations to control her actions or choice.
It was in this lady’s behalf (confined for the first time after her marriage) that the speedy and active express, mentioned by the old dame77 of the cottage, had been despatched to Kippletringan on the night of Mannering’s arrival.
Though we have said so much of the Laird himself, it still remains that we make the reader in some degree acquainted with his companion. This was Abel Sampson, commonly called, from his occupation as a pedagogue78, Dominie Sampson. He was of low birth, but having evinced, even from his cradle, an uncommon79 seriousness of disposition80, the poor parents were encouraged to hope that their bairn, as they expressed it, ‘might wag his pow in a pulpit yet.’ With an ambitious view to such a consummation, they pinched and pared, rose early and lay down late, ate dry bread and drank cold water, to secure to Abel the means of learning. Meantime, his tall, ungainly figure, his taciturn and grave manners, and some grotesque81 habits of swinging his limbs and screwing his visage while reciting his task, made poor Sampson the ridicule82 of all his school-companions. The same qualities secured him at Glasgow College a plentiful83 share of the same sort of notice. Half the youthful mob of ‘the yards’ used to assemble regularly to see Dominie Sampson (for he had already attained84 that honourable title) descend63 the stairs from the Greek class, with his lexicon85 under his arm, his long misshapen legs sprawling86 abroad, and keeping awkward time to the play of his immense shoulder-blades, as they raised and depressed87 the loose and threadbare black coat which was his constant and only wear. When he spoke88, the efforts of the professor (professor of divinity though he was) were totally inadequate89 to restrain the inextinguishable laughter of the students, and sometimes even to repress his own. The long, sallow visage, the goggle90 eyes, the huge under-jaw, which appeared not to open and shut by an act of volition91, but to be dropped and hoisted92 up again by some complicated machinery93 within the inner man, the harsh and dissonant94 voice, and the screech-owl notes to which it was exalted95 when he was exhorted96 to pronounce more distinctly, — all added fresh subject for mirth to the torn cloak and shattered shoe, which have afforded legitimate97 subjects of raillery against the poor scholar from Juvenal’s time downward. It was never known that Sampson either exhibited irritability98 at this ill usage, or made the least attempt to retort upon his tormentors. He slunk from college by the most secret paths he could discover, and plunged99 himself into his miserable100 lodging101, where, for eighteenpence a week, he was allowed the benefit of a straw mattress102, and, if his landlady103 was in good humour, permission to study his task by her fire. Under all these disadvantages, he obtained a competent knowledge of Greek and Latin, and some acquaintance with the sciences.
In progress of time, Abel Sampson, probationer of divinity, was admitted to the privileges of a preacher. But, alas104! partly from his own bashfulness, partly owing to a strong and obvious disposition to risibility105 which pervaded the congregation upon his first attempt, he became totally incapable106 of proceeding107 in his intended discourse108, gasped109, grinned, hideously110 rolled his eyes till the congregation thought them flying out of his head, shut the Bible, stumbled down the pulpit-stairs, trampling111 upon the old women who generally take their station there, and was ever after designated as a ‘stickit minister.’ And thus he wandered back to his own country, with blighted112 hopes and prospects113, to share the poverty of his parents. As he had neither friend nor confidant, hardly even an acquaintance, no one had the means of observing closely how Dominie Sampson bore a disappointment which supplied the whole town with a week’s sport. It would be endless even to mention the numerous jokes to which it gave birth, from a ballad114 called ‘Sampson’s Riddle,’ written upon the subject by a smart young student of humanity, to the sly hope of the Principal that the fugitive115 had not, in imitation of his mighty116 namesake, taken the college gates along with him in his retreat.
To all appearance, the equanimity117 of Sampson was unshaken. He sought to assist his parents by teaching a school, and soon had plenty of scholars, but very few fees. In fact, he taught the sons of farmers for what they chose to give him, and the poor for nothing; and, to the shame of the former be it spoken, the pedagogue’s gains never equalled those of a skilful118 ploughman. He wrote, however, a good hand, and added something to his pittance119 by copying accounts and writing letters for Ellangowan. By degrees, the Laird, who was much estranged120 from general society, became partial to that of Dominie Sampson. Conversation, it is true, was out of the question, but the Dominie was a good listener, and stirred the fire with some address. He attempted even to snuff the candles, but was unsuccessful, and relinquished121 that ambitious post of courtesy after having twice reduced the parlour to total darkness. So his civilities, thereafter, were confined to taking off his glass of ale in exactly the same time and measure with the Laird, and in uttering certain indistinct murmurs122 of acquiescence123 at the conclusion of the long and winding124 stories of Ellangowan.
On one of these occasions, he presented for the first time to Mannering his tall, gaunt, awkward, bony figure, attired125 in a threadbare suit of black, with a coloured handkerchief, not over clean, about his sinewy126, scraggy neck, and his nether127 person arrayed in grey breeches, dark-blue stockings, clouted128 shoes, and small copper129 buckles130.
Such is a brief outline of the lives and fortunes of those two persons in whose society Mannering now found himself comfortably seated.
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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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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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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14
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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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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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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35
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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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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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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forfeitures
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| n.（财产等的）没收，（权利、名誉等的）丧失( forfeiture的名词复数 ) | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evacuated
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| 撤退者的 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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trysts
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| n.约会，幽会( tryst的名词复数 )；幽会地点 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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litigant
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| n.诉讼当事人；adj.进行诉讼的 | |
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malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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73
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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vagrants
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| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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80
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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81
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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82
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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83
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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84
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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86
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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88
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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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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goggle
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| n.瞪眼，转动眼珠，护目镜；v.瞪眼看，转眼珠 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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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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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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99
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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100
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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102
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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103
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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104
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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risibility
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| n.爱笑，幽默感 | |
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106
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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108
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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109
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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111
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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112
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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113
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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114
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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115
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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116
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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117
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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118
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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119
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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120
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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121
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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122
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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123
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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124
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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125
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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127
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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128
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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129
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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130
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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