瓦尔登湖:Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors2

　　Down the road， on the right hand， on Brister's Hill， lived Brister Freeman， "a handy Negro，" slave of Squire Cummings once ――there where grow still the apple trees which Brister planted and tended； large old trees now， but their fruit still wild and ciderish to my taste.  Not long since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln burying-ground， a little on one side， near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell in the retreat from Concord ――where he is styled "Sippio Brister" ―― Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called ―― "a man of color，" as if he were discolored. It also told me， with staring emphasis， when he died； which was but an indirect way of informing me that he ever lived.  With him dwelt Fenda， his hospitable wife， who told fortunes， yet pleasantly ――large， round， and black， blacker than any of the children of night，such a dusky orb as never rose on Concord before or since. Farther down the hill， on the left， on the old road in the woods， are marks of some homestead of the Stratton family； whose orchard once covered all the slope of Brister's Hill， but was long since killed out by pitch pines， excepting a few stumps， whose old roots furnish still the wild stocks of many a thrifty village tree. Nearer yet to town， you come to Breed's location， on the other side of the way， just on the edge of the wood； ground famous for the pranks of a demon not distinctly named in old mythology， who has acted a prominent and astounding part in our New England life， and deserves， as much as any mythological character， to have his biography written one day； who first comes in the guise of a friend or hired man， and then robs and murders the whole family ――New-England Rum.  But history must not yet tell the tragedies enacted here； let time intervene in some measure to assuage and lend an azure tint to them.  Here the most indistinct and dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood； the well the same， which tempered the traveller's beverage and refreshed his steed.  Here then men saluted one another， and heard and told the news， and went their ways again. Breed's hut was standing only a dozen years ago， though it had long been unoccupied.  It was about the size of mine.  It was set on fire by mischievous boys， one Election night， if I do not mistake. I lived on the edge of the village then， and had just lost myself over Davenant's "Gondibert，" that winter that I labored with a lethargy ―― which， by the way， I never knew whether to regard as a family complaint， having an uncle who goes to sleep shaving himself，and is obliged to sprout potatoes in a cellar Sundays， in order to keep awake and keep the Sabbath， or as the consequence of my attempt to read Chalmers' collection of English poetry without skipping.  It fairly overcame my Nervii.  I had just sunk my head on this when the bells rung fire， and in hot haste the engines rolled that way， led by a straggling troop of men and boys， and I among the foremost， for I had leaped the brook.  We thought it was far south over the woods―― we who had run to fires before ―― barn， shop， or dwelling-house，or all together.  "It's Baker's barn，" cried one.  "It is the Codman place，" affirmed another.  And then fresh sparks went up above the wood， as if the roof fell in， and we all shouted "Concord to the rescue！"  Wagons shot past with furious speed and crushing loads，bearing， perchance， among the rest， the agent of the Insurance Company， who was bound to go however far； and ever and anon the engine bell tinkled behind， more slow and sure； and rearmost of all，as it was afterward whispered， came they who set the fire and gave the alarm.  Thus we kept on like true idealists， rejecting the evidence of our senses， until at a turn in the road we heard the crackling and actually felt the heat of the fire from over the wall，and realized， alas！ that we were there.  The very nearness of the fire but cooled our ardor.  At first we thought to throw a frog-pond on to it； but concluded to let it burn， it was so far gone and so worthless.  So we stood round our engine， jostled one another，expressed our sentiments through speaking-trumpets， or in lower tone referred to the great conflagrations which the world has witnessed，including Bascom's shop， and， between ourselves， we thought that，were we there in season with our "tub，" and a full frog-pond by， we could turn that threatened last and universal one into another flood.  We finally retreated without doing any mischief ―― returned to sleep and "Gondibert."  But as for "Gondibert，" I would except that passage in the preface about wit being the soul's powder ――"but most of mankind are strangers to wit， as Indians are to powder."

　　沿路走下去，右手边，在勃立斯特山上，住着勃立斯特，富理曼，“一个机灵的黑人”，一度是肯明斯老爷的奴隶，――这个勃立斯特亲手种植并培养的苹果树现在还在那里生长，成了很大很古老的树，可是那果实吃起来还是野性十足的野苹果味道。不久前，我还在林肯公墓里读到他的墓志铭，他躺在一个战死在康科德撤退中的英国掷弹兵旁边，――墓碑上写的是“斯伊比奥。勃立斯特”，――他有资格被叫做斯基比奥。阿非利加努斯――“一个有色人种”，好像他曾经是无色似的。墓碑上还异常强调似的告诉了我，他是什么时候死的；这倒是一个间接的办法，它告诉了我，这人是曾经活过的。

　　和他住在一起的是他的贤妻芬达，她能算命，然而是令人非常愉快的，――很壮硕，圆圆的，黑黑的，比任何黑夜的孩子还要黑，这样的黑球，在康科德一带是空前绝后的。

　　沿着山再下去，靠左手，在林中的古道上，还留着斯特拉登家的残迹；他家的果树园曾经把勃立斯特山的斜坡全部都占了，可是也老早给苍松杀退，只除了少数树根，那些根上又生出了更繁茂的野树。

　　更接近乡镇，在路的另外一面，就在森林的边上，你到了勃里德的地方，那地方以一个妖怪出名，这妖怪尚未收入古代神话中：他在新英格兰人的生活中有极重要、极惊人的关系，正如许多神话中的角色那样，理应有那么一天，有人给他写一部传记的；最初，他乔装成一个朋友，或者一个雇工来到，然后他抢劫了，甚至谋杀了那全家老小，――他是新英格兰的怪人。可是历史还不能把这里所发生的一些悲剧写下来，让时间多少把它们弄糊涂一点，给它们一层蔚蓝的颜色吧。有一个说不清楚的传说，说到这里曾经有过一个酒店；正是这同一口井，供给了旅客的饮料，给他们的牲口解渴。在这里，人们曾经相聚一堂，交换新闻，然后各走各的路。

　　勃里德的草屋虽然早就没有人住了，却在十二年前还站着。大小跟我的一座房子差不多。如果我没有弄错的话，那是在一个选举大总统的晚上，几个顽皮小孩放火把它烧了。那时我住在村子边上，正读着德芙南特的《刚蒂倍尔特》读得出了神，这年冬天我害了瞌睡病，――说起来，我也不知道这是否家传的老毛病，但是我有一个伯父，刮刮胡子都会睡着，星期天他不得不在地窖里摘去土豆的芽，就是为了保持清醒，信守他的安息日；也许另外的一个原因是由于这年我想读查尔末斯编的《英国诗选》，一首也不跳过去，所以读昏了的。德芙南特的书相当征服了我的神经。我正读得脑袋越来越低垂，忽然火警的钟声响了，救火车狂热地奔上前去，前后簇拥着溃乱的男子和小孩，而我是跑在最前列的，因为我一跃而跃过了溪流。我们以为人烧的地点远在森林之南，――我们以前都救过火的，――兽厩啦，店铺啦，或者住宅啦，或者是所有这些都起了火。

　　“是倍克田庄，”有人嚷道。“是考德曼的地方，”另外的人这样肯定。于是又一阵火星腾上了森林之上的天空，好像屋脊塌了下去，于是我们都叫起了“康科德来救火了！”

　　在狂怒的速度下，车辆飞去如飞矢，坐满了人，其中说不定有保险公司代理人，不管火烧得离他如何远，他还是必须到场的；然而救火车的铃声却越落越后，它更慢更稳重了，而在殿军之中，后来大家窃窃私语他说，就有那一批放了火，又来报火警的人。就这样，我们像真正的唯心主义者向前行进，不去理会我们的感官提供的明证，直到在路上转了个弯，我们听到火焰的爆裂声，确确实实地感到了墙那边传过来的热度，才明白，唉！

　　我们就在这个地方。接近了火只有使我们的热忱减少。起先我们想把一个蛙塘的水都浇在火上；结果却还是让它烧去，这房子已经烧得差不多了，又毫无价值。于是我们围住了我们的救火车，拥来拥去，从扬声喇叭中发表我们的观点，或者用低低的声音，谈谈有史以来世界上的大火灾，包括巴斯康的店铺的那一次，而在我们自己一些人中间却想到，要是凑巧我们有“桶”，又有个涨满水的蛙塘的话，我们可以把那吓人的最后一场大火变成再一次大洪水的。最后我们一点坏事也不做，都回去了，――回去睡觉，我回去看我的《刚蒂倍尔特》。说到这本书，序文中有一段话是关于机智是灵性的火药的，――“可是大部分的人类不懂得机智，正如印第安人不懂得火药，”我颇不以为然。

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