Jog on, jog on, the footpath1 way,
And merrily bend the stile-a,
A merry heart goes all the day,
A sad one tires in a mile-a.
Winter’s Tale.
Let the reader conceive to himself a clear frosty November morning, the scene an open heath, having for the background that huge chain of mountains in which Skiddaw and Saddleback are preeminent2; let him look along that blind road, by which I mean the track so slightly marked by the passengers’ footsteps that it can but be traced by a slight shade of verdure from the darker heath around it, and, being only visible to the eye when at some distance, ceases to be distinguished3 while the foot is actually treading it; along this faintly-traced path advances the object of our present narrative4. His firm step, his erect5 and free carriage, have a military air which corresponds well with his well-proportioned limbs and stature6 of six feet high. His dress is so plain and simple that it indicates nothing as to rank; it may be that of a gentleman who travels in this manner for his pleasure, or of an inferior person of whom it is the proper and usual garb7. Nothing can be on a more reduced scale than his travelling equipment. A volume of Shakspeare in each pocket, a small bundle with a change of linen8 slung9 across his shoulders, an oaken cudgel in his hand, complete our pedestrian’s accommodations, and in this equipage we present him to our readers.
Brown had parted that morning from his friend Dudley, and begun his solitary11 walk towards Scotland.
The first two or three miles were rather melancholy12, from want of the society to which he had of late been accustomed. But this unusual mood of mind soon gave way to the influence of his natural good spirits, excited by the exercise and the bracing13 effects of the frosty air. He whistled as he went along, not ‘from want of thought,’ but to give vent14 to those buoyant feelings which he had no other mode of expressing. For each peasant whom he chanced to meet he had a kind greeting or a good-humoured jest; the hardy15 Cumbrians grinned as they passed, and said, ‘That’s a kind heart, God bless un!’ and the market-girl looked more than once over her shoulder at the athletic16 form, which corresponded so well with the frank and blythe address of the stranger. A rough terrier dog, his constant companion, who rivalled his master in glee, scampered17 at large in a thousand wheels round the heath, and came back to jump up on him and assure him that he participated in the pleasure of the journey. Dr. Johnson thought life had few things better than the excitation produced by being whirled rapidly along in a post — chaise; but he who has in youth experienced the confident and independent feeling of a stout19 pedestrian in an interesting country, and during fine weather, will hold the taste of the great moralist cheap in comparison.
Part of Brown’s view in choosing that unusual track which leads through the eastern wilds of Cumberland into Scotland, had been a desire to view the remains20 of the celebrated21 Roman Wall, which are more visible in that direction than in any other part of its extent. His education had been imperfect and desultory22; but neither the busy scenes in which he had been engaged, nor the pleasures of youth, nor the precarious23 state of his own circumstances, had diverted him from the task of mental improvement. ‘And this then is the Roman Wall,’ he said, scrambling24 up to a height which commanded the course of that celebrated work of antiquity25. ‘What a people! whose labours, even at this extremity26 of their empire, comprehended such space, and were executed upon a scale of such grandeur27! In future ages, when the science of war shall have changed, how few traces will exist of the labours of Vauban and Coehorn, while this wonderful people’s remains will even then continue to interest and astonish posterity28! Their fortifications, their aqueducts, their theatres, their fountains, all their public works, bear the grave, solid, and majestic29 character of their language; while our modern labours, like our modern tongues, seem but constructed out of their fragments.’ Having thus moralised, he remembered that he was hungry, and pursued his walk to a small public-house, at which he proposed to get some refreshment30.
The alehouse, for it was no better, was situated31 in the bottom of a little dell, through which trilled a small rivulet32. It was shaded by a large ash tree, against which the clay-built shed that served the purpose of a stable was erected33, and upon which it seemed partly to recline. In this shed stood a saddled horse, employed in eating his corn. The cottages in this part of Cumberland partake of the rudeness which characterises those of Scotland. The outside of the house promised little for the interior, notwithstanding the vaunt of a sign, where a tankard of ale voluntarily decanted34 itself into a tumbler, and a hieroglyphical35 scrawl36 below attempted to express a promise of ‘good entertainment for man and horse.’ Brown was no fastidious traveller: he stopped and entered the cabaret. 10
The first object which caught his eye in the kitchen was a tall, stout, country-looking man in a large jockey great-coat, the owner of the horse which stood in the shed, who was busy discussing huge slices of cold boiled beef, and casting from time to time an eye through the window to see how his steed sped with his provender37. A large tankard of ale flanked his plate of victuals38, to which he applied39 himself by intervals41. The good woman of the house was employed in baking. The fire, as is usual in that country, was on a stone hearth42, in the midst of an immensely large chimney, which had two seats extended beneath the vent. On one of these sat a remarkably43 tall woman, in a red cloak and slouched bonnet44, having the appearance of a tinker or beggar. She was busily engaged with a short black tobacco-pipe.
At the request of Brown for some food, the landlady45 wiped with her mealy apron46 one corner of the deal table, placed a wooden trencher and knife and fork before the traveller, pointed47 to the round of beef, recommended Mr. Dinmont’s good example, and finally filled a brown pitcher48 with her home-brewed. Brown lost no time in doing ample credit to both. For a while his opposite neighbour and he were too busy to take much notice of each other, except by a good — humoured nod as each in turn raised the tankard to his head. At length, when our pedestrian began to supply the wants of little Wasp49, the Scotch50 store-farmer, for such was Mr. Dinmont, found himself at leisure to enter into conversation.
‘A bonny terrier that, sir, and a fell chield at the vermin, I warrant him; that is, if he’s been weel entered, for it a’ lies in that.’
‘Really, sir,’ said Brown, ‘his education has been somewhat neglected, and his chief property is being a pleasant companion.’
‘Ay, sir? that’s a pity, begging your pardon, it’s a great pity that; beast or body, education should aye be minded. I have six terriers at hame, forbye twa couple of slow-hunds, five grews, and a wheen other dogs. There’s auld51 Pepper and auld Mustard, and young Pepper and young Mustard, and little Pepper and little Mustard. I had them a’ regularly entered, first wi’ rottens, then wi’ stots or weasels, and then wi’ the tods and brocks, and now they fear naething that ever cam wi’ a hairy skin on’t.’
‘I have no doubt, sir, they are thoroughbred; but, to have so many dogs, you seem to have a very limited variety of names for them?’
‘O, that’s a fancy of my ain to mark the breed, sir. The Deuke himsell has sent as far as Charlie’s Hope to get ane o’ Dandy Dinmont’s Pepper and Mustard terriers. Lord, man, he sent Tam Hudson11 the keeper, and sicken a day as we had wi’ the foumarts and the tods, and sicken a blythe gae-down as we had again e’en! Faith, that was a night!’
‘I suppose game is very plenty with you?’
‘Plenty, man! I believe there’s mair hares than sheep on my farm; and for the moor-fowl or the grey-fowl, they lie as thick as doos in a dookit. Did ye ever shoot a blackcock, man?’
‘Really I had never even the pleasure to see one, except in the museum at Keswick.’
‘There now! I could guess that by your Southland tongue. It’s very odd of these English folk that come here, how few of them has seen a blackcock! I’ll tell you what — ye seem to be an honest lad, and if you’ll call on me, on Dandy Dinmont, at Charlie’s Hope, ye shall see a blackcock, and shoot a blackcock, and eat a blackcock too, man.’
‘Why, the proof of the matter is the eating, to be sure, sir; and I shall be happy if I can find time to accept your invitation.’
‘Time, man? what ails52 ye to gae hame wi’ me the now? How d’ ye travel?’
‘On foot, sir; and if that handsome pony53 be yours, I should find it impossible to keep up with you.’
‘No, unless ye can walk up to fourteen mile an hour. But ye can come ower the night as far as Riccarton, where there is a public; or if ye like to stop at Jockey Grieve’s at the Heuch, they would be blythe to see ye, and I am just gaun to stop and drink a dram at the door wi’ him, and I would tell him you’re coming up. Or stay — gudewife, could ye lend this gentleman the gudeman’s galloway, and I’ll send it ower the Waste in the morning wi’ the callant?’
The galloway was turned out upon the fell, and was swear to catch. — ‘Aweel, aweel, there’s nae help for’t, but come up the morn at ony rate. And now, gudewife, I maun ride, to get to the Liddel or it be dark, for your Waste has but a kittle character, ye ken10 yoursell.’
‘Hout fie, Mr. Dinmont, that’s no like you, to gie the country an ill name. I wot, there has been nane stirred in the Waste since Sawney Culloch, the travelling-merchant, that Rowley Overdees and Jock Penny suffered for at Carlisle twa years since. There’s no ane in Bewcastle would do the like o’ that now; we be a’ true folk now.’
‘Ay, Tib, that will be when the deil’s blind; and his een’s no sair yet. But hear ye, gudewife, I have been through maist feck o’ Galloway and Dumfries-shire, and I have been round by Carlisle, and I was at the Staneshiebank Fair the day, and I would like ill to be rubbit sae near hame, so I’ll take the gate.’
‘Hae ye been in Dumfries and Galloway?’ said the old dame54 who sate55 smoking by the fireside, and who had not yet spoken a word.
‘Troth have I, gudewife, and a weary round I’ve had o’t.’
‘Then ye’ll maybe ken a place they ca’ Ellangowan?’
‘Ellangowan, that was Mr. Bertram’s? I ken the place weel eneugh. The Laird died about a fortnight since, as I heard.’
‘Died!’ said the old woman, dropping her pipe, and rising and coming forward upon the floor — ‘died? are you sure of that?’
‘Troth, am I,’ said Dinmont, ‘for it made nae sma’ noise in the country-side. He died just at the roup of the stocking and furniture; it stoppit the roup, and mony folk were disappointed. They said he was the last of an auld family too, and mony were sorry; for gude blude’s scarcer in Scotland than it has been.’
‘Dead!’ replied the old woman, whom our readers have already recognised as their acquaintance Meg Merrilies — ‘dead! that quits a’ scores. And did ye say he died without an heir?’
‘Ay did he, gudewife, and the estate’s sell’d by the same token; for they said they couldna have sell’d it if there had been an heir-male.’
‘Sell’d!’ echoed the gipsy, with something like a scream; ‘and wha durst buy Ellangowan that was not of Bertram’s blude? and wha could tell whether the bonny knave-bairn may not come back to claim his ain? wha durst buy the estate and the castle of Ellangowan?’
‘Troth, gudewife, just ane o’ thae writer chields that buys a’ thing; they ca’ him Glossin, I think.’
‘Glossin! Gibbie Glossin! that I have carried in my creels a hundred times, for his mother wasna muckle better than mysell — he to presume to buy the barony of Ellangowan! Gude be wi’ us; it is an awfu’ warld! I wished him ill; but no sic a downfa’ as a’ that neither. Wae’s me! wae’s me to think o’t!’ She remained a moment silent but still opposing with her hand the farmer’s retreat, who betwixt every question was about to turn his back, but good — humouredly stopped on observing the deep interest his answers appeared to excite.
‘It will be seen and heard of — earth and sea will not hold their peace langer! Can ye say if the same man be now the sheriff of the county that has been sae for some years past?’
‘Na, he’s got some other birth in Edinburgh, they say; but gude day, gudewife, I maun ride.’ She followed him to his horse, and, while he drew the girths of his saddle, adjusted the walise, and put on the bridle56, still plied40 him with questions concerning Mr. Bertram’s death and the fate of his daughter; on which, however, she could obtain little information from the honest farmer.
‘Did ye ever see a place they ca’ Derncleugh, about a mile frae the Place of Ellangowan?’
‘I wot weel have I, gudewife. A wild-looking den18 it is, wi’ a whin auld wa’s o’ shealings yonder; I saw it when I gaed ower the ground wi’ ane that wanted to take the farm.’
‘It was a blythe bit ance!’ said Meg, speaking to herself. ‘Did ye notice if there was an auld saugh tree that’s maist blawn down, but yet its roots are in the earth, and it hangs ower the bit burn? Mony a day hae I wrought57 my stocking and sat on my sunkie under that saugh.’
‘Hout, deil’s i’ the wife, wi’ her saughs, and her sunkies, and Ellangowans. Godsake, woman, let me away; there’s saxpence t’ ye to buy half a mutchkin, instead o’ clavering about thae auld-warld stories.’
‘Thanks to ye, gudeman; and now ye hae answered a’ my questions, and never speired wherefore I asked them, I’ll gie you a bit canny58 advice, and ye maunna speir what for neither. Tib Mumps59 will be out wi’ the stirrup-dram in a gliffing. She’ll ask ye whether ye gang ower Willie’s Brae or through Conscowthart Moss60; tell her ony ane ye like, but be sure (speaking low and emphatically) to tak the ane ye dinna tell her.’ The farmer laughed and promised, and the gipsy retreated.
‘Will you take her advice?’ said Brown, who had been an attentive61 listener to this conversation.
‘That will I no, the randy quean! Na, I had far rather Tib Mumps kenn’d which way I was gaun than her, though Tib’s no muckle to lippen to neither, and I would advise ye on no account to stay in the house a’ night.’
In a moment after Tib, the landlady, appeared with her stirrup — cup, which was taken off. She then, as Meg had predicted, inquired whether he went the hill or the moss road. He answered, the latter; and, having bid Brown good-bye, and again told him, ‘he depended on seeing him at Charlie’s Hope, the morn at latest,’ he rode off at a round pace.
收听单词发音 |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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preeminent
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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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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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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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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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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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hieroglyphical
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| n.象形文字，象形文字的文章 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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mumps
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| n.腮腺炎 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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