Let me try to sketch2 the most Arcadian scholar I have ever seen or dreamed of; they are common enough in books; the gentleman of high family, with lustrous3 eyes and thin veined hands, who sits among musty folios—Heaven knows what he is supposed to be studying, or why they need be musty—who is in some very nebulous way believed to watch the movements of the heavens, who takes no notice of his prattling4 golden-haired daughter, except to print an absent kiss upon her brow—if there are such persons they are hard to encounter.
There is a little market-town a mile or two away, nestled among steep valleys; the cows that graze on the steep fields that surround it look down into the chimney-pots and back gardens. One of the converging5 valleys is rich in woods, and has a pleasant trout-stream, that flows among elders, bickers6 along by woodland corners, and runs brimming[152] through rich water meadows, full of meadowsweet and willow-herb—the place in summer has a hot honied smell. You need not follow the road, but you may take an aimless footpath7, which meanders8 from stile to stile in a leisurely9 way. After a mile or so a little stream bubbles in on the left; and close beside it an old deep farm-road, full of boulders10 and mud in winter, half road, half water-course, plunges11 down from the wood. All the hedges are full of gnarled roots fringed with luxuriant ferns. On a cloudy summer day it is like a hothouse here, and the flowers know it and revel12 in the warm growing air. Higher and higher the road goes; then it passes a farm-house, once an ancient manor13: the walls green with lichen14 and moss15, and a curious ancient cognizance, a bear with a ragged16 staff clasped in his paws, over the doorway17. The farm is embowered in huge sprawling18 laurels19 and has a little garden, with box hedges and sharp savoury smells of herbs and sweet-william, and a row of humming hives. Push open the byre gate and go further yet; we are near the crest20 of the hill now: just below the top grows a thick wood of larches21, set close together. You would not know there was a[153] house in here. There is a little rustic22 gate at the corner of the plantation23, and a path, just a track, rarely trodden, soft with a carpet of innumerable larch-needles.
Presently you come in sight of a small yellow stone house; not a venerable house, nor a beautiful one—if anything, a little pretentious24, and looking as if the heart of the plantation had been cut out to build it as indeed it was; round-topped windows, high parapets, no roof visible, and only one rather makeshift chimney; the whole air of it rather sinister25, and at the same time shamefaced—a little as though it set out to be castellated and had suddenly shrunk and collapsed26, and been hastily finished. A gravel27 walk very full of weeds runs immediately round the house; there is no garden, but a small enclosure for cabbages grown very rank. In most of the windows hang dirty-looking blinds half pulled down; a general air of sordid28 neglect broods over the place. Here in this house had lived for many years—and, for all I know, lives there still—a retired29 gentleman, a public school and University man, who had taken high honours at the latter; not rich, but with a competence30. What had caused his seclusion[154] from the world I do not know, and I am not particular to inquire; whether a false step and the forced abandonment of a career, a disappointment of some kind, a hypochondriacal whim31, or a settled and deliberate resolution. I know not, but always hoped the last.
From some slight indications I have thought that, for some reason or other, in youth, my recluse had cause to think that his life would not be a long one—his selection of a site was apparently32 fortuitous. He preferred a mild climate, and, it seems, took a fancy to the very remote and sequestered33 character of the valley; he bought a few acres of land, planted them with larches, and in the centre erected34 the unsightly house which I have described.
Inside the place was rather more attractive than you would have expected. There was a pinched little entry, rather bare, and a steep staircase leading to the upper regions; in front of you a door leading to some offices; on the left a door that opened into a large room to which all the rest of the house had been sacrificed. It had three windows, much overshadowed by the larches, which indeed at one corner actually touched the house and swept[155] the windows as they swayed in the breeze. The room was barely furnished, with a carpet faded beyond recognition, and high presses, mostly containing books. An oak table stood near one of the windows, where our hermit35 took his meals; another table, covered with books, was set near the fireplace; at the far end a door led into an ugly slit36 of a room lighted by a skylight, where he slept. But I gathered that for days together he did not go to bed, but dozed37 in his chair. On the walls hung two or three portraits, black with age. One of an officer in a military uniform of the last century with a huge, adumbrating38 cocked-hat; a divine in bands and wig39; and a pinched-looking lady in blue silk with two boys. His only servant was an elderly strong-looking woman of about fifty, with a look of intense mental suffering on her face, and weary eyes which she seldom lifted from the floor. I never heard her utter more than three consecutive40 words. She was afflicted41 I heard, not from herself, with a power of seeing apparitions42, not, curiously43, in the house, but in the wood all round; she told Mr. Woodward that “the dead used to look in at the window at noon and beckon44 her out.” In consequence[156] of this she had not set foot outside the doors for twenty years, except once, when her master had been attacked by sudden illness. The only outside servant he had was a surly man who lived in a cottage a quarter of a mile away on the high-road, who marketed for them, drew water, and met the carrier’s cart which brought their necessaries.
The man himself was a student of history: he never wrote, except a few marginal notes in his books. He was totally ignorant of what was going on, took in no papers, and asked no questions as to current events. He received no letters, and the only parcels that came to him were boxes of books from a London library—memoirs, historical treatises45, and biographies of the last century. I take it he had a minute knowledge of the social and political life of England up to the beginning of the present century; he received no one but Mr. Woodward who saw him two or three times a year, and it was with Mr. Woodward that I went, making the excuse (which was actually the case) that some literary work that I was doing was suspended for want of books.
We were shown in; he did not rise to receive us, but greeted us with extreme cordiality,[157] and an old-fashioned kind of courtesy, absolutely without embarrassment46. He was a tall, thin man, with a fair complexion47, and straggling hair and beard. He seemed to be in excellent health; and I learnt that in the matter of food and drink he was singularly abstemious48, which accounted for his clear complexion and brilliant eye. He smoked in moderation a very fragrant49 tobacco of which he gave me a small quantity, but refused to say where he obtained it. There was an air of infinite contentment about him. He seemed to me to hope for nothing and expect nothing from life; to live in the moment and for the moment. If ever I saw serene50 happiness written on a face in legible characters, it was there. He talked a little on theological points, with an air of gentle good-humour, to Mr. Woodward, somewhat as you might talk to a child, with amiable51 interest in the unexpected cleverness of its replies; he gave me the information I requested clearly and concisely52 but with no apparent zest53, and seemed to have no wish to dwell on the subject or to part with his store of knowledge.
His one form of exercise was long vague walks; in the winter he rarely left the house[158] except on moonlight nights; but in the summer he was accustomed to start as soon as it was light, and to ramble54, never on the roads, but by unfrequented field-paths, for miles and miles, generally returning before the ordinary world was astir. On hot days he would sit by the stream in a very remote nook beneath a high bank where the water ran swiftly down a narrow channel, and swung into a deep black pool; here, I was told, he would stay for hours with his eyes fixed55 on the water, lost in some mysterious reverie. I take it he was a poet without power of expression, and his heart was as clean as a child’s.
Modern Life
It is the fashion now to talk with much affected56 weariness of the hurry and bustle57 of modern life. No doubt such things are to be found if you go in search of them; and to have your life attended by a great quantity of either is generally held to be a sign of success. But the truth is, that this is what ordinary people like. The ordinary man has no precise idea what to do with his time. He needs to have it filled up by a good many conflicting and petty duties, and if it is filled he has a feeling that he is useful. But many of these duties are only necessary because of the existence of each[159] other; it is a vicious circle. “What are those fields for?” said a squire58 who had lately succeeded to an estate, as he walked round with the bailiff. “To grow oats, sir.” “And what do you do with the oats?” “Feed the horses, sir.” “And what do you want the horses for?” “To plough the fields, sir.” That is what much of the bustle of modern life consists of.
Solitude59 and silence are a great strain; but if you enjoy them they are at least harmless, which is more than can be said of many activities. Such is not perhaps the temper in which continents are explored, battles won, empires extended, fortunes made. But whatever concrete gain we make for ourselves must be taken from others; and we ought to be very certain indeed of the meaning of this life, and the nature of the world to which we all migrate, before we immerse ourselves in self-contrived businesses. To be natural, to find our true life, to be independent of luxuries, not to be at the mercy of prejudices and false ideals—that is the secret of life: who can say that it is a secret that we most of us make our own? My recluse, I think, was nearer the Kingdom of Heaven, where places are not laid according to the table of precedence, than[160] many men who have had biographies and statues, and who will be, I fear, sadly adrift in the world of silence into which they may be flung.

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1
recluse
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n.隐居者 | |
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sketch
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n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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lustrous
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adj.有光泽的;光辉的 | |
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prattling
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v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 );发出连续而无意义的声音;闲扯;东拉西扯 | |
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5
converging
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adj.收敛[缩]的,会聚的,趋同的v.(线条、运动的物体等)会于一点( converge的现在分词 );(趋于)相似或相同;人或车辆汇集;聚集 | |
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bickers
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v.争吵( bicker的第三人称单数 );口角;(水等)作潺潺声;闪烁 | |
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footpath
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n.小路,人行道 | |
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meanders
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曲径( meander的名词复数 ); 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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leisurely
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adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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boulders
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n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 );巨砾;(受水或天气侵蚀而成的)巨石;漂砾 | |
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plunges
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n.跳进,投入vt.使投入,使插入,使陷入vi.投入,跳进,陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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revel
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vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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manor
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n.庄园,领地 | |
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lichen
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n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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moss
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n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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ragged
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adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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doorway
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n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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sprawling
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adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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laurels
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n.桂冠,荣誉 | |
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crest
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n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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larches
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n.落叶松(木材)( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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rustic
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adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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plantation
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n.种植园,大农场 | |
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pretentious
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adj.自命不凡的,自负的,炫耀的 | |
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sinister
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adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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collapsed
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adj.倒塌的 | |
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gravel
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n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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sordid
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adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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retired
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adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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competence
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n.能力,胜任,称职 | |
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whim
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n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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sequestered
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adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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ERECTED
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adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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hermit
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n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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slit
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n.狭长的切口;裂缝;vt.切开,撕裂 | |
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dozed
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v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adumbrating
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v.约略显示,勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的现在分词 ) | |
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wig
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n.假发 | |
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consecutive
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adj.连续的,联贯的,始终一贯的 | |
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afflicted
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使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparitions
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n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 );幽灵;鬼;(特异景象等的)出现 | |
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curiously
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adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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beckon
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v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意,召唤 | |
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treatises
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n.专题著作,专题论文,专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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embarrassment
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n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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complexion
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n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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abstemious
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adj.有节制的,节俭的 | |
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fragrant
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adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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serene
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adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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amiable
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adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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concisely
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adv.简明地 | |
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zest
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n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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ramble
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v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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55
fixed
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adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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affected
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adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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bustle
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v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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squire
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n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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solitude
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n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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