Here
With my beer
I sit,
While golden moments flit.
They pass
Unheeded by;
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
My beer.
Oh, finer far
Than fame or riches are
Why
Should I
What if luck has passed me by?
What if my hopes are dead,
My pleasures fled?
Have I not still
My fill
Of right good cheer,—
Cigars and beer?
I like inns, and I like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs and pewters which were so dear to our forefathers6, and I begin this chapter in this way to forestall7 any possible charges of heresy8 that my narrative9 may call forth10. I would almost go further, and say that my affection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only myself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. That, I think, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. When it is managed otherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance, besides being contemptible11. But, as I have gone so far, I might as well go the length of admitting that I am addicted12 to the habit of collecting old drinking vessels14, and I have allowed the disease to get the upper hand. I cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering15 glasses and "leather bottels" are displayed without a burning longing16 to possess them. I like to have these things about me, not merely as ornaments18 or to drink from, but for—— Well, when I come to think of it, I cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. That is enough to brand me an incurable19 curio-hunter. Curios and ancient drinking vessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. It is a passion which has become interwoven with my blood and fibre, and I can never again wholly break loose from it.
But all this is by the way; the point is, why do I commence this chapter by talking about such things?
For the reason that in this chapter I am going to tell of a singular adventure in which a "black jack20" loomed21 very solidly.
It happened at Morcombe Lake. I will not write of this place. You must get it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine words; it stirred me in no way. But it shall not be said that Morcombe Lake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the famous Dorset Knob Biscuit, without which no Dorset table is really complete. Mr Moores, who "magics" butter, milk and sugar in his small bake-house and brings forth these golden-brown "Knobs," informs me that his family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred years.
I had walked from Bridport, passing through Chideock, with its venerable-looking church beside the Castle Inn, and coming to Morcombe, where there is a deep-eaved, comfortable, ramshackle, go-as-you-please kind of a little inn, I could hear somebody singing inside. It was a clear, mellow22 voice, and I listened to the cadences23 of the song with a thrill of pleasure. It was a humorous trio, and the lonely singer changed his voice for each verse with a largeness and confidence in his vocal24 powers that quite carried me away. Indeed, it was a song which we all should know, which runs:
"A little farm well tilled,
A little barn well filled,
A little wife well willed—
Give me, give me.
A larger farm well tilled,
A bigger house well filled,
A taller wife well willed—
Give me, give me.
I like the farm well tilled,
And I like the house well filled,
But no wife at all—
Give me, give me."
Entering, I saw one of the kind of men God loves. He was of middle age, very honest and simple in the face, good-humoured and cheerful. He was sitting before a tall, leather black jack—one of the finest specimens26 of the old-fashioned leather jugs27 I have ever seen—quaffing his morning ale from it. He paused from his song and lifted his wide straw hat in a grandiloquent28 way.
"Good marning, sir! Fine marning's marning! Tez mortel 'ot ta-day," he said, in a mellow voice, and he looked up at me with large, china-blue eyes. I passed the time of day with him, but the fine leathern flagon had already claimed all my attention; I had no eyes for anything else at the moment. I dealt hotly with speculations29 over the ownership of the flagon. Did it belong to the rustic30 or the innkeeper? Did they know its value? This and a hundred other thoughts flashed through my mind. As I stood there I dwelt avariciously31 upon thought of possession. I said to myself: "I must have that flagon. I will buy. Beg it. Steal it, if necessary." The desire to possess it consumed my soul.
"Wantee plaize to take a seat? The cider here be a prime sort, I shuree!" said the rustic, breaking in upon my thoughts. He spoke33 very slowly and, as I have said, had a nice mellow voice, and he did what only honest men do—looked straight at me when he spoke.
"Surely," I said, and sat down beside him. "Pray excuse me," I continued, waving my hand towards the leather jack, "but that is a remarkable34 old drinking vessel13."
"Thickee there is the ownly wan32 I ever see like it," said he, holding it up and looking at it with admiration35. "Yes, sir, it be a brave good mug, and I have taken my cider and ale out of he for twenty year. It's just a fancy of mine to bring it along with me when I drink. I tellee that mug has been with my folk for two hundred years. Parson says it is just a 'miracle' of an old thing."
"Aha!" said I to myself, "the parson is after it too."
"They tell me," he said, "that it may be worth a pound or two. Well, well! It is an old friend, and I should be loath36 to part with the cheel, but——"
"But," I repeated eagerly.
"But," he continued, "things have been cruel bad with me o' late, and I have thought, whatever is the good o' keeping it when like 'nuff we can sell it for a pound or so and buy the chillern a few clothes against the winter."
"True, true!" I said, trying to keep my excitement undermost. "But you would only get a few shillings for it, I am afraid. Such things have no market value."
"No market value?" he answered. "Well, I suppose I dunnow much 't-al-'bout-et!"
He mused37 for a few moments. I narrowly watched him out of half-closed eyes—"Oh, yes; I was playing the old grey wolf, sure enough"—and said, very carelessly: "I should hate drinking my ale out of a 'leather bottel.' They may look picturesque38, but I am certain the beer would taste vile39. I have no sympathy with the enthusiast40 who sang:
"'And I wish in heaven his soul may dwell
That first devised the leather bottel.'
However, I would not mind giving you a few shillings for it."
I happened to glance up as I said this. He sat there looking at me with a troubled expression in his blue eyes.
He then said a number of things in broad Dorset, and the "tellees" and "thickees" and "dallees" became unintelligible41, but he meant that I could but be joking when I said "a few shillings."
"Well, I won't disturb your peace of mind any more," I said. "We will let the matter drop."
Then he stepped up close to me, put the black jack in my hand, and said, with an appealing note in his voice: "Two hundred years in my family, maister. Just say what you've a-mind to give me; only let it be a fair price. I would not be so anxious to sell it, but my rent is a bit behind, and I shall have to sleep with Miss Green——"
"Sleep under the hedge, then," he continued, making the expression clear to me. "Now, you see the fix I'm in, maister."
Then I was ashamed. Deep shame covered me, and I had a great revulsion of feeling. How could I be so niggardly43 as to beat down this poor fellow's price? Perhaps, after all, it was his only possession of any value at all. I turned the jack over in my hands. It was strong and black and very highly polished with age—and the curves and proportions of it were exactly satisfying to the eye that looked upon it. It was a benediction44 of a flagon....
I held it up, and said, "How much?"
"Aw! dally-buttons! Take it for two pounds," he said, "you nidden begridge me that."
And he added, in passing, that two pounds made it a kind of gift to me—just a token to signify it had changed hands: it was an act of pure charity on his part.
"Then," I said, "thirty shillings," and he waved his hand about genially45, and remarked that it "twidden" be worth his while to stretch out his hand for such a paltry46 sum.
So then I pulled out thirty shillings, and he pushed the flagon over to me and took the money. Thus the bargain was struck.
So this being settled, and I eager for a drink of ale, called the innkeeper, who was in another room. Beer was brought and my friend insisted on paying for it.
I asked him about his wife and children. But I could get very little from him, and that little in a low voice. I felt sorry for him, for I understood that parting with his flagon had rather upset him. He seemed as different as one could imagine from the singer I had seen when I entered. He told me that his was a very old family in this place, and his name was Ralph Copplestone. He also quoted the following adage47 to strengthen his statement:—
"Crocker, Cruwys and Copplestone,
Before he left me, however, he had recovered his cheerfulness. He set off down the road, and as he passed he began singing:
"Dorset gives us butter and cheese,
Devonshire gives us cream,
Zummerzet zyder's zure to please
And set your hearts a-dream;
Cornwall, from her inmost soul,
Brings tin for the use of man,
And the four of 'em breed the prettiest girls—
So damme, beat that if you can!"
Finally his voice, still singing, died away in the distance. I sat before the flagon with a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with sadness. The fresh breeze dropped, and it seemed as if the little inn parlour grew dark and grey. He was a strange fellow!
It was not till the next day, in the late afternoon, when the air was already full of the golden dust that comes before the fall of the evening, that I came down Broad Street into Lyme Regis. In passing, I was attracted by a little curiosity shop. The dusty window was full of all sorts of things—red-heeled slippers49, old bits of brass50, quaint51, twisted candlesticks, blue enamel52 snuffboxes, jewellery—value and rubbish being mixed in confusion together. And there right in the fore-front was an exact counterpart of my black jack! It was truly an amazing coincidence! I looked into the doorway53, and saw the owner of the shop, a very old gentleman. His face was a network of wrinkles, which time so pleasantly writes on some old faces that they possess a sweetness which even youth lacks. I made up my mind to seek information from him about the flagon. He was examining a piece of china with a magnifying-glass when I entered.
"Good evening—good evening!" he said, putting down the glass, and looking up at me with a smile. "What can I show you, sir?"
The old man drew in his wrinkled lips expectingly.
"The odd black jack in your window," I said boldly.
The old man went to a corner of the window, and after much fumbling54 produced the black jack, which he set upon the counter. As I examined it he watched me in silence from beneath his penthouse brows. It was, indeed, a facsimile of the one I had purchased from the rustic.
"It is not really antique. It is a very clever imitation, not more than a few months old," came the old man's voice. He paused, the smile still lighting55 his face. "A genuine specimen25 like this one is not to be found anywhere—outside the museums." He lifted his arm with a peculiar56 gesture that seemed to take in the whole world.
Outwardly I remained calm, swinging my foot nonchalantly against the wooden panel of his counter. If I had burst out laughing that moment I cannot think what the old curio-dealer would have thought, but it was with difficulty that I restrained myself from doing so. Little did he know that I had just picked up a genuine black jack for a mere17 song! Then I told him, with gusto, my adventure with the rustic at the inn.
Suddenly he broke out:
"What was his name?"
"Copplestone—Ralph Copplestone," I replied.
"Why, he's the very rogue that sold me this one," said the old man, shaking his simple head.
"Is that possible?" I said, and I jumped down from the counter where I had perched myself. The strangest sensation came over me. I thought of the honest, open face and the innocent blue eyes of my friend the tavern-haunter.
The curio-dealer smiled quietly, sadly.
"Yes, he imposed upon me, too. He is a very clever rogue. A harness-maker by trade, and all his people before him for three hundred years have been of the same calling. So you see the secret of making a black jack has been handed down from father to son. It is one of the traditions of his family; a knowledge which is mingled57 with his blood and fibre, so to speak. Such skill is older than five thousand years. He has the spirit of the artist—but the soul of the rogue."
"Why," I said, "then if he is a rogue, then I'm a rogue too, for I knew I was paying him a paltry sum for an article I thought to be worth ten pounds—perhaps twenty."
So I laughed, and I've been laughing gloriously ever since—at myself, at the merry rogue in the inn, at the silly old hypocritical world.
As I passed out of the dim old shop and walked down to the sea it came over me, with a sudden feeling of satisfaction in my soul, that the sun shone on Ralph Copplestone just as joyfully58 as it did on me, that the good God had endowed him with strong arms and a mighty59 voice for songs.
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收听单词发音
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1
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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2
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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3
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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4
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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5
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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6
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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7
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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8
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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9
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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10
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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11
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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12
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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13
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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14
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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15
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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16
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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20
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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21
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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22
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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23
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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24
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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25
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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26
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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27
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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28
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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29
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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30
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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31
avariciously
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| adv.贪婪地，贪财地 | |
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32
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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33
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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34
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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35
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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36
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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37
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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38
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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39
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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40
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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41
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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42
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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43
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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44
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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45
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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46
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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47
adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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48
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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49
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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50
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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51
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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52
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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53
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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54
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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55
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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56
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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57
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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58
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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59
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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60
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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