How delightful13 this bit of pleasant intimacy14 after the real toil15 is over! It is like paterfamilias coming out of his house at dusk, after the hard day's work, to read his newspaper on the doorstep. Or it may be a bit of superb gesturing. No book is complete without a preface. Better a preface without a book....
Many men have written books without prefaces. But not many have written prefaces without books. And yet I am convinced it is one of the subtlest pleasures. I have planned several books, not yet written; but the prefaces are all ready this many a day. Let me show you the sort of thing I mean.
PREFACE TO "THE LETTERS OF ANDREW MCGILL"
How well I remember the last time I saw Andrew McGill! It was in the dear old days at Rutgers, my last term. I was sitting over a book one brilliant May afternoon, rather despondent—there came a rush up the stairs and a thunder at the door. I knew his voice, and hurried to open. Poor, dear fellow, he was just back from tennis; I never saw him look so glorious. Tall and thin—he was always very thin, see p. 219 and passim—with his long, brown face and sparkling black eyes—I can see him still rambling16 about the room in his flannels17, his curly hair damp on his forehead. "Buzzard," he said—he always called me Buzzard—"guess what's happened?"
"In love again?" I asked.
He laughed. A bright, golden laugh—I can hear it still. His laughter was always infectious.
"No," he said. "Dear silly old Buzzard, what do you think? I've won the Sylvanus Stall fellowship."
I shall never forget that moment. It was very still, and in the college garden, just under my window, I could hear a party of Canadian girls deliciously admiring things. It was a cruel instant for me. I, too, in my plodding18 way, had sent in an essay for the prize, but without telling him. Must I confess it? I had never dared mention the subject for fear he, too, would compete. I knew that if he did he was sure to win. O petty jealousies19, that seem so bitter now!
I pulled myself together.
"Brindle," I said—I always called him Brindle; how sad the nickname sounds now—"you took my breath away. Dear lad, I'm overjoyed."
It is four and twenty years since that May afternoon. I never saw him again. Never even heard him read the brilliant poem "Sunset from the Mons Veneris" that was the beginning of his career, for the week before commencement I was taken ill and sent abroad for my health. I never came back to New York; and he remained there. But I followed his career with the closest attention. Every newspaper cutting, every magazine article in which his name was mentioned, went into my scrapbook. And almost every week for twenty years he wrote to me—those long, radiant letters, so full of verve and élan and ringing, ruthless wit. There was always something very Gallic about his saltiness. "Oh, to be born a Frenchman!" he writes. "Why wasn't I born a Frenchman instead of a dour22, dingy23 Scotsman? Oh, for the birthright of Montmartre! Stead of which I have the mess of pottage—stodgy, porridgy Scots pottage" (see p. 189).
He had his sombre moods, too. It was characteristic of him, when in a pet, to wish he had been born other-where than by the pebbles24 of Arbroath. "Oh, to have been born a Norseman!" he wrote once. "Oh, for the deep Scandinavian scourge25 of pain, the inbrooding, marrowy26 soul-ache of Ibsen! That is the fertilizing27 soil of tragedy. Tragedy springs from it, tall and white and stately like the lily from the dung. I will never be a tragedian. Oh, pebbles of Arbroath!"
All the world knows how he died....
PREFACE TO AN HISTORICAL WORK
(In six volumes)
The work upon which I have spent the best years of my life is at length finished. After two decades of uninterrupted toil, enlivened only by those small bickerings over minuti? so dear to all scrupulous28 writers, I may perhaps be pardoned if I philosophize for a few moments on the functions of the historian.
There are, of course, two technical modes of approach, quite apart from the preparatory contemplation of the field. (This last, I might add, has been singularly neglected by modern historians. My old friend, Professor Spondee, of Halle, though deservedly eminent in his chosen lot, is particularly open to criticism on this ground. I cannot emphasize too gravely the importance of preliminary calm—what Hobbes calls "the unprejudicated mind." But this by way of parenthesis29.) One may attack the problem with the mortar30 trowel, or with the axe31. Sismondi, I think, has observed this.
Some such observations as these I was privileged to address to my very good friend, Professor Fish, of Yale, that justly renowned32 seat of learning, when lecturing in New Haven recently. His reply was witty33—too witty to be apt, "Piscem natare doces," he said.
I will admit that Professor Fish may be free from taint34 in this regard; but many historians of to-day are, I fear, imbued35 with that most dangerous tincture of historical cant36 which lays it down as a maxim37 that contemporary history cannot be judicially38 written.
Those who have been kind enough to display some interest in the controversy39 between myself and M. Rougegorge—of the Sorbonne—in the matter of Lamartine's account of the elections to the Constituent40 Assembly of 1848, will remark several hitherto unobserved errors in Lamartine which I have been privileged to point out. For instance, Lamartine (who is supported in toto by M. Rougegorge) asserts that the elections took place on Easter Sunday, April 27, 1848. Whereas, I am able to demonstrate, by reference to the astronomical41 tables at Kew Observatory42, that in 1848 Easter Day fell upon April 23. M. Rougegorge's assertion that Lamartine was a slave to opium43 rests upon a humorous misinterpretation of Mme. Lamartine's diary. (The matter may be looked up by the curious in Annette User's "Années avec les Lamartines." Oser was for many years the cook in Lamartine's household, and says some illuminating44 things regarding L.'s dislike of onions.)
It is, of course, impossible for me to acknowledge individually the generous and stimulating45 assistance I have received from so many scholars in all parts of the world. The mere46 list of names would be like Southey's "Cataract47 of Lodore," and would be but an ungracious mode of returning thanks. I cannot, however, forbear to mention Professor Mandrake, of the Oxford48 Chair, optimus maximus among modern historians. Of him I may say, in the fine words of Virgil, "Sedet aeternumque sedebit."
My dear wife, fortunately a Serb by birth, has regularized my Slavic orthography49, and has grown gray in the service of the index. To her, and to my little ones, whose merry laughter has so often penetrated50 to my study and cheered me at my travail51, I dedicate the whole. 89, Decameron Gardens.
PREFACE TO A BOOK OF POEMS
This little selection of verses, to which I have given the title "Rari Nantes," was made at the instance of several friends. I have chosen from my published works those poems which seemed to me most faithfully to express my artistic52 message; and the title obviously implies that I think them the ones most likely to weather the ma?lstroms of Time. Be that as it may.
Vachel Lindsay and I have often discussed over a glass of port (one glass only: alas53, that Vachel should abstain54!) the state of the Muse55 to-day. He deems that she now has fled from cities to dwell on the robuster champaigns of Illinois and Kansas. Would that I could agree; but I see her in the cities and everywhere, set down to menial taskwork. She were better in exile, on Ibsen's sand dunes56 or Maeterlinck's bee farm. But in America the times are very evil. Prodigious57 convulsion of production, the grinding of mighty58 forces, the noise and rushings of winds—and what avails? Parturiunt montes ...you know the rest. The ridiculous mice squeak59 and scamper60 on the granary floor. They may play undisturbed, for the real poets, those great gray felines61, are sifting62 loam63 under Westminster. Gramercy Park and the Poetry Society see them not.
It matters not. With this little book my task is done. Vachel and I sail to-morrow for Nova Zembla.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION
A second edition of "Rari Nantes" having been called for, I have added three more poems, Esquimodes written since arriving here. Also the "Prayer for Warm Weather," by Vachel Lindsay, is included, at his express request. The success of the first edition has been very gratifying to me. My publishers will please send reviews to Bleak65 House, Nova Zembla.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION
The rigorous climate of Nova Zembla I find most stimulating to production, and therefore in this new edition I am able to include several new poems. "The Ode to a Seamew," the "Fracas66 on an Ice Floe," and the sequence of triolimericks are all new. If I have been able to convey anything of the bracing67 vigour68 of the Nova Zembla locale the praise is due to my friendly and suggestive critic, the editor of Gooseflesh, the leading Nova Zemblan review.
Vachel Lindsay's new book, "The Tango," has not yet appeared, therefore I may perhaps say here that he is hard at work on an "Ode to the Gulf69 Stream," which has great promise.
The success of this little book has been such that I am encouraged to hope that the publisher's exemption70 of royalties71 will soon be worked off.
点击收听单词发音
1 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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2 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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3 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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4 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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5 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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6 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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7 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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8 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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9 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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10 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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11 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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12 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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13 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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14 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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15 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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16 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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17 flannels | |
法兰绒男裤; 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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18 plodding | |
a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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19 jealousies | |
n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 );妒羡 | |
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20 bantering | |
adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的现在分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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21 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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22 dour | |
adj.冷酷的,严厉的;(岩石)嶙峋的;顽强不屈 | |
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23 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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24 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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25 scourge | |
n.灾难,祸害;v.蹂躏 | |
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26 marrowy | |
adj.多髓的,有力的 | |
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27 fertilizing | |
v.施肥( fertilize的现在分词 ) | |
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28 scrupulous | |
adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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29 parenthesis | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲,间歇,停歇 | |
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30 mortar | |
n.灰浆,灰泥;迫击炮;v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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31 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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32 renowned | |
adj.著名的,有名望的,声誉鹊起的 | |
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33 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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34 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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35 imbued | |
v.使(某人/某事)充满或激起(感情等)( imbue的过去式和过去分词 );使充满;灌输;激发(强烈感情或品质等) | |
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36 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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37 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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38 judicially | |
依法判决地,公平地 | |
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39 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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40 constituent | |
n.选民;成分,组分;adj.组成的,构成的 | |
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41 astronomical | |
adj.天文学的,(数字)极大的 | |
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42 observatory | |
n.天文台,气象台,瞭望台,观测台 | |
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43 opium | |
n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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44 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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45 stimulating | |
adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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46 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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47 cataract | |
n.大瀑布,奔流,洪水,白内障 | |
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48 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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49 orthography | |
n.拼字法,拼字式 | |
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50 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51 travail | |
n.阵痛;努力 | |
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52 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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53 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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54 abstain | |
v.自制,戒绝,弃权,避免 | |
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55 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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56 dunes | |
沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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57 prodigious | |
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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58 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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59 squeak | |
n.吱吱声,逃脱;v.(发出)吱吱叫,侥幸通过;(俚)告密 | |
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60 scamper | |
v.奔跑,快跑 | |
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61 felines | |
n.猫科动物( feline的名词复数 ) | |
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62 sifting | |
n.筛,过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 );筛滤;细查;详审 | |
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63 loam | |
n.沃土 | |
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64 grotto | |
n.洞穴 | |
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65 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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66 fracas | |
n.打架;吵闹 | |
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67 bracing | |
adj.令人振奋的 | |
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68 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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69 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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70 exemption | |
n.豁免,免税额,免除 | |
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71 royalties | |
特许权使用费 | |
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