The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
Whereupon Sim produced from the corner of his plaid a black bottle, and
we all drank and pledged each other. I found these gentlemen followed
upon such occasions an invariable etiquette, which you may be certain I
made haste to imitate. Each wiped his mouth with the back of his left
hand, held up the bottle in his right, remarked with emphasis, "Here's
to ye!" and swallowed as much of the spirit as his fancy prompted. This
little ceremony, which was the nearest thing to manners I could perceive
in either of my companions, was repeated at becoming intervals,
generally after an ascent. Occasionally we shared a mouthful of ewe-milk
cheese and an inglorious form of bread, which I understood (but am far
from engaging my honour on the point) to be called "shearer's bannock."
And that may be said to have concluded our whole active intercourse for
the first day.
I had the more occasion to remark the extraordinarily desolate nature of
that country, through which the drove-road continued, hour after hour,
and even day after day, to wind. A continual succession of insignificant
shaggy hills, divided by the course of ten thousand brooks, through
which we had to wade, or by the side of which we encamped at night;
infinite perspectives of heather; infinite quantities of moorfowl; here
and there, by a stream-side, small and pretty clumps of willows or the
silver birch; here and there, the ruins of ancient and inconsiderable
fortresses--made the unchanging characters of the scene. Occasionally,
but only in the distance, we could perceive the smoke of a small town or
of an isolated farmhouse or cottage on the moors; more often, a flock of
sheep and its attendant shepherd, or a rude field of agriculture perhaps
not yet harvested. With these alleviations, we might almost be said to
pass through an unbroken desert--sure, one of the most impoverished in
Europe; and when I recalled to mind that we were yet but a few leagues
from the chief city (where the law-courts sat every day with a press of
business, soldiers garrisoned the Castle, and men of admitted parts were
carrying on the practice of letters and the investigations of science),
it gave me a singular view of that poor, barren, and yet illustrious
country through which I travelled. Still more, perhaps, did it commend
the wisdom of Miss Gilchrist in sending me with these uncouth companions
and by this unfrequented path.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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