What is it, then, they do? I will tell you. They sit upon the rocks, waiting for the next mealtime and refusing (rightly) to support the miserable5 creatures who, calling themselves “pierrots,” infest6 the front. In the exiguous7 public gardens old ladies of both sexes knit impossible and useless articles or pretend to read the newspapers, and wonder why they ever came to the place.
The paradoxical tragedy of Clevedon is that there is at once too little and too much of it: too little sea-front, and a great deal too much of the town in these later times built beside it; but the place must indeed have been delightful8 in 1795, at the time when Samuel Taylor Coleridge brought his bride here from Bristol, where they had been married, in the church of St. Mary Redcliffe. He was twenty-three, and a visionary immersed in German metaphysics and the Kantean philosophy; and had but recently been bought out of the 15th Light Dragoons, in which in a moment of despair and starvation, he had enlisted9. Four months of military duties untempered with glory, but strongly savoured with riding-lessons and stable-fatigue, did not make him a more practical man; and he remained in all the sixty-two years that made up 27his span of life, although the most gifted of all the clever Coleridge family, an amiable10 dreamer.
The dreams in which he and Southey and other friends were at this time immersed were concerned with a fantastic kind of Socialism they were pleased to style a “Pantisocracy,” in which ideal state all property was to be held in common, and all spare time was to be occupied with literature; a truly terrible prospect11! This ideal community was to be established in North America, on the Susquehanna river, there to live a life of plain living and high thinking, punctuated12 with washing up the domestic dishes, weeding the potato-patch, and propagating a new generation of prigs. But money was needed for the starting of this pretty and pedantic13 scheme, and because “Pantisocracy” (Heavens! what a name!) did not appeal, and was never likely to appeal, to any one who was master of any honest coin of the realm, it remained a vision. It failed for want of money; and, human nature being what it is, it would still have failed disastrously14 had funds been provided.
So our Pantisocrats remained in England; “Myrtle Cottage,” Clevedon, remaining for a little while the address of the Coleridges, until they removed to Nether15 Stowey. We may fairly suppose that here this wayward genius, a brilliant talker, a poet of gorgeous ideas and noble language, but a man constitutionally infirm of purpose, and made yet more inconstant by deep reading of mystical German philosophy that led 28to mental blind alleys16, lived the happiest time of his life. We obtain an early first glimpse of him—the second day after arrival—in his letter to Cottle, the amiable and helpful bookseller of Bristol, who greatly befriended Coleridge and Southey when they needed friendship most:
To his “dear Cottle” he wrote, October 6th, 1795: “Pray send me a riddle17, slice, a candle-box, two ventilators, two glasses for the washstand, one tin dust-pan, one small tin tea-kettle, one pair of candlesticks, one carpet-brush, one flour dredge, three tin extinguishers, two mats, a pair of slippers18, a cheese toaster, two large tin spoons, a Bible, a keg of porter, coffee, raisins19, currants, catsup, nutmegs, allspice, cinnamon, rice, ginger20, and mace21.”
COLERIDGE’S COTTAGE, CLEVEDON.
29The imagination readily pictures the essentially22 unpractical Samuel Taylor Coleridge, certainly not well versed3 in domestic economy, taking down this list of household small gear from his “pensive Sara”; prepared, with the receipt of them, to open his campaign for existence against an indifferent world.
He sang the praises of that early home in no uncertain manner:
Low was our pretty cot; our tallest rose
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
Our myrtle blossomed; and across the porch
Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
You might indeed so call it now, if inclined to poetry, but you would be wholly wrong. The painful fact must be recorded that “Myrtle Cottage” stands beside the road, directly on the busiest route between the railway-station and the sea-front (such as the sea-front is), and that flys, “charleybanks,” wagonettes, motor-cars, and all conceivable traffic come this way. Indeed, this cottage and its trim fellow are now almost the only vestiges26 in the road left of the Clevedon that Coleridge knew. What little remained of the rocky bluff27 at the back is now being actively28 blasted and quarried29 away by the local authority, 30in its attempt—highly successful, too—at matching the place with the London district of Notting Hill. Property owners have already filled Clevedon with stuccoed semi-“Italian” villas30 on the Ladbroke Grove31 model, that became discredited32 a generation ago; the kind of property that has dismal33 semi-underground dungeons34 called “breakfast-rooms” (by way of a penitential beginning of the day), and long flights of stone steps to the front door, alleged35 to be ornamental36, and certainly excessively tiring. This is a kind of property that never, or rarely, lets nowadays; and Clevedon has many empty villas.
The white-paled, red-tiled trim cottages—Coleridge’s and another—are among the pleasantest sights of Clevedon, by reason of their unconventional, homely37 style, and the fine trees that surround and overhang them. Tiles, you will observe, have replaced the thatch38 of the poet’s description; but the jessamine still twines39 over the porch. Five pounds a year, the landlord paying the taxes; that was the rent of this then idyllic40 spot.
It should here be added that doubts have recently been expressed as to the genuine nature of the tradition that makes “Myrtle Cottage” the temporary home of Coleridge. And not only have these doubts been expressed, but very strongly worded statements have been made, to the effect that the real Coleridge Cottage was in the valley at East Clevedon, adjoining Walton-in-Gordano. But the matter is controversial, and 31at any rate the legend—if, indeed, it be but a legend—that has attached to the cottage popularly known as Coleridge’s, has had so long a start that it will be difficult, if not impossible, ever to demolish41 it.
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1 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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2 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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3 versed | |
adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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4 landmarks | |
n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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5 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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6 infest | |
v.大批出没于;侵扰;寄生于 | |
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7 exiguous | |
adj.不足的,太少的 | |
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8 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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9 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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10 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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11 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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12 punctuated | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 );不时打断某事物 | |
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13 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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14 disastrously | |
ad.灾难性地 | |
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15 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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16 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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17 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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18 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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19 raisins | |
n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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20 ginger | |
n.姜,精力,淡赤黄色;adj.淡赤黄色的;vt.使活泼,使有生气 | |
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21 mace | |
n.狼牙棒,豆蔻干皮 | |
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22 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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23 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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24 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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25 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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26 vestiges | |
残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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27 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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28 actively | |
adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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29 quarried | |
v.从采石场采得( quarry的过去式和过去分词 );从(书本等中)努力发掘(资料等);在采石场采石 | |
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30 villas | |
别墅,公馆( villa的名词复数 ); (城郊)住宅 | |
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31 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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32 discredited | |
不足信的,不名誉的 | |
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33 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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34 dungeons | |
n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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35 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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36 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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37 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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38 thatch | |
vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部;n.茅草(屋) | |
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39 twines | |
n.盘绕( twine的名词复数 );麻线;捻;缠绕在一起的东西 | |
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40 idyllic | |
adj.质朴宜人的,田园风光的 | |
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41 demolish | |
v.拆毁(建筑物等),推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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