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，右手邊，在勃立斯特山上，住著勃立斯特，富理曼，“一個機靈的黑人”，一度是肯明斯老爺的奴隸，――這個勃立斯特親手種植并培養的蘋果樹現在還在那里生長，成了很大很古老的樹，可是那果實吃起來還是野性十足的野蘋果味道。不久前，我還在林肯公墓里讀到他的墓志銘，他躺在一個戰死在康科德撤退中的英國擲彈兵旁邊，――墓碑上寫的是“斯伊比奧。勃立斯特”，――他有資格被叫做斯基比奧。阿非利加努斯――“一個有色人種”，好像他曾經是無色似的。墓碑上還異常強調似的告訴了我，他是什么時候死的；這倒是一個間接的辦法，它告訴了我，這人是曾經活過的。

　　和他住在一起的是他的賢妻芬達，她能算命，然而是令人非常愉快的，――很壯碩，圓圓的，黑黑的，比任何黑夜的孩子還要黑，這樣的黑球，在康科德一帶是空前絕后的。

　　沿著山再下去，靠左手，在林中的古道上，還留著斯特拉登家的殘跡；他家的果樹園曾經把勃立斯特山的斜坡全部都占了，可是也老早給蒼松殺退，只除了少數樹根，那些根上又生出了更繁茂的野樹。

　　更接近鄉鎮，在路的另外一面，就在森林的邊上，你到了勃里德的地方，那地方以一個妖怪出名，這妖怪尚未收入古代神話中：他在新英格蘭人的生活中有極重要、極驚人的關系，正如許多神話中的角色那樣，理應有那么一天，有人給他寫一部傳記的；最初，他喬裝成一個朋友，或者一個雇工來到，然后他搶劫了，甚至謀殺了那全家老小，――他是新英格蘭的怪人。可是歷史還不能把這里所發生的一些悲劇寫下來，讓時間多少把它們弄糊涂一點，給它們一層蔚藍的顏色吧。有一個說不清楚的傳說，說到這里曾經有過一個酒店；正是這同一口井，供給了旅客的飲料，給他們的牲口解渴。在這里，人們曾經相聚一堂，交換新聞，然后各走各的路。

　　勃里德的草屋雖然早就沒有人住了，卻在十二年前還站著。大小跟我的一座房子差不多。如果我沒有弄錯的話，那是在一個選舉大總統的晚上，幾個頑皮小孩放火把它燒了。那時我住在村子邊上，正讀著德芙南特的《剛蒂倍爾特》讀得出了神，這年冬天我害了瞌睡病，――說起來，我也不知道這是否家傳的老毛病，但是我有一個伯父，刮刮胡子都會睡著，星期天他不得不在地窖里摘去土豆的芽，就是為了保持清醒，信守他的安息日；也許另外的一個原因是由于這年我想讀查爾末斯編的《英國詩選》，一首也不跳過去，所以讀昏了的。德芙南特的書相當征服了我的神經。我正讀得腦袋越來越低垂，忽然火警的鐘聲響了，救火車狂熱地奔上前去，前后簇擁著潰亂的男子和小孩，而我是跑在最前列的，因為我一躍而躍過了溪流。我們以為人燒的地點遠在森林之南，――我們以前都救過火的，――獸廄啦，店鋪啦，或者住宅啦，或者是所有這些都起了火。

　　“是倍克田莊，”有人嚷道。“是考德曼的地方，”另外的人這樣肯定。于是又一陣火星騰上了森林之上的天空，好像屋脊塌了下去，于是我們都叫起了“康科德來救火了！”

　　在狂怒的速度下，車輛飛去如飛矢，坐滿了人，其中說不定有保險公司代理人，不管火燒得離他如何遠，他還是必須到場的；然而救火車的鈴聲卻越落越后，它更慢更穩重了，而在殿軍之中，后來大家竊竊私語他說，就有那一批放了火，又來報火警的人。就這樣，我們像真正的唯心主義者向前行進，不去理會我們的感官提供的明證，直到在路上轉了個彎，我們聽到火焰的爆裂聲，確確實實地感到了墻那邊傳過來的熱度，才明白，唉！

　　我們就在這個地方。接近了火只有使我們的熱忱減少。起先我們想把一個蛙塘的水都澆在火上；結果卻還是讓它燒去，這房子已經燒得差不多了，又毫無價值。于是我們圍住了我們的救火車，擁來擁去，從揚聲喇叭中發表我們的觀點，或者用低低的聲音，談談有史以來世界上的大火災，包括巴斯康的店鋪的那一次，而在我們自己一些人中間卻想到，要是湊巧我們有“桶”，又有個漲滿水的蛙塘的話，我們可以把那嚇人的最后一場大火變成再一次大洪水的。最后我們一點壞事也不做，都回去了，――回去睡覺，我回去看我的《剛蒂倍爾特》。說到這本書，序文中有一段話是關于機智是靈性的火藥的，――“可是大部分的人類不懂得機智，正如印第安人不懂得火藥，”我頗不以為然。

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