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Three Men in a Boat-Part16_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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There seemed so little to show for the business. Six eggs had gone into



the frying-pan, and all that came out was a teaspoonful of burnt and

unappetizing looking mess.



Harris said it was the fault of the frying-pan, and thought it would have

gone better if we had had a fish-kettle and a gas-stove; and we decided



not to attempt the dish again until we had those aids to housekeeping by

us.



The sun had got more powerful by the time we had finished breakfast, and

the wind had dropped, and it was as lovely a morning as one could desire.



Little was in sight to remind us of the nineteenth century; and, as we

looked out upon the river in the morning sunlight, we could almost fancy



that the centuries between us and that ever-to-be-famous June morning of

1215 had been drawn aside, and that we, English yeomen's sons in homespun



cloth, with dirk at belt, were waiting there to witness the writing of

that stupendous page of history, the meaning whereof was to be translated



to the common people some four hundred and odd years later by one Oliver

Cromwell, who had deeply studied it.



It is a fine summer morning - sunny, soft, and still. But through the

air there runs a thrill of coming stir. King John has slept at Duncroft



Hall, and all the day before the little town of Staines has echoed to the

clang of armed men, and the clatter of great horses over its rough



stones, and the shouts of captains, and the grim oaths and surly jests of

bearded bowmen, billmen, pikemen, and strange-speaking foreign spearmen.



Gay-cloaked companies of knights and squires have ridden in, all travel-

stained and dusty. And all the evening long the timid townsmen's doors



have had to be quick opened to let in rough groups of soldiers, for whom

there must be found both board and lodging, and the best of both, or woe



betide the house and all within; for the sword is judge and jury,

plaintiff and executioner, in these tempestuous times, and pays for what



it takes by sparing those from whom it takes it, if it pleases it to do

so.



Round the camp-fire in the market-place gather still more of the Barons'

troops, and eat and drink deep, and bellow forth roystering drinking



songs, and gamble and quarrel as the evening grows and deepens into

night. The firelight sheds quaint shadows on their piled-up arms and on



their uncouth forms. The children of the town steal round to watch them,

wondering; and brawny country wenches, laughing, draw near to bandy ale-



house jest and jibe with the swaggering troopers, so unlike the village

swains, who, now despised, stand apart behind, with vacant grins upon



their broad, peering faces. And out from the fields around, glitter the

faint lights of more distant camps, as here some great lord's followers



lie mustered, and there false John's French mercenaries hover like

crouching wolves without the town.



And so, with sentinel in each dark street, and twinkling watch-fires on

each height around, the night has worn away, and over this fair valley of



old Thame has broken the morning of the great day that is to close so big

with the fate of ages yet unborn.



Ever since grey dawn, in the lower of the two islands, just above where

we are standing, there has been great clamour, and the sound of many



workmen. The great pavilion brought there yester eve is being raised,

and carpenters are busy nailing tiers of seats, while `prentices from



London town are there with many-coloured stuffs and silks and cloth of

gold and silver.



And now, lo! down upon the road that winds along the river's bank from

Staines there come towards us, laughing and talking together in deep



guttural bass, a half-a-score of stalwart halbert-men - Barons' men,

these - and halt at a hundred yards or so above us, on the other bank,



and lean upon their arms, and wait.

And so, from hour to hour, march up along the road ever fresh groups and



bands of armed men, their casques and breastplates flashing back the long

low lines of morning sunlight, until, as far as eye can reach, the way



seems thick with glittering steel and prancing steeds. And shouting

horsemen are galloping from group to group, and little banners are



fluttering lazily in the warm breeze, and every now and then there is a

deeper stir as the ranks make way on either side, and some great Baron on



his war-horse, with his guard of squires around him, passes along to take

his station at the head of his serfs and vassals.



And up the slope of Cooper's Hill, just opposite, are gathered the

wondering rustics and curious townsfolk, who have run from Staines, and



none are quite sure what the bustle is about, but each one has a

different version of the great event that they have come to see; and some



say that much good to all the people will come from this day's work; but

the old men shake their heads, for they have heard such tales before.



And all the river down to Staines is dotted with small craft and boats




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