“You told my brother, Lord Marney, this?”
“Oh! it’s Mr Charles I’m speaking to! My service to you, sir; I’m glad to see you in these parts again. It’s a long time that we have had that pleasure, sir. Travelling in foreign parts, as I have heard say?”
“Something of that; but very glad to find myself at home once more, Mr Bingley, though very sorry to have such a welcome as a blazing rick at the Abbey farm.”
“Well, do you know, Mr Charles, between ourselves,” and Mr Bingley lowered his tone, and looked around him, “Things is very bad here; I can’t make out, for my part, what has become of the country. Tayn’t the same land to live in as it was when you used to come to our moor2 coursing, with the old lord; you remember that, I be sure, Mr Charles?”
“‘Tis not easy to forget good sport, Mr Bingley. With your permission, I will put my horse up here for half an hour. I have a fancy to stroll to the ruins.”
“You wunna find them much changed,” said the farmer, smiling. “They have seen a deal of different things in their time! But you will taste our ale, Mr Charles?”
“When I return.”
But the hospitable3 Bingley would take no denial, and as his companion waived4 on the present occasion entering his house, for the sun had been some time declining, the farmer, calling one of his labourers to take Egremont’s horse, hastened into the house to fill the brimming cup.
“I think ‘tis hard times for the poor, sir.”
“But rick-burning will not make the times easier, my good man.”
The man made no reply, but with a dogged look led away the horse to his stable.
About half a mile from Marney, the dale narrowed, and the river took a winding6 course. It ran through meads, soft and vivid with luxuriant vegetation, bounded on either side by rich hanging woods, save where occasionally a quarry7 broke the verdant8 bosom9 of the heights with its rugged10 and tawny11 form. Fair stone and plenteous timber, and the current of fresh waters, combined, with the silent and secluded12 scene screened from every harsh and angry wind, to form the sacred spot that in old days Holy Church loved to hallow with its beauteous and enduring structures. Even the stranger therefore when he had left the town about two miles behind him, and had heard the farm and mill which he had since passed, called the Abbey farm and the Abbey mill, might have been prepared for the grateful vision of some monastic remains13. As for Egremont, he had been almost born amid the ruins of Marney Abbey; its solemn relics14 were associated with his first and freshest fancies; every footstep was as familiar to him as it could have been to one of the old monks15; yet never without emotion could he behold16 these unrivalled remains of one of the greatest of the great religious houses of the North.
Over a space of not less than ten acres might still be observed the fragments of the great abbey: these were, towards their limit, in general moss-grown and mouldering17 memorials that told where once rose the offices and spread the terraced gardens of the old proprietors18; here might still be traced the dwelling19 of the lord abbot; and there, still more distinctly, because built on a greater scale and of materials still more intended for perpetuity, the capacious hospital, a name that did not then denote the dwelling of disease, but a place where all the rights of hospitality were practised; where the traveller from the proud baron20 to the lonely pilgrim asked the shelter and the succour that never were denied, and at whose gate, called the Portal of the Poor, the peasants on the Abbey lands, if in want, might appeal each morn and night for raiment and for food.
But it was in the centre of this tract21 of ruins, occupying a space of not less than two acres, that, with a strength that had defied time, and with a beauty that had at last turned away the wrath22 of man, still rose if not in perfect, yet admirable, form and state, one of the noblest achievements of Christian23 art,—the Abbey church. The summer vault24 was now its only roof, and all that remained of its gorgeous windows was the vastness of their arched symmetry, and some wreathed relics of their fantastic frame-work, but the rest was uninjured.
From the west window, looking over the transept chapel25 of the Virgin26, still adorned27 with pillars of marble and alabaster28, the eye wandered down the nave29 to the great orient light, a length of nearly three hundred feet, through a gorgeous avenue of unshaken walls and columns that clustered to the skies, On each side of the Lady’s chapel rose a tower. One which was of great antiquity30, being of that style which is commonly called Norman, short and very thick and square, did not mount much above the height of the western front; but the other tower was of a character very different, It was tall and light, and of a Gothic style most pure and graceful31; the stone of which it was built, of a bright and even sparkling colour, and looking as if it were hewn but yesterday. At first, its turretted crest32 seemed injured; but the truth is, it was unfinished; the workmen were busied on this very tower the day that old Baldwin Greymount came as the king’s commissioner33 to inquire into the conduct of this religious house. The abbots loved to memorise34 their reigns35 by some public work, which should add to the beauty of their buildings or the convenience of their subjects; and the last of the ecclesiastical lords of Marney, a man of fine taste and a skilful36 architect, was raising this new belfry for his brethren when the stern decree arrived that the bells should no more sound. And the hymn37 was no more to be chaunted in the Lady’s chapel; and the candles were no more to be lit on the high altar; and the gate of the poor was to be closed for ever; and the wanderer was no more to find a home.
The body of the church was in many parts overgrown with brambles and in all covered with a rank vegetation. It had been a very sultry day, and the blaze of the meridian38 heat still inflamed39 the air; the kine for shelter, rather than for sustenance40, had wandered through some broken arches, and were lying in the shadow of the nave. This desecration41 of a spot, once sacred, still beautiful and solemn, jarred on the feelings of Egremont. He sighed and turning away, followed a path that after a few paces led him into the cloister42 garden. This was a considerable quadrangle; once surrounding the garden of the monks, but all that remained of that fair pleasaunce was a solitary43 yew44 in its centre, that seemed the oldest tree that could well live, and was, according to tradition, more ancient than the most venerable walls of the Abbey. Round this quadrangle was the refectory, the library and the kitchen, and above them the cells and dormitory of the brethren. An imperfect staircase, not without danger, led to these unroofed chambers45; but Egremont familiar with the way did not hesitate to pursue it, so that he soon found himself on an elevation46 overlooking the garden, while further on extended the vast cloisters47 of the monks, and adjoining was a cemetery48, that had once been enclosed, and communicated with the cloister garden.
It was one of those summer days that are so still, that they seem as it were a holiday of nature. The weary wind was sleeping in some grateful cavern49, and the sunbeams basking50 on some fervent51 knoll52; the river floated with a drowsy53 unconscious course: there was no wave in the grass, no stir in the branches.
A silence so profound amid these solemn ruins, offered the perfection of solitude54; and there was that stirring in the mind of Egremont which rendered him far from indisposed for this loneliness.
The slight words that he had exchanged with the farmer and the hind had left him musing55. Why was England not the same land as in the days of his light-hearted youth? Why were these hard times for the poor? He stood among the ruins that, as the farmer had well observed, had seen many changes: changes of creeds56, of dynasties, of laws, of manners. New orders of men had arisen in the country, new sources of wealth had opened, new dispositions57 of power to which that wealth had necessarily led. His own house, his own order, had established themselves on the ruins of that great body, the emblems58 of whose ancient magnificence and strength surrounded him. And now his order was in turn menaced. And the People—the millions of Toil59, on whose unconscious energies during these changeful centuries all rested—what changes had these centuries brought to them? Had their advance in the national scale borne a due relation to that progress of their rulers, which had accumulated in the treasuries60 of a limited class the riches of the world; and made their possessors boast that they were the first of nations; the most powerful and the most free, the most enlightened, the most moral, and the most religious? Were there any rick-burners in the times of the lord abbots? And if not, why not? And why should the stacks of the Earls of Marney be destroyed, and those of the Abbots of Marney spared?
Brooding over these suggestions, some voices disturbed him, and looking round, he observed in the cemetery two men: one was standing61 beside a tomb which his companion was apparently62 examining.
The first was of lofty stature63, and though dressed with simplicity64, had nothing sordid65 in his appearance. His garments gave no clue to his position in life: they might have been worn by a squire66 or by his gamekeeper; a dark velveteen dress and leathern gaiters. As Egremont caught his form, he threw his broad-brimmed country hat upon the ground and showed a frank and manly67 countenance68. His complexion69 might in youth have been ruddy, but time and time’s attendants, thought and passion, had paled it: his chesnut hair, faded, but not grey, still clustered over a noble brow; his features were regular and handsome, a well-formed nose, the square mouth and its white teeth, and the clear grey eye which befitted such an idiosyncracy. His time of vigorous manhood, for he was much nearer forty than fifty years of age, perhaps better suited his athletic70 form, than the more supple71 and graceful season of youth.
Stretching his powerful arms in the air, and delivering himself of an exclamation72 which denoted his weariness, and which had broken the silence, he expressed to his companion his determination to rest himself under the shade of the yew in the contiguous garden, and inviting73 his friend to follow him, he took up his hat and moved away.
There was something in the appearance of the stranger that interested Egremont; and waiting till he had established himself in his pleasant resting place, Egremont descended74 into the cloister garden and determined75 to address him.
点击收听单词发音
1 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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2 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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3 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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4 waived | |
v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 );搁置;推迟;放弃(权利、要求等) | |
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5 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
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6 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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7 quarry | |
n.采石场;v.采石;费力地找 | |
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8 verdant | |
adj.翠绿的,青翠的,生疏的,不老练的 | |
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9 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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10 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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11 tawny | |
adj.茶色的,黄褐色的;n.黄褐色 | |
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12 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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13 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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14 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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15 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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16 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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17 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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18 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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19 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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20 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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21 tract | |
n.传单,小册子,大片(土地或森林) | |
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22 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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23 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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24 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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25 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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26 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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27 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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28 alabaster | |
adj.雪白的;n.雪花石膏;条纹大理石 | |
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29 nave | |
n.教堂的中部;本堂 | |
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30 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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31 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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32 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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33 commissioner | |
n.(政府厅、局、处等部门)专员,长官,委员 | |
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34 memorise | |
vt.记住,熟记 | |
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35 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
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36 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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37 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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38 meridian | |
adj.子午线的;全盛期的 | |
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39 inflamed | |
adj.发炎的,红肿的v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 sustenance | |
n.食物,粮食;生活资料;生计 | |
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41 desecration | |
n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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42 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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43 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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44 yew | |
n.紫杉属树木 | |
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45 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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46 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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47 cloisters | |
n.(学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的)走廊( cloister的名词复数 );回廊;修道院的生活;隐居v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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49 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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50 basking | |
v.晒太阳,取暖( bask的现在分词 );对…感到乐趣;因他人的功绩而出名;仰仗…的余泽 | |
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51 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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52 knoll | |
n.小山,小丘 | |
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53 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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54 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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55 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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56 creeds | |
(尤指宗教)信条,教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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57 dispositions | |
安排( disposition的名词复数 ); 倾向; (财产、金钱的)处置; 气质 | |
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58 emblems | |
n.象征,标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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59 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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60 treasuries | |
n.(政府的)财政部( treasury的名词复数 );国库,金库 | |
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61 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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62 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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63 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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64 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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65 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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66 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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67 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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68 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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69 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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70 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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71 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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72 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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73 inviting | |
adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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74 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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75 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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