God’s Acre
There is a simple form of expedition of which I am very fond; that is the leisurely1 visiting of some rustic2 church in the neighbourhood. They are often very beautifully placed—sometimes they stand high on the ridges3 and bear a bold testimony4 to the faith; sometimes they lie nestled in trees, hidden in valleys, as if to show it is possible to be holy and beautiful, though unseen. Sometimes they are the central ornament5 of a village street; there generally seems some simple and tender reason for their position; but the more populous6 their neighbourhood, the more they have suffered from the zeal7 of the restorer. What I love best of all is a church that stands a little apart, sheltered in wood, dreaming by itself, and guarding its tranquil8 and grateful secret—“secretum meum mihi,” it seems to say.
I like to loiter in the churchyard ground to step over the hillocks, to read the artless epitaphs[210] on slanting9 tombs; it is not a morbid10 taste, for if there is one feeling more than another that such a visit removes and tranquillises, it is the fear of death. Death here appears in its most peaceful light; it seems so necessary, so common, so quiet and inevitable11 an end, like a haven12 after a troubled sea. Here all the sad and unhappy incidents of mortality are forgotten, and death appears only in the light of a tender and dreamful sleep.
Better still is the grateful coolness of the church itself; here one can trace in the epitaphs the fortunes of a family—one can see the graves of old squires13 who have walked over their own fields, talked with their neighbours, shot, hunted, eaten, drunk, have loved and been loved, and have yielded their place in the fulness of days to those that have come after them. Very moving, too, are the evidences of the sincere grief, which underlies14 the pompous15 phraseology of the marble monument with its urns16 and cherubs17. I love to read the long list of homely18 virtues19 attributed by the living to the dead in the depth of sorrow, and to believe them true. Then there are records of untimely deaths,—the young wife, the soldier in[211] his prime, the boy or girl who have died unstained by life, and about whom clings the passionate20 remembrance of the happy days that are no more. Such records as those do not preach the lesson of vanity and decay, but the lesson of pure and grateful resignation, the faith that the God who made the world so beautiful, and filled it so full of happiness, has surprises in store for His children, in a world undreamed of.
The Monument
One monument in a church not far from Golden End always brings tears to my eyes; there is a chapel21 in the aisle22, the mausoleum of an ancient family, where mouldering23 banners and pennons hang in the gloom; in the centre of the chapel is an altar-tomb, on which lies the figure of a young boy, thirteen years old, the inscription24 says. He reclines on one arm, he has a delicately carved linen25 shirt that leaves the slender neck free, and he is wrapped in a loose gown; he looks upward toward the east, his long hair falling over his shoulders, his thin and shapely hand upon his knee. On each side of the tomb, kneeling on marble cushions on the ledge26, are his father and mother, an earl and countess. The mother, in the stately costume of a bygone[212] court, with hair carefully draped, watches the face of the child with a look in which love seems to have cast out grief. The earl in armour27, a strongly-built, soldier-like figure, looks across the boy’s knee at his wife’s face, but in his expression—I know not if it be art—there seems to be a look of rebellious28 sorrow, of thwarted29 pride. All his wealth and state could not keep his darling with him, and he does not seem to understand. There have they knelt, the little group, for over two centuries, waiting and watching, and one is glad to think that they know now whatever there is to know. Outside the golden afternoon slants30 across the headstones, and the birds twitter in the ivy31, while a full stream winds below through the meadows that once were theirs.
Such a contemplation does not withdraw one from life or tend to give a false view of its energies; it does not forbid one to act, to love, to live; it only gilds32 with a solemn radiance the cloud that overshadows us all, the darkness of the inevitable end. Face to face with the lacrim? rerum in so simple and tender a form, the heavy words Memento33 Mori fall upon the heart not as a sad and harsh interruption of wordly dreams and fancies, but as a deep pedal[213] note upon a sweet organ, giving strength and fulness and balance to the dying away of the last grave and gentle chord.
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1 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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2 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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3 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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4 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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5 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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6 populous | |
adj.人口稠密的,人口众多的 | |
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7 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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8 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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9 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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10 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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11 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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12 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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13 squires | |
n.地主,乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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14 underlies | |
v.位于或存在于(某物)之下( underlie的第三人称单数 );构成…的基础(或起因),引起 | |
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15 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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16 urns | |
n.壶( urn的名词复数 );瓮;缸;骨灰瓮 | |
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17 cherubs | |
小天使,胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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18 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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19 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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20 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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21 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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22 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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23 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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24 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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25 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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26 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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27 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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28 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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29 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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30 slants | |
(使)倾斜,歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 ); 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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31 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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32 gilds | |
把…镀金( gild的第三人称单数 ); 给…上金色; 作多余的修饰(反而破坏原已完美的东西); 画蛇添足 | |
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33 memento | |
n.纪念品,令人回忆的东西 | |
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