Hehadalargefatpocket—book，fromwhichheproducedpoemafterpoem，writtenonthebacksoflettersorhotel—bills；andnothingcouldbemorehumorousthanhisrecitationoftheseelegantextracts，exceptperhapstheanecdoteswithwhichhevariedtheentertainment。
Seeing，Isuppose，somethinglesscountrifiedinmyappearancethaninmostofthecompany，hesingledmeouttocorroboratesomestatementsastothedepravityandviceofthearistocracy，andwhenhewentontodescribesomegildedsaloonexperiences，Iamproudtosaythathehonouredmysagacitywithonelittlecovertwinkbeforeasecondtimeappealingtomeforconfirmation。Thewinkwasnotthrownaway；Iwentinuptotheelbowswiththemanager，untilI
thinkthatsomeofthegloryofthatgreatmansettledbyreflectionuponme，andthatIwasasnoticeablythesecondpersoninthesmoking—roomashewasthefirst。Forayoungman，thiswasapositionofsomedistinction，Ithinkyouwilladmit……
CHAPTERIII—ANAUTUMNEFFECT—1875
’Nousnedecrivonsjamaismieuxlanaturequelorsquenousnousefforconsd’exprimersobrementetsimplementl’impressionquenousenavonsrecue。’—M。ANDRETHEURIET，’L’AutomnedanslesBois，’RevuedesDeuxMondes，1stOct。1874，p。562。
ACOUNTRYrapidlypassedthroughunderfavourableauspicesmayleaveuponusaunityofimpressionthatwouldonlybedisturbedanddissipatedifwestayedlonger。Clearvisiongoeswiththequickfoot。Thingsfallforusintoasortofnaturalperspectivewhenweseethemforamomentingoingby；wegeneraliseboldlyandsimply，andaregonebeforethesunisovercast，beforetherainfalls，beforetheseasoncansteallikeadial—handfromhisfigure，beforethelightsandshadows，shiftingroundtowardsnightfall，canshowustheothersideofthings，andbeliewhattheyshowedusinthemorning。Weexposeourmindtothelandscape（aswewouldexposethepreparedplateinthecamera）forthemomentonlyduringwhichtheeffectendures；andweareawaybeforetheeffectcanchange。Henceweshallhaveinourmemoriesalongscrollofcontinuouswaysidepictures，allimbuedalreadywiththeprevailingsentimentoftheseason，theweatherandthelandscape，andcertaintobeunifiedmoreandmore，astimegoeson，bytheunconsciousprocessesofthought。
Sothatwewhohaveonlylookedatacountryoverourshoulder，sotospeak，aswewentby，willhaveaconceptionofitfarmorememorableandarticulatethanamanwhohaslivedthereallhislifefromachildupwards，andhadhisimpressionofto—daymodifiedbythatofto—morrow，andbeliedbythatofthedayafter，tillatlengththestablecharacteristicsofthecountryareallblottedoutfromhimbehindtheconfusionofvariableeffect。
Ibeginmylittlepilgrimageinthemostenviableofallhumours：
thatinwhichaperson，withasufficiencyofmoneyandaknapsack，turnshisbackonatownandwalksforwardintoacountryofwhichheknowsonlybythevaguereportofothers。Suchanonehasnotsurrenderedhiswillandcontractedforthenexthundredmiles，likeamanonarailway。Hemaychangehismindateveryfinger—post，and，wherewaysmeet，followvaguepreferencesfreelyandgothelowroadorthehigh，choosetheshadoworthesun—shine，sufferhimselftobetemptedbythelanethatturnsimmediatelyintothewoods，orthebroadroadthatliesopenbeforehimintothedistance，andshowshimthefar—offspiresofsomecity，orarangeofmountain—tops，orarimofsea，perhaps，alongalowhorizon。Inshort，hemaygratifyhiseverywhimandfancy，withoutapangofreprovingconscience，ortheleastjostletohisself—respect。Itistrue，however，thatmostmendonotpossessthefacultyoffreeaction，thepricelessgiftofbeingabletoliveforthemomentonly；andastheybegintogoforwardontheirjourney，theywillfindthattheyhavemadeforthemselvesnewfetters。Slightprojectstheymayhaveentertainedforamoment，halfinjest，becomeironlawstothem，theyknownotwhy。TheywillbeledbythenosebythesevaguereportsofwhichI
spokeabove；andthemerefactthattheirinformantmentionedonevillageandnotanotherwillcompeltheirfootstepswithinexplicablepower。Andyetalittlewhile，yetafewdaysofthisfictitiousliberty，andtheywillbegintohearimperiousvoicescallingonthemtoreturn；andsomepassion，someduty，someworthyorunworthyexpectation，willsetitshandupontheirshoulderandleadthembackintotheoldpaths。Onceandagainwehaveallmadetheexperiment。
Weknowtheendofitrightwell。Andyetifwemakeitforthehundredthtimeto—morrow：itwillhavethesamecharmasever；ourheartwillbeatandoureyeswillbebright，asweleavethetownbehindus，andweshallfeelonceagain（aswehavefeltsooftenbefore）thatwearecuttingourselveslooseforeverfromourwholepastlife，withallitssinsandfolliesandcircumscriptions，andgoforwardasanewcreatureintoanewworld。
Itwaswell，perhaps，thatIhadthisfirstenthusiasmtoencouragemeupthelonghillaboveHighWycombe；forthedaywasabaddayforwalkingatbest，andnowbegantodrawtowardsafternoon，dull，heavy，andlifeless。Apallofgreycloudcoveredthesky，anditscolourreactedonthecolourofthelandscape。Nearathand，indeed，thehedgerowtreeswerestillfairlygreen，shotthroughwithbrightautumnalyellows，brightassunshine。Butalittlewayoff，thesolidbricksofwoodlandthatlaysquarelyonslopeandhill—topwerenotgreen，butrussetandgrey，andeverlessrussetandmoregreyastheydrewoffintothedistance。Astheydrewoffintothedistance，also，thewoodsseemedtomassthemselvestogether，andliethinandstraight，likeclouds，uponthelimitofone’sview。Notthatthismassingwascomplete，orgavetheideaofanyextentofforest，foreveryhereandtherethetreeswouldbreakupandgodownintoavalleyinopenorder，orstandinlongIndianfilealongthehorizon，treeaftertreerelieved，foolishlyenough，againstthesky。Isayfoolishlyenough，althoughIhaveseentheeffectemployedcleverlyinart，andsuchlonglineofsingletreesthrownoutagainstthecustomarysunsetofaJapanesepicturewithacertainfantasticeffectthatwasnottobedespised；butthiswasoverwaterandlevelland，whereitdidnotjar，ashere，withthesoftcontourofhillsandvalleys。Thewholescenehadanindefinablelookofbeingpainted，thecolourwassoabstractandcorrect，andtherewassomethingsosketchyandmerelyimpressionalaboutthesedistantsingletreesonthehorizonthatonewasforcedtothinkofitallasofacleverFrenchlandscape。Foritisratherinnaturethatweseeresemblancetoart，thaninarttonature；andwesayahundredtimes，’Howlikeapicture！’foroncethatwesay，’Howlikethetruth！’Theformsinwhichwelearntothinkoflandscapeareformsthatwehavegotfrompaintedcanvas。Anymancanseeandunderstandapicture；itisreservedforthefewtoseparateanythingoutoftheconfusionofnature，andseethatdistinctlyandwithintelligence。
ThesuncameoutbeforeIhadbeenlongonmyway；andasIhadgotbythattimetothetopoftheascent，andwasnowtreadingalabyrinthofconfinedby—roads，mywholeviewbrightenedconsiderablyincolour，foritwasthedistanceonlythatwasgreyandcold，andthedistanceIcouldseenolonger。OverheadtherewasawonderfulcarollingoflarkswhichseemedtofollowmeasIwent。Indeed，duringallthetimeIwasinthatcountrythelarksdidnotdesertme。TheairwasalivewiththemfromHighWycombetoTring；andas，dayafterday，their’shrilldelight’felluponmeoutofthevacantsky，theybegantotakesuchaprominenceoverotherconditions，andformsointegralapartofmyconceptionofthecountry，thatIcouldhavebaptizedit’TheCountryofLarks。’This，ofcourse，mightjustaswellhavebeeninearlyspring；buteverythingelsewasdeeplyimbuedwiththesentimentofthelateryear。Therewasnostirofinsectsinthegrass。Thesunshinewasmoregolden，andgavelessheatthansummersunshine；andtheshadowsunderthehedgeweresomewhatblueandmisty。Itwasonlyinautumnthatyoucouldhaveseenthemingledgreenandyellowoftheelmfoliage，andthefallenleavesthatlayabouttheroad，andcoveredthesurfaceofwaysidepoolssothicklythatthesunwasreflectedonlyhereandtherefromlittlejointsandpinholesinthatbrowncoatofproof；orthatyourearwouldhavebeentroubled，asyouwentforward，bytheoccasionalreportoffowling—piecesfromalldirectionsandalldegreesofdistance。
ForalongtimethisdroppingfirewastheonesignofhumanactivitythatcametodisturbmeasIwalked。Thelaneswereprofoundlystill。Theywouldhavebeensadbutforthesunshineandthesingingofthelarks。Andasitwas，therecameovermeattimesafeelingofisolationthatwasnotdisagreeable，andyetwasenoughtomakemequickenmystepseagerlywhenIsawsomeonebeforemeontheroad。
Thisfellow—voyagerprovedtobenolessapersonthantheparishconstable。Ithadoccurredtomethatinadistrictwhichwassolittlepopulousandsowellwooded，acriminalofanyintelligencemightplayhide—and—seekwiththeauthoritiesformonths；andthisideawasstrengthenedbytheaspectoftheportlyconstableashewalkedbymysidewithdeliberatedignityandturned—outtoes。Butafewminutes’conversesetmyheartatrest。Theseruralcriminalsareverytamebirds，itappeared。Ifmyinformantdidnotimmediatelylayhishandonanoffender，hewascontenttowait；someeveningafternightfalltherewouldcomeatapathisdoor，andtheoutlaw，wearyofoutlawry，wouldgivehimselfquietlyuptoundergosentence，andresumehispositioninthelifeofthecountry—side。
Marriedmencausedhimnodisquietudewhatever；hehadthemfastbythefoot。Soonerorlatertheywouldcomebacktoseetheirwives，apeepingneighbourwouldpasstheword，andmyportlyconstablewouldwalkquietlyoverandtakethebirdsitting。Andiftherewereafewwhohadnoparticulartiesintheneighbourhood，andpreferredtoshiftintoanothercountywhentheyfellintotrouble，theirdeparturemovedtheplacidconstableinnodegree。HewasofDogberry’sopinion；andifamanwouldnotstandinthePrince’sname，hetooknonoteofhim，butlethimgo，andthankedGodhewasridofaknave。Andsurelythecrimeandthelawwereinadmirablekeeping；rusticconstablewaswellmetwithrusticoffender。Theofficersittingathomeoverabitoffireuntilthecriminalcametovisithim，andthecriminalcoming—itwasafairmatch。OnefeltasifthismusthavebeentheorderinthatdelightfulseaboardBohemiawhereFlorizelandPerditacourtedinsuchsweetaccents，andthePuritansangPsalmstohornpipes，andthefour—and—twentyshearersdancedwithnosegaysintheirbosoms，andchantedtheirthreesongsapieceattheoldshepherd’sfestival；andonecouldnothelppicturingtooneselfwhathavocamonggoodpeoplespurses，andtribulationforbenignantconstables，mightbeworkedherebythearrival，overstileandfootpath，ofanewAutolycus。
Biddinggood—morningtomyfellow—traveller，Ilefttheroadandstruckacrosscountry。Itwasratherarevelationtopassfrombetweenthehedgerowsandfindquiteabustleontheotherside，agreatcomingandgoingofschool—childrenuponby—paths，and，ineverysecondfield，lustyhorsesandstoutcountry—folka—ploughing。
ThewayIfollowedtookmethroughmanyfieldsthusoccupied，andthroughmanystripsofplantation，andthenoveralittlespaceofsmoothturf，verypleasanttothefeet，setwithtallfir—treesandclamorouswithrooksmakingreadyforthewinter，andsobackagainintothequietroad。Iwasnownotfarfromtheendofmyday’sjourney。Afewhundredyardsfarther，and，passingthroughagapinthehedge，Ibegantogodownhillthroughaprettyextensivetractofyoungbeeches。Iwassooninshadowmyself，buttheafternoonsunstillcolouredtheupmostboughsofthewood，andmadeafireovermyheadintheautumnalfoliage。Alittlefaintvapourlayamongtheslimtree—stemsinthebottomofthehollow；andfromfartherupI
heardfromtimetotimeanoutburstofgrosslaughter，asthoughclownsweremakingmerryinthebush。Therewassomethingabouttheatmospherethatbroughtallsightsandsoundshometoonewithasingularpurity，sothatIfeltasifmysenseshadbeenwashedwithwater。AfterIhadcrossedthelittlezoneofmist，thepathbegantoremountthehill；andjustasI，mountingalongwithit，hadgotbackagain，fromtheheaddownwards，intothethingoldensunshine，I
sawinfrontofmeadonkeytiedtoatree。Now，Ihaveacertainlikingfordonkeys，principally，Ibelieve，becauseofthedelightfulthingsthatSternehaswrittenofthem。ButthiswasnotafterthepatternoftheassatLyons。Hewasofawhitecolour，thatseemedtofithimratherforrarefestaloccasionsthanforconstantdrudgery。Besides，hewasverysmall，andofthedaintiestportionsyoucanimagineinadonkey。Andso，sureenough，youhadonlytolookathimtoseehehadneverworked。Therewassomethingtooroguishandwantoninhisface，alooktoolikethatofaschoolboyorastreetArab，tohavesurvivedmuchcudgelling。Itwasplainthatthesefeethadkickedoffsportivechildrenoftenerthantheyhadploddedwithafreightthroughmirylanes。Hewasaltogetherafine—weather，holidaysortofdonkey；andthoughhewasjustthensomewhatsolemnisedandrueful，hestillgaveproofofthelevityofhisdispositionbyimpudentlywagginghisearsatmeasIdrewnear。
Isayhewassomewhatsolemnisedjustthen；for，withtheadmirableinstinctofallmenandanimalsunderrestraint，hehadsowoundandwoundthehalteraboutthetreethathecouldgoneitherbacknorforwards，norsomuchasputdownhisheadtobrowse。Therehestood，poorrogue，partpuzzled，partangry，part，Ibelieve，amused。
Hehadnotgivenuphope，anddullyrevolvedtheprobleminhishead，givingeverandagainanotherjerkatthefewinchesoffreeropethatstillremainedunwound。Ahumoroussortofsympathyforthecreaturetookholduponme。Iwentup，and，notwithoutsometroubleonmypart，andmuchdistrustandresistanceonthepartofNeddy，gothimforcedbackwardsuntilthewholelengthofthehalterwassetloose，andhewasoncemoreasfreeadonkeyasIdaredtomakehim。
Iwaspleased（aspeopleare）withthisfriendlyactiontoafellow—
creatureintribulation，andglancedbackovermyshouldertoseehowhewasprofitingbyhisfreedom。Thebrutewaslookingafterme；andnosoonerdidhecatchmyeyethanheputuphislongwhitefaceintotheair，pulledanimpudentmouthatme，andbegantobrayderisively。Ifeveranyonepersonmadeagrimaceatanother，thatdonkeymadeagrimaceatme。Thehardenedingratitudeofhisbehaviour，andtheimpertinencethatinspiredhiswholefaceashecurleduphislip，andshowedhisteeth，andbegantobray，sotickledme，andwassomuchinkeepingwithwhatIhadimaginedtomyselfabouthischaracter，thatIcouldnotfinditinmyhearttobeangry，andburstintoapealofheartylaughter。Thisseemedtostriketheassasarepartee，sohebrayedatmeagainbywayofrejoinder；andwewentonforawhile，brayingandlaughing，untilI
begantogrowawearyofit，and，shoutingaderisivefarewell，turnedtopursuemyway。Insodoing—itwaslikegoingsuddenlyintocoldwater—Ifoundmyselffacetofacewithaprimlittleoldmaid。Shewasallinaflutter，thepoorolddear！Shehadconcludedbeyondquestionthatthismustbealunaticwhostoodlaughingaloudatawhitedonkeyintheplacidbeech—woods。Iwassure，byherface，thatshehadalreadyrecommendedherspiritmostreligiouslytoHeaven，andpreparedherselffortheworst。Andso，toreassureher，Iuncoveredandbesoughther，afteraverystaidfashion，toputmeonmywaytoGreatMissenden。Hervoicetrembledalittle，tobesure，butIthinkhermindwassetatrest；andshetoldme，veryexplicitly，tofollowthepathuntilIcametotheendofthewood，andthenIshouldseethevillagebelowmeinthebottomofthevalley。And，withmutualcourtesies，thelittleoldmaidandIwentonourrespectiveways。
Norhadshemisledme。GreatMissendenwascloseathand，asshehadsaid，inthetroughofagentlevalley，withmanygreatelmsaboutit。Thesmokefromitschimneyswentuppleasantlyintheafternoonsunshine。Thesleepyhumofathreshing—machinefilledtheneighbouringfieldsandhungaboutthequaintstreetcorners。A
littleabove，thechurchsitswellbackonitshaunchesagainstthehillside—anattitudeforachurch，youknow，thatmakesitlookasifitcouldbeeversomuchhigherifitliked；andthetreesgrewaboutitthickly，soastomakeadensityofshadeinthechurchyard。
Averyquietplaceitlooks；andyetIsawmanyboardsandpostersaboutthreateningdirepunishmentagainstthosewhobrokethechurchwindowsordefacedtheprecinct，andofferingrewardsfortheapprehensionofthosewhohaddonethelikealready。ItwasfairdayinGreatMissenden。Therewerethreestallssetup，SUBJOVE，forthesaleofpastryandcheaptoys；andagreatnumberofholidaychildrenthrongedaboutthestallsandnoisilyinvadedeverycornerofthestragglingvillage。Theycameroundmebycoveys，blowingsimultaneouslyuponpennytrumpetsasthoughtheyimaginedIshouldfalltopieceslikethebattlementsofJericho。InoticedoneamongthemwhocouldmakeawheelofhimselflikeaLondonboy，andseeminglyenjoyedagravepre—eminenceuponthestrengthoftheaccomplishment。Byandby，however，thetrumpetsbegantowearyme，andIwentindoors，leavingthefair，Ifancy，atitsheight。
NighthadfallenbeforeIventuredforthagain。Itwaspitch—darkinthevillagestreet，andthedarknessseemedonlythegreaterforalighthereandthereinanuncurtainedwindoworfromanopendoor。
IntoonesuchwindowIwasrudeenoughtopeep，andsawwithinacharmingGENREpicture。Inaroom，allwhitewainscotandcrimsonwall—paper，aperfectgemofcolouraftertheblack，emptydarknessinwhichIhadbeengroping，aprettygirlwastellingastory，aswellasIcouldmakeout，toanattentivechilduponherknee，whileanoldwomansatplacidlydozingoverthefire。YoumaybesureI
wasnotbehindhandwithastoryformyself—agoodoldstoryafterthemannerofG。P。R。Jamesandthevillagemelodramas，withawickedsquire，andpoachers，andanattorney，andavirtuousyoungmanwithageniusformechanics，whoshouldlove，andprotect，andultimatelymarrythegirlinthecrimsonroom。Baudelairehasafewdaintysentencesonthefanciesthatweareinspiredwithwhenwelookthroughawindowintootherpeople’slives；andIthinkDickenshassomewhereenlargedonthesametext。Thesubject，atleast，isonethatIamseldomwearyofentertaining。Iremember，nightafternight，atBrussels，watchingagoodfamilysuptogether，makemerry，andretiretorest；andnightafternightIwaitedtoseethecandleslit，andthesaladmade，andthelastsalutationsdutifullyexchanged，withoutanyabatementofinterest。NightafternightI
foundthescenerivetmyattentionandkeepmeawakeinbedwithallmannerofquaintimaginations。MuchofthepleasureoftheARABIAN
NIGHTShingesuponthisAsmodeaninterest；andwearenotwearyofliftingotherpeople’sroofs，andgoingaboutbehindthescenesoflifewiththeCaliphandtheserviceableGiaffar。Itisasalutaryexercise，besides；itissalutarytogetoutofourselvesandseepeoplelivingtogetherinperfectunconsciousnessofourexistence，astheywilllivewhenwearegone。Ifto—morrowtheblowfalls，andtheworstofourillfearsisrealised，thegirlwillnonethelesstellstoriestothechildonherlapinthecottageatGreatMissenden，northegoodBelgianslighttheircandle，andmixtheirsalad，andgoorderlytobed。
Thenextmorningwassunnyoverheadanddampunderfoot，withathrillintheairlikeareminiscenceoffrost。Iwentupintotheslopinggardenbehindtheinnandsmokedapipepleasantlyenough，tothetuneofmylandlady’slamentationsoversundrycabbagesandcauliflowersthathadbeenspoiledbycaterpillars。Shehadbeensomuchpleasedinthesummer—time，shesaid，toseethegardenallhoveredoverbywhitebutterflies。Andnow，lookattheendofit！
Shecouldnowisereconcilethiswithhermoralsense。And，indeed，unlessthesebutterfliesarecreatedwithaside—looktothecompositionofimprovingapologues，itisnotaltogethereasy，evenforpeoplewhohavereadHegelandDr。M’Cosh，todecideintelligiblyupontheissueraised。ThenIfellintoalongandabstrusecalculationwithmylandlord；havingforobjecttocomparethedistancedrivenbyhimduringeightyears’serviceontheboxoftheWendovercoachwiththegirthoftheroundworlditself。Wetackledthequestionmostconscientiously，madeallnecessaryallowanceforSundaysandleap—years，andwerejustcomingtoatriumphantconclusionofourlabourswhenwewerestayedbyasmalllacunainmyinformation。Ididnotknowthecircumferenceoftheearth。Thelandlordknewit，tobesure—plainlyhehadmadethesamecalculationtwiceandoncebefore，—buthewantedconfidenceinhisownfigures，andfromthemomentIshowedmyselfsopoorasecondseemedtoloseallinterestintheresult。
Wendover（whichwasmynextstage）liesinthesamevalleywithGreatMissenden，butatthefootofit，wherethehillstrendoffoneitherhandlikeacoast—line，andagreathemisphereofplainlies，likeasea，beforeone，Iwentupachalkyroad，untilIhadagoodoutlookovertheplace。Thevale，asitopenedoutintotheplain，wasshallow，andalittlebare，perhaps，butfullofgracefulconvolutions。FromtheleveltowhichIhavenowattainedthefieldswereexposedbeforemelikeamap，andIcouldseeallthatbustleofautumnfield—workwhichhadbeenhidfrommeyesterdaybehindthehedgerows，orshowntomeonlyforamomentasIfollowedthefootpath。Wendoverlaywelldowninthemidst，withmountainsoffoliageaboutit。Thegreatplainstretchedawaytothenorthward，variegatednearathandwiththequaintpatternofthefields，butgrowingevermoreandmoreindistinct，untilitbecameamerehurly—
burlyoftreesandbrightcrescentsofriver，andsnatchesofslantingroad，andfinallymeltedintotheambiguouscloud—landoverthehorizon。Theskywasanopal—grey，touchedhereandtherewithblue，andwithcertainfaintrussetsthatlookedasiftheywerereflectionsofthecolouroftheautumnalwoodsbelow。Icouldheartheploughmenshoutingtotheirhorses，theuninterruptedcaroloflarksinnumerableoverhead，and，fromafieldwheretheshepherdwasmarshallinghisflock，asweettumultuoustinkleofsheep—bells。Allthesenoisescametomeverythinanddistinctintheclearair。
Therewasawonderfulsentimentofdistanceandatmosphereaboutthedayandtheplace。
Imountedthehillyetfartherbyaroughstaircaseofchalkyfootholdscutintheturf。ThehillsaboutWendoverand，asfarasI
couldsee，allthehillsinBuckinghamshire，wearasortofhoodofbeechplantation；butinthisparticularcasethehoodhadbeensufferedtoextenditselfintosomethingmorelikeacloak，andhungdownabouttheshouldersofthehillinwidefolds，insteadoflyingflatlyalongthesummit。Thetreesgrewsoclose，andtheirboughsweresomattedtogether，thatthewholewoodlookedasdenseasabushofheather。Theprevailingcolourwasadull，smoulderingred，touchedhereandtherewithvividyellow。Buttheautumnhadscarceadvancedbeyondtheoutworks；itwasstillalmostsummerintheheartofthewood；andassoonasIhadscrambledthroughthehedge，I
foundmyselfinadimgreenforestatmosphereundereavesofvirginfoliage。Inplaceswherethewoodhaditselfforabackgroundandthetreesweremassedtogetherthickly，thecolourbecameintensifiedandalmostgem—like：aperfectfiregreen，thatseemednonethelessgreenforafewspecksofautumngold。Noneofthetreeswereofanyconsiderableageorstature；buttheygrewwelltogether，Ihavesaid；andastheroadturnedandwoundamongthem，theyfellintopleasantgroupingsandbrokethelightuppleasantly。Sometimestherewouldbeacolonnadeofslim，straighttree—stemswiththelightrunningdownthemasdowntheshaftsofpillars，thatlookedasifitoughttoleadtosomething，andledonlytoacornerofsombreandintricatejungle。Sometimesasprayofdelicatefoliagewouldbethrownoutflat，thelightlyingflatlyalongthetopofit，sothatagainstadarkbackgrounditseemedalmostluminous。Therewasagreatbushoverthethicket（for，indeed，itwasmoreofathicketthanawood）；andthevaguerumoursthatwentamongthetree—tops，andtheoccasionalrustlingofbigbirdsorharesamongtheundergrowth，hadinthemanoteofalmosttreacherousstealthiness，thatputtheimaginationonitsguardandmademewalkwarilyontherussetcarpetingoflastyear’sleaves。Thespiritoftheplaceseemedtobeallattention；thewoodlistenedasIwent，andhelditsbreathtonumbermyfootfalls。Onecouldnothelpfeelingthatthereoughttobesomereasonforthisstillness；whether，asthebrightoldlegendgoes，Panlaysomewherenearinsiesta，orwhether，perhaps，theheavenwasmeditatingrain，andthefirstdropswouldsooncomepatteringthroughtheleaves。Itwasnotunpleasant，insuchanhumour，tocatchsight，everandanon，oflargespacesoftheopenplain。Thishappenedonlywherethepathlaymuchupontheslope，andtherewasaflawinthesolidleafythatchofthewoodatsomedistancebelowthelevelatwhichIchancedmyselftobewalking；then，indeed，littlescrapsofforeshorteneddistance，miniaturefields，andLilliputianhousesandhedgerowtreeswouldappearforamomentintheaperture，andgrowlargerandsmaller，andchangeandmeltoneintoanother，asIcontinuedtogoforward，andsoshiftmypointofview。
Fortenminutes，perhaps，Ihadheardfromsomewherebeforemeinthewoodastrange，continuousnoise，asofclucking，cooing，andgobbling，nowandagaininterruptedbyaharshscream。AsIadvancedtowardsthisnoise，itbegantogrowlighteraboutme，andIcaughtsight，throughthetrees，ofsundrygablesandenclosurewalls，andsomethinglikethetopsofarickyard。Andsureenough，arickyarditprovedtobe，andaneatlittlefarm—steading，withthebeech—
woodsgrowingalmosttothedoorofit。Justbeforeme，however，asIcameuponthepath，thetreesdrewbackandletinawidefloodofdaylightontoacircularlawn。Itwasherethatthenoiseshadtheirorigin。Morethanascoreofpeacocks（therearealtogetherthirtyatthefarm），apropercontingentofpeahens，andagreatmultitudethatIcouldnotnumberofmoreordinarybarn—doorfowls，wereallfeedingtogetheronthislittleopenlawnamongthebeeches。
Theyfedinadensecrowd，whichswayedtoandfro，andcamehitherandthitherasbyasortoftide，andofwhichthesurfacewasagitatedlikethesurfaceofaseaaseachbirdguzzledhisheadalongthegroundafterthescatteredcorn。Theclucking，cooingnoisethathadledmethitherwasformedbytheblendingtogetherofcountlessexpressionsofindividualcontentmentintoonecollectiveexpressionofcontentment，orgeneralgraceduringmeat。Everynowandagainabigpeacockwouldseparatehimselffromthemobandtakeastatelyturnortwoaboutthelawn，orperhapsmountforamomentupontherail，andthereshrillypublishtotheworldhissatisfactionwithhimselfandwhathehadtoeat。Ithappened，formysins，thatnoneoftheseadmirablebirdshadanythingbeyondthemerestrudimentofatail。Tails，itseemed，wereoutofseasonjustthen。Buttheyhadtheirnecksforallthat；andbytheirnecksalonetheydoasmuchsurpassalltheotherbirdsofourgreyclimateastheyfallinqualityofsongbelowtheblackbirdorthelark。
Surelythepeacock，withitsincomparableparadeofgloriouscolourandthescannelvoiceofitissuingforth，asinmockery，fromitspaintedthroat，must，likemylandlady’sbutterfliesatGreatMissenden，havebeeninventedbysomeskilfulfabulistfortheconsolationandsupportofhomelyvirtue：orrather，perhaps，byafabulistnotquitesoskilful，whomadepointsforthemomentwithouthavingastudiousenougheyetothecompleteeffect；forIthoughtthesemeltinggreensandbluessobeautifulthatafternoon，thatI
wouldhavegiventhemmyvotejustthenbeforethesweetestpipeinallthespringwoods。Forindeedthereisnopieceofcolourofthesameextentinnature，thatwillsoflatterandsatisfythelustofaman’seyes；andtocomeuponsomanyofthem，aftertheseacresofstone—colouredheavensandrussetwoods，andgrey—brownploughlandsandwhiteroads，waslikegoingthreewholedays’journeytothesouthward，oramonthbackintothesummer。
IwassorrytoleavePEACOCKFARM—forsotheplaceiscalled，afterthenameofitssplendidpensioners—andgoforwardsagaininthequietwoods。Itbegantogrowbothdampandduskunderthebeeches；
andasthedaydeclinedthecolourfadedoutofthefoliage；andshadow，withoutformandvoid，tooktheplaceofallthefinetraceryofleavesanddelicategradationsoflivinggreenthathadbeforeaccompaniedmywalk。IhadbeensorrytoleavePEACOCKFARM，butI
wasnotsorrytofindmyselfoncemoreintheopenroad，underapaleandsomewhattroubled—lookingeveningsky，andputmybestfootforemostfortheinnatWendover。
Wendover，initself，isastraggling，purposelesssortofplace。
Everybodyseemstohavehadhisownopinionastohowthestreetshouldgo；orrather，everynowandthenamanseemstohavearisenwithanewideaonthesubject，andledawayalittlesectofneighbourstojoininhisheresy。Itwouldhavesomewhatthelookofanabortivewatering—place，suchaswemaynowseethemhereandtherealongthecoast，butfortheageofthehouses，thecomelyquietdesignofsomeofthem，andthelookoflonghabitation，ofalifethatissettledandrooted，andmakesitworthwhiletotrainflowersaboutthewindows，andotherwiseshapethedwellingtothehumouroftheinhabitant。Thechurch，whichmightperhapshaveservedasrallying—pointfortheseloosehouses，andpulledthetownshipintosomethinglikeintelligibleunity，standssomedistanceoffamonggreattrees；buttheinn（totakethepublicbuildingsinorderofimportance）isinwhatIunderstandtobetheprincipalstreet：apleasantoldhouse，withbay—windows，andthreepeakedgables，andmanyswallows’nestsplasteredabouttheeaves。
Theinterioroftheinnwasanswerabletotheoutside：indeed，I
neversawanyroommuchmoretobeadmiredthanthelowwainscotedparlourinwhichIspenttheremainderoftheevening。Itwasashortoblonginshape，savethatthefireplacewasbuiltacrossoneoftheanglessoastocutitpartiallyoff，andtheoppositeanglewassimilarlytruncatedbyacornercupboard。Thewainscotwaswhite，andtherewasaTurkeycarpetonthefloor，sooldthatitmighthavebeenimportedbyWalterShandybeforeheretired，wornalmostthroughinsomeplaces，butinothersmakingagoodshowofbluesandoranges，nonethelessharmoniousforbeingsomewhatfaded。
Thecornercupboardwasagreeableindesign；andtherewerejusttherightthingsupontheshelves—decantersandtumblers，andblueplates，andoneredroseinaglassofwater。Thefurniturewasold—
fashionedandstiff。Everythingwasinkeeping，downtotheponderousleadeninkstandontheroundtable。Andyoumayfancyhowpleasantitlooked，allflushedandflickeredoverbythelightofabriskcompanionablefire，andseen，inastrange，tiltedsortofperspective，inthethreecompartmentsoftheoldmirrorabovethechimney。AsIsatreadinginthegreatarmchair，Ikeptlookingroundwiththetailofmyeyeatthequaint，brightpicturethatwasaboutme，andcouldnothelpsomepleasureandacertainchildishprideinformingpartofit。ThebookIreadwasaboutItalyintheearlyRenaissance，thepageantriesandthelightlovesofprinces，thepassionofmenforlearning，andpoetry，andart；butitwaswritten，bygoodluck，afterasolid，prosaicfashion，thatsuitedtheroominfinitelymorenearlythanthematter；andtheresultwasthatIthoughtless，perhaps，ofLippoLippi，orLorenzo，orPolitian，thanofthegoodEnglishmanwhohadwritteninthatvolumewhatheknewofthem，andtakensomuchpleasureinhissolemnpolysyllables。
Iwasnotleftwithoutsociety。Mylandlordhadaveryprettylittledaughter，whomweshallcallLizzie。IfIhadmadeanynotesatthetime，Imightbeabletotellyousomethingdefiniteofherappearance。Butfaceshaveatrickofgrowingmoreandmorespiritualisedandabstractinthememory，untilnothingremainsofthembutalook，ahauntingexpression；justthatsecretqualityinafacethatisapttoslipoutsomehowunderthecunningestpainter’stouch，andleavetheportraitdeadforthelackofit。Andifitishardtocatchwiththefinestofcamel’s—hairpencils，youmaythinkhowhopelessitmustbetopursueafteritwithclumsywords。IfI
say，forinstance，thatthislook，whichIrememberasLizzie，wassomethingwistfulthatseemedpartlytocomeofslynessandinpartofsimplicity，andthatIaminclinedtoimagineithadsomethingtodowiththedaintiestsuspicionofacastinoneofherlargeeyes，I
shallhavesaidallthatIcan，andthereaderwillnotbemuchadvancedtowardscomprehension。Ihadstruckupanacquaintancewiththislittledamselinthemorning，andprofessedmuchinterestinherdolls，andanimpatientdesiretoseethelargeonewhichwaskeptlockedawayforgreatoccasions。AndsoIhadnotbeenverylongintheparlourbeforethedooropened，andincameMissLizziewithtwodollstuckedclumsilyunderherarm。ShewasfollowedbyherbrotherJohn，ayearorsoyoungerthanherself，notsimplytoplayproprietyatourinterview，buttoshowhisowntwowhipsinemulationofhissister’sdolls。Ididmybesttomakemyselfagreeabletomyvisitors，showingmuchadmirationforthedollsanddolls’dresses，and，withaveryseriousdemeanour，askingmanyquestionsabouttheirageandcharacter。IdonotthinkthatLizziedistrustedmysincerity，butitwasevidentthatshewasbothbewilderedandalittlecontemptuous。Althoughshewasreadyherselftotreatherdollsasiftheywerealive，sheseemedtothinkratherpoorlyofanygrownpersonwhocouldfallheartilyintothespiritofthefiction。
Sometimesshewouldlookatmewithgravityandasortofdisquietude，asthoughshereallyfearedImustbeoutofmywits。
Sometimes，aswhenIinquiredtooparticularlyintothequestionoftheirnames，shelaughedatmesolongandheartilythatIbegantofeelalmostembarrassed。Butwhen，inanevilmoment，Iaskedtobeallowedtokissoneofthem，shecouldkeepherselfnolongertoherself。Clamberingdownfromthechaironwhichshesatperchedtoshowme，Cornelia—like，herjewels，sheranstraightoutoftheroomandintothebar—itwasjustacrossthepassage，—andIcouldhearhertellinghermotherinloudtones，butapparentlymoreinsorrowthaninmerriment，thatTHEGENTLEMANINTHEPARLOURWANTEDTOKISS
DOLLY。Ifancyshewasdeterminedtosavemefromthishumiliatingaction，eveninspiteofmyself，forshenevergavemethedesiredpermission。SheremindedmeofanolddogIonceknew，whowouldneversufferthemasterofthehousetodance，outofanexaggeratedsenseofthedignityofthatmaster’splaceandcarriage。
AftertheyoungpeopleweregonetherewasbutonemoreincidentereIwenttobed。Iheardapartyofchildrengoupanddownthedarkstreetforawhile，singingtogethersweetly。AndthemysteryofthislittleincidentwassopleasanttomethatIpurposelyrefrainedfromaskingwhotheywere，andwhereforetheywentsingingatsolateanhour。Onecanrarelybeinapleasantplacewithoutmeetingwithsomepleasantaccident。Ihaveaconvictionthatthesechildrenwouldnothavegonesingingbeforetheinnunlesstheinn—parlourhadbeenthedelightfulplaceitwas。Atleast，ifIhadbeeninthecustomarypublicroomofthemodernhotel，withallitsdisproportionsanddiscomforts，myearswouldhavebeendull，andtherewouldhavebeensomeuglytemperorotheruppermostinmyspirit，andsotheywouldhavewastedtheirsongsuponanunworthyhearer。
NextmorningIwentalongtovisitthechurch。Itisalong—backedred—and—whitebuilding，verymuchrestored，andstandsinapleasantgraveyardamongthosegreattreesofwhichIhavespokenalready。
Theskywasdrownedinamist。Nowandagainpulsesofcoldwindwentabouttheenclosure，andsetthebranchesbusyoverhead，andthedeadleavesscurryingintotheanglesofthechurchbuttresses。Nowandagain，also，Icouldhearthedullsuddenfallofachestnutamongthegrass—thedogwouldbarkbeforetherectorydoor—ortherewouldcomeaclinkingofpailsfromthestable—yardbehind。
Butinspiteoftheseoccasionalinterruptions—inspite，also，ofthecontinuousautumntwitteringthatfilledthetrees—thechiefimpressionsomehowwasoneasofuttersilence，insomuchthatthelittlegreenishbellthatpeepedoutofawindowinthetowerdisquietedmewithasenseofsomepossibleandmoreinharmoniousdisturbance。Thegrasswaswet，asifwithahoarfrostthathadjustbeenmelted。IdonotknowthateverIsawamorningmoreautumnal。AsIwenttoandfroamongthegraves，Isawsomeflowerssetreverentlybeforearecentlyerectedtomb，anddrawingnear，wasalmoststartledtofindtheylayonthegraveamanseventy—twoyearsoldwhenhedied。Weareaccustomedtostrewflowersonlyovertheyoung，wherelovehasbeencutshortuntimely，andgreatpossibilitieshavebeenrestrainedbydeath。Westrewthemthereintoken，thatthesepossibilities，insomedeepersense，shallyetberealised，andthetouchofourdeadlovesremainwithusandguideustotheend。Andyettherewasmoresignificance，perhaps，andperhapsagreaterconsolation，inthislittlenosegayonthegraveofonewhohaddiedold。Weareapttomakesomuchofthetragedyofdeath，andthinksolittleoftheenduringtragedyofsomemen’slives，thatweseemoretolamentforinalifecutoffinthemidstofusefulnessandlove，thaninonethatmiserablysurvivesallloveandusefulness，andgoesabouttheworldthephantomofitself，withouthope，orjoy，oranyconsolation。Theseflowersseemednotsomuchthetokenoflovethatsurviveddeath，asofsomethingyetmorebeautiful—oflovethathadlivedaman’slifeouttoanendwithhim，andbeenfaithfulandcompanionable，andnotwearyofloving，throughoutalltheseyears。
Themorningclearedalittle，andtheskywasoncemoretheoldstone—colouredvaultoverthesallowmeadowsandtherussetwoods，asIsetforthonadog—cartfromWendovertoTring。Theroadlayforagooddistancealongthesideofthehills，withthegreatplainbelowononehand，andthebeech—woodsaboveontheother。Thefieldswerebusywithpeopleploughingandsowing；everyhereandthereajugofalestoodintheangleofthehedge，andIcouldseemanyateamwaitsmokinginthefurrowasploughmanorsowersteppedasideforamomenttotakeadraught。Overallthebrownploughlands，andunderalltheleaflesshedgerows，therewasastoutpieceoflabourabroad，and，asitwere，aspiritofpicnic。Thehorsessmokedandthemenlabouredandshoutedanddrankinthesharpautumnmorning；sothatonehadastrongeffectoflarge，open—airexistence。Thefellowwhodrovemewassomethingofahumourist；andhisconversationwasallinpraiseofanagriculturallabourer’swayoflife。Itwashewhocalledmyattentiontothesejugsofalebythehedgerow；hecouldnotsufficientlyexpresstheliberalityofthesemen’swages；hetoldmehowsharpanappetitewasgivenbybreakinguptheearthinthemorningair，whetherwithploughorspade，andcordiallyadmiredthisprovisionofnature。HesangOFORTUNATOSAGRICOLAS！indeed，ineverypossiblekey，andwithmanycunninginflections，tillIbegantowonderwhatwastheuseofsuchpeopleasMr。Arch，andtosingthesameairmyselfinamorediffidentmanner。
Tringwasreached，andthenTringrailway—station；forthetwoarenotverynear，thegoodpeopleofTringhavingheldtherailway，ofolddays，inextremeapprehension，lestsomedayitshouldbreaklooseinthetownandworkmischief。Ihadalastwalk，amongrussetbeechesasusual，andtheairfilled，asusual，withthecarollingoflarks；Iheardshotsfiredinthedistance，andsaw，asanewsignofthefulfilledautumn，twohorsemenexercisingapackoffox—hounds。
AndthenthetraincameandcarriedmebacktoLondon。
CHAPTERIV—AWINTER’SWALKINCARRICKANDGALLOWAY—AFRAGMENT—
1876
ATthefamousbridgeofDoon，Kyle，thecentraldistrictoftheshireofAyr，marcheswithCarrick，themostsoutherly。OntheCarricksideoftheriverrisesahillofsomewhatgentleconformation，cleftwithshallowdells，andsownhereandtherewithfarmsandtuftsofwood。Inland，itlosesitself，joining，Isuppose，thegreatherdofsimilarhillsthatoccupiesthecentreoftheLowlands。Towardstheseaitswellsoutthecoast—lineintoaprotuberance，likeabay—
windowinaplan，andisfortifiedagainstthesurfbehindboldcrags。ThishillisknownastheBrownHillofCarrick，or，moreshortly，BrownCarrick。
Ithadsnowedovernight。Thefieldswereallsheetedup；theyweretuckedinamongthesnow，andtheirshapewasmodelledthroughthepliantcounterpane，likechildrentuckedinbyafondmother。Thewindhadmaderipplesandfoldsuponthesurface，likewhatthesea，inquietweather，leavesuponthesand。Therewasafrostystifleintheair。AneffusionofcopperylightonthesummitofBrownCarrickshowedwherethesunwastryingtolookthrough；butalongthehorizoncloudsofcoldfoghadsettleddown，sothattherewasnodistinctionofskyandsea。Overthewhiteshouldersoftheheadlands，orintheopeningofbays，therewasnothingbutagreatvacancyandblackness；andtheroadasitdrewneartheedgeofthecliffseemedtoskirttheshoresofcreationandvoidspace。
Thesnowcrunchedunderfoot，andatfarmsallthedogsbrokeoutbarkingastheysmeltapasser—byupontheroad。Imetafineoldfellow，whomighthavesatasthefatherin’TheCottar’sSaturdayNight，’andwhosworemostheathenishlyatacowhewasdriving。AndalittleafterIscrapedacquaintancewithapoorbodytrampingouttogathercockles。Hisfacewaswrinkledbyexposure；itwasbrokenupintoflakesandchannels，likemudbeginningtodry，andweatheredintwocolours，anincongruouspinkandgrey。Hehadafaintairofbeingsurprised—which，Godknows，hemightwellbe—thatlifehadgonesoillwithhim。Theshapeofhistrouserswasinitselfajest，sostrangelyweretheybaggedandravelledabouthisknees；andhiscoatwasallbedaubedwithclayastoughhehadlaininarain—
dubduringtheNewYear’sfestivity。IwillownIwasnotsorrytothinkhehadhadamerryNewYear，andbeenyoungagainforanevening；butIwassorrytoseethemarkstillthere。Onecouldnotexpectsuchanoldgentlemantobemuchofadandyoragreatstudentofrespectabilityindress；buttheremighthavebeenawifeathome，whohadbrushedoutsimilarstainsafterfiftyNewYears，nowbecomeold，oraround—armeddaughter，whowouldwishtohavehimneat，wereitonlyoutofself—respectandfortheploughmansweetheartwhenhelooksroundatnight。Plainly，therewasnothingofthisinhislife，andyearsandlonelinesshungheavilyonhisoldarms。Hewasseventy—six，hetoldme；andnobodywouldgiveaday’sworktoamanthatage：theywouldthinkhecouldn’tdoit。’And，’deed，’hewenton，withasadlittlechuckle，’’deed，IdoubtifIcould。’Hesaidgoodbyetomeatafootpath，andcrippledwearilyofftohiswork。
Itwillmakeyourheartacheifyouthinkofhisoldfingersgropinginthesnow。
HetoldmeIwastoturndownbesidetheschool—houseforDunure。
Andso，whenIfoundalonehouseamongthesnow，andheardababbleofchildishvoicesfromwithin，Istruckoffintoasteeproadleadingdownwardstothesea。Dunureliescloseunderthesteephill：ahavenamongtherocks，abreakwaterinconsummatedisrepair，muchapparatusfordryingnets，andascoreorsooffishers’houses。
Hardby，afewshardsofruinedcastleoverhangthesea，afewvaults，andonetallgablehoneycombedwithwindows。Thesnowlayonthebeachtothetidemark。Itwasdaubedontothesillsoftheruin：itroostedinthecranniesoftherocklikewhitesea—birds；
evenonoutlyingreefstherewouldbealittlecockofsnow，likeatoylighthouse。Everythingwasgreyandwhiteinacoldanddoloroussortofshepherd’splaid。Intheprofoundsilence，brokenonlybythenoiseofoarsatsea，ahornwassoundedtwice；andIsawthepostman，girtwithtwobags，pauseamomentattheendoftheclachanforletters。
Itis，perhaps，characteristicofDunurethatnonewerebroughthim。
Thepeopleatthepublic—housedidnotseemwellpleasedtoseeme，andthoughIwouldfainhavestayedbythekitchenfire，sentme’benthehoose’intotheguest—room。Thisguest—roomatDunurewaspaintedinquiteaestheticfashion。ThereareroomsinthesametastenotahundredmilesfromLondon，wherepersonsofanextremesensibilitymeettogetherwithoutembarrassment。Itwasallinafinedullbottle—greenandblack；agraveharmoniouspieceofcolouring，withnothing，sofarascoarserfolkcanjudge，tohurtthebetterfeelingsofthemostexquisitepurist。Acherry—redhalfwindow—blindkeptupanimaginarywarmthinthecoldroom，andthrewquiteaglowonthefloor。Twelvecockle—shellsandahalf—pennychinafigurewererangedsolemnlyalongthemantel—shelf。Eventhespittoonwasanoriginalnote，andinsteadofsawdustcontainedsea—
shells。Andasforthehearthrug，itwouldmeritanarticletoitself，andacoloureddiagramtohelpthetext。Itwaspatchwork，butthepatchworkofthepoor；noglowingshredsofoldbrocadeandChinesesilk，shakentogetherinthekaleidoscopeofsometastefulhousewife’sfancy；butaworkofartinitsownway，andplainlyalabouroflove。Thepatchescameexclusivelyfrompeople’sraiment。
Therewasnocolourmorebrilliantthanaheathermixture；’MyJohnny’sgreybreeks，’wellpolishedovertheoarontheboat’sthwart，enteredlargelyintoitscomposition。Andthespoilsofanoldblackclothcoat，thathadbeenmanyaSundaytochurch，addedsomething（savethemark！）ofpreciousnesstothematerial。
WhileIwasatluncheonfourcarterscamein—long—limbed，muscularAyrshireScots，withlean，intelligentfaces。Fourquartsofstoutwereordered；theykeptfillingthetumblerwiththeotherhandastheydrank；andinlesstimethanittakesmetowritethesewordsthefourquartswerefinished—anotherroundwasproposed，discussed，andnegatived—andtheywerecreakingoutofthevillagewiththeircarts。
Theruinsdrewyoutowardsthem。Youneversawanyplacemoredesolatefromadistance，noronethatlessbelieditspromisenearathand。SomecrowsandgullsflewawaycroakingasIscrambledin。
Thesnowhaddriftedintothevaults。Theclachandabbledwithsnow，thewhitehills，theblacksky，theseamarkedinthecoveswithfaintcircularwrinkles，thewholeworld，asitlookedfromaloop—
holeinDunure，wascold，wretched，andout—at—elbows。Ifyouhadbeenawickedbaronandcompelledtostaytherealltheafternoon，youwouldhavehadararefitofremorse。Howyouwouldhaveheapedupthefireandgnawedyourfingers！Ithinkitwouldhavecometohomicidebeforetheevening—ifitwereonlyforthepleasureofseeingsomethingred！AndthemastersofDunure，itistobenoticed，wereremarkableofoldforinhumanity。Oneofthesevaultswherethesnowhaddriftedwasthat’blackroute’where’Mr。AlaneStewart，CommendatourofCrossraguel，’enduredhisfierytrials。Onthe1stand7thofSeptember1570（illdatesforMr。Alan！），Gilbert，EarlofCassilis，hischaplain，hisbaker，hiscook，hispantryman，andanotherservant，boundthePoorCommendator’betwixanironchimlayandafire，’andtherecruellyroastedhimuntilhesignedawayhisabbacy。itisoneoftheuglieststoriesofanuglyperiod，butnot，somehow，withoutsuchaflavouroftheridiculousasmakesithardtosympathisequiteseriouslywiththevictim。Anditisconsolingtorememberthathegotawayatlast，andkepthisabbacy，and，overandabove，hadapensionfromtheEarluntilhedied。
SomewaybeyondDunureawidebay，ofsomewhatlessunkindlyaspect，openedout。Colzeanplantationslayallalongthesteepshore，andtherewasawoodedhilltowardsthecentre，wherethetreesmadeasortofshadowyetchingoverthesnow。Theroadwentdownandup，andpastablacksmith’scottagethatmadefinemusicinthevalley。
ThreecompatriotsofBurnsdroveuptomeinacart。Theywerealldrunk，andaskedmejeeringlyifthiswasthewaytoDunure。Itoldthemitwas；andmyanswerwasreceivedwithunfeignedmerriment。
Onegentlemanwassomuchtickledhenearlyfelloutofthecart；
indeed，hewasonlysavedbyacompanion，whoeitherhadnotsofineasenseofhumourorhaddrunkenless。
’ThetouneofMayboll，’saystheinimitableAbercrummie，’standsuponanascendinggroundfromeasttowest，andlyesopentothesouth。
Ithathoneprincipalsstreet，withhousesuponbothsides，builtoffreestone；anditisbeautifyedwiththesituationoftwocastles，oneateachendofthisstreet。ThatontheeastbelongstotheErleofCassilis。Onthewestendisacastle，whichbelongedsometimetothelairdofBlairquan，whichisnowthetolbuith，andisadornedwithapyremide[conicalroof]，andarowofballestersrounditraisedfromthetopofthestaircase，intowhichtheyhavemountedafyneclock。Therebefourlaneswhichpassfromtheprincipallstreet；oneiscalledtheBlackVennel，whichissteep，decliningtothesouth—west，andleadstoalowerstreet，whichisfarlargerthanthehighchiefestreet，anditrunsfromtheKirklandtotheWellTrees，inwhichtherehavebeenmanyprettybuildings，belongingtotheseverallgentryofthecountrey，whowerewonttoresortthitherinwinter，anddivertthemselvesinconversetogetherattheirownehouses。Itwasoncetheprincipallstreetofthetown；butmanyofthesehousesofthegentryhavingbeendecayedandruined，ithaslostmuchofitsancientbeautie。Justoppositetothisvennel，thereisanotherthatleadsnorth—west，fromthechiefestreettothegreen，whichisapleasantplottofground，enclosedroundwithanearthenwall，whereintheywerewonttoplayfootball，butnowattheGowffandbyasse—bowls。Thehousesofthistowne，onbothsidesofthestreet，havetheirseveralgardensbelongingtothem；andinthelowerstreettherebesomeprettyorchards，thatyieldstoreofgoodfruit。’AsPattersonsays，thisdescriptionisnearenoughevento—
day，andismightynicelywrittentoboot。Iamboundtoadd，ofmyownexperience，thatMayboleistumbledownanddreary。Prosperousenoughinreality，ithasanairofdecay；andthoughthepopulationhasincreased，arooflesshouseeveryhereandthereseemstoprotestthecontrary。Thewomenaremorethanwell—favoured，andthemenfinetallfellows；buttheylookslipshodanddissipated。Astheyslouchedatstreetcorners，orstoodaboutgossipinginthesnow，itseemedtheywouldhavebeenmoreathomeintheslumsofalargecitythanhereinacountryplacebetwixtavillageandatown。Iheardagreatdealaboutdrinking，andagreatdealaboutreligiousrevivals：
twothingsinwhichtheScottishcharacterisemphaticandmostunlovely。Inparticular，IheardofclergymenwhowereemployingtheirtimeinexplainingtoadelightedaudiencethephysicsoftheSecondComing。Itisnotverylikelyanyofuswillbeaskedtohelp。ifwewere，itislikelyweshouldreceiveinstructionsfortheoccasion，andthatonmorereliableauthority。AndsoIcanonlyfiguretomyselfacongregationtrulycuriousinsuchflightsoftheologicalfancy，asoneofveteranandaccomplishedsaints，whohavefoughtthegoodfighttoanendandoutlivedallworldlypassion，andaretoberegardedratherasapartoftheChurchTriumphantthanthepoor，imperfectcompanyonearth。AndyetIsawsomeyoungfellowsaboutthesmoking—roomwhoseemed，intheeyesofonewhocannotcounthimselfstrait—laced，inneedofsomemorepracticalsortofteaching。Theyseemedonlyeagertogetdrunk，andtodosospeedily。ItwasnotmuchmorethanaweekaftertheNewYear；andtohearthemreturnontheirpastboutswithagustounspeakablewasnotaltogetherpleasing。Hereisonesnatchoftalk，fortheaccuracyofwhichIcanvouch—
’YehadaspreeherelastTuesday？’
’Wehadthat！’
’Iwasnaabletobeooto’mybed。Man，IwasawfulbadonWednesday。’
’Ay，yeweregeybad。’
Andyoushouldhaveseenthebrighteyes，andheardthesensualaccents！Theyrecalledtheirdoingswithdevoutgustoandasortofrationalpride。Schoolboys，aftertheirfirstdrunkenness，arenotmoreboastful；acockdoesnotplumehimselfwithamoreunmingledsatisfactionashepacesforthamonghisharem；andyettheseweregrownmen，andbynomeansshortofwit。ItwashardtosupposetheywereveryeagerabouttheSecondComing：itseemedasifsomeelementarynotionsoftemperanceforthemenandseemlinessforthewomenwouldhavegonenearerthemark。Andyet，asitseemedtometypicalofmuchthatisevilinScotland，Mayboleisalsotypicalofmuchthatisbest。Someofthefactories，whichhavetakentheplaceofweavinginthetown’seconomy，wereoriginallyfoundedandarestillpossessedbyself—mademenofthesterling，stoutoldbreed—
fellowswhomadesomelittlebitofaninvention，borrowedsomelittlepocketfulofcapital，andthen，stepbystep，incourage，thriftandindustry，foughttheirwayupwardstoanassuredposition。
AbercrummiehastoldyouenoughoftheTolbooth；but，asabitofspelling，thisinscriptionontheTolboothbellseemstoodelicioustowithhold：’ThisbellisfoundedatMaibollBiDanelGeli，aFrenchman，the6thNovember，1696，BiappointmentoftheheritorsoftheparishofMaiyboll。’TheCastledeservesmorenotice。Itisalargeandshapelytower，plainfromthegroundupwards，butwithazoneofornamentationrunningaboutthetop。Inageneralwaythisadornmentisperchedontheverysummitofthechimney—stacks；butthereisonecornermoreelaboratethantherest。Averyheavystring—courserunsroundtheupperstory，andjustabovethis，facingupthestreet，thetowercarriesasmallorielwindow，flutedandcorbelledandcarvedaboutwithstoneheads。Itissoornateithassomewhattheairofashrine。Anditwas，indeed，thecasketofaverypreciousjewel，forintheroomtowhichitgiveslightlay，forlongyears，theheroineofthesweetoldballadof’JohnnieFaa’—
shewho，atthecallofthegipsies’songs，’cametrippingdownthestair，andallhermaidsbeforeher。’Somepeoplesaytheballadhasnobasisinfact，andhavewritten，Ibelieve，unanswerablepaperstotheproof。Butinthefaceofallthat，theverylookofthathighorielwindowconvincestheimagination，andweenterintoallthesorrowsoftheimprisoneddame。Weconceivetheburthenofthelong，lack—lustredays，whensheleanedhersickheadagainstthemullions，andsawtheburghersloafinginMayboleHighStreet，andthechildrenatplay，andrufflinggallantsridingbyfromhuntorforay。Weconceivethepassionofoddmoments，whenthewindthrewuptohersomesnatchofsong，andherheartgrewhotwithinher，andhereyesoverflowedatthememoryofthepast。Andevenifthetalebenottrueofthisorthatlady，orthisorthatoldtower，itistrueintheessenceofallmenandwomen：forallofus，sometimeorother，hearthegipsiessinging；overallofusistheglamourcast。Someresistandsitresolutelybythefire。Mostgoandarebroughtbackagain，likeLadyCassilis。Afew，ofthetribeofWaring，goandareseennomore；onlynowandagain，atspringtime，whenthegipsies’
songisafloatintheamethystevening，wecancatchtheirvoicesintheglee。