—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.
Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is pronounced Jackson.
—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.
Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the ‘Mararoa’. Summer seas and a good ship—life has nothing better.
Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous2 Mediterranean3 blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all day under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. One does not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the same grace and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since.
“The Sentimental4 Song Book” has long been out of print, and has been forgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with me always—it and Goldsmith’s deathless story.
Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefield has, and I find in it the same subtle touch—the touch that makes an intentionally6 humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny. In her time Mrs. Moore was called “the Sweet Singer of Michigan,” and was best known by that name. I have read her book through twice today, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has most merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power, “William Upson” may claim first place—
WILLIAM UPSON.
Air—“The Major’s Only Son."
Come all good people far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It’s of a young man true and brave,
That is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name
If it’s not that, it’s all the same
And it caused him to lose his life.
His father loved his noble son,
This son was nineteen years of age
When first in the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no,
“Oh! stay at home, dear Billy,” she said,
But she could not turn his head.
He went to Nashville, in Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, so far away,
They did not know where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And Oh! how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
For Billy has gone to his heavenly home.
Oh! if his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling son;
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
How it would relieve his mother’s heart
To see her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
Now it will relieve his mother’s heart,
For now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
Although she knows not that it was her son,
It might be someone in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
December, 17. Reached Sydney.
December, 19. In the train. Fellow of 30 with four valises; a slim creature, with teeth which made his mouth look like a neglected churchyard. He had solidified12 hair—solidified with pomatum; it was all one shell. He smoked the most extraordinary cigarettes—made of some kind of manure13, apparently14. These and his hair made him smell like the very nation. He had a low-cut vest on, which exposed a deal of frayed15 and broken and unclean shirtfront. Showy studs, of imitation gold—they had made black disks on the linen16. Oversized sleeve buttons of imitation gold, the copper17 base showing through. Ponderous18 watch-chain of imitation gold. I judge that he couldn’t tell the time by it, for he asked Smythe what time it was, once. He wore a coat which had been gay when it was young; 5-o’clock-tea-trousers of a light tint19, and marvelously soiled; yellow mustache with a dashing upward whirl at the ends; foxy shoes, imitation patent leather. He was a novelty—an imitation dude. He would have been a real one if he could have afforded it. But he was satisfied with himself. You could see it in his expression, and in all his attitudes and movements. He was living in a dude dreamland where all his squalid shams20 were genuine, and himself a sincerity21. It disarmed22 criticism, it mollified spite, to see him so enjoy his imitation languors, and arts, and airs, and his studied daintinesses of gesture and misbegotten refinements23. It was plain to me that he was imagining himself the Prince of Wales, and was doing everything the way he thought the Prince would do it. For bringing his four valises aboard and stowing them in the nettings, he gave his porter four cents, and lightly apologized for the smallness of the gratuity—just with the condescendingest little royal air in the world. He stretched himself out on the front seat and rested his pomatum-cake on the middle arm, and stuck his feet out of the window, and began to pose as the Prince and work his dreams and languors for exhibition; and he would indolently watch the blue films curling up from his cigarette, and inhale24 the stench, and look so grateful; and would flip25 the ash away with the daintiest gesture, unintentionally displaying his brass26 ring in the most intentional5 way; why, it was as good as being in Marlborough House itself to see him do it so like.
There was other scenery in the trip. That of the Hawksbury river, in the National Park region, fine—extraordinarily fine, with spacious27 views of stream and lake imposingly28 framed in woody hills; and every now and then the noblest groupings of mountains, and the most enchanting29 rearrangements of the water effects. Further along, green flats, thinly covered with gum forests, with here and there the huts and cabins of small farmers engaged in raising children. Still further along, arid30 stretches, lifeless and melancholy31. Then Newcastle, a rushing town, capital of the rich coal regions. Approaching Scone32, wide farming and grazing levels, with pretty frequent glimpses of a troublesome plant—a particularly devilish little prickly pear, daily damned in the orisons of the agriculturist; imported by a lady of sentiment, and contributed gratis33 to the colony. Blazing hot, all day.
December 20. Back to Sydney. Blazing hot again. From the newspaper, and from the map, I have made a collection of curious names of Australasian towns, with the idea of making a poem out of them:
Tumut
Takee
Murriwillumba
Bowral
Ballarat
Mullengudgery
Murrurundi
Wagga-Wagga
Wyalong
Murrumbidgee
Goomeroo
Wolloway
Wangary
Wanilla
Worrow
Koppio
Yankalilla
Yaranyacka
Yackamoorundie
Kaiwaka
Coomooroo
Tauranga
Geelong
Tongariro
Kaikoura
Wakatipu
Oohipara
Waitpinga
Goelwa
Munno Para
Nangkita
Myponga
Kapunda
Kooringa
Penola
Nangwarry
Kongorong
Comaum
Koolywurtie
Killanoola
Naracoorte
Muloowurtie
Binnum
Wallaroo
Wirrega
Mundoora
Hauraki
Rangiriri
Teawamute
Taranaki
Toowoomba
Goondiwindi
Jerrilderie
Whangaroa
Wollongong
Woolloomooloo
Bombola
Coolgardie
Bendigo
Coonamble
Cootamundra
Woolgoolga
Mittagong
Jamberoo
Kondoparinga
Kuitpo
Tungkillo
Oukaparinga
Talunga
Yatala
Parawirra
Moorooroo
Whangarei
Woolundunga
Booleroo
Pernatty
Parramatta
Taroom
Narrandera
Deniliquin
Kawakawa.
It may be best to build the poem now, and make the weather help
A SWELTERING DAY IN AUSTRALIA.
(To be read soft and low, with the lights turned down.)
The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
Where fierce Mullengudgery’s smothering34 fires
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;
And Murriwillumba complaineth in song
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;
The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,
Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;
The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,
They long for the peace of the Timaru shade
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!
The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won,
In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain
And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;
For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.
Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more
Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned
There’s death in the air!
Killanoola, wherefore
Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?
Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,
Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost
From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru
Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest
In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,
Kawakawa, Deniliquin—all that was best
In the earth are but graves and a tomb!
Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not
When the roll of the scathless we cry
Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot
Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.
Those are good words for poetry. Among the best I have ever seen. There are 81 in the list. I did not need them all, but I have knocked down 66 of them; which is a good bag, it seems to me, for a person not in the business. Perhaps a poet laureate could do better, but a poet laureate gets wages, and that is different. When I write poetry I do not get any wages; often I lose money by it. The best word in that list, and the most musical and gurgly, is Woolloomoolloo. It is a place near Sydney, and is a favorite pleasure-resort. It has eight O’s in it.
点击收听单词发音
1 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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2 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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3 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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4 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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5 intentional | |
adj.故意的,有意(识)的 | |
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6 intentionally | |
ad.故意地,有意地 | |
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7 enlist | |
vt.谋取(支持等),赢得;征募;vi.入伍 | |
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8 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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9 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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10 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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11 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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12 solidified | |
(使)成为固体,(使)变硬,(使)变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 ); 使团结一致; 充实,巩固; 具体化 | |
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13 manure | |
n.粪,肥,肥粒;vt.施肥 | |
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14 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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15 frayed | |
adj.磨损的v.(使布、绳等)磨损,磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 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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17 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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18 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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19 tint | |
n.淡色,浅色;染发剂;vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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20 shams | |
假象( sham的名词复数 ); 假货; 虚假的行为(或感情、言语等); 假装…的人 | |
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21 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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22 disarmed | |
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
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23 refinements | |
n.(生活)风雅;精炼( refinement的名词复数 );改良品;细微的改良;优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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24 inhale | |
v.吸入(气体等),吸(烟) | |
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25 flip | |
vt.快速翻动;轻抛;轻拍;n.轻抛;adj.轻浮的 | |
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26 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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27 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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28 imposingly | |
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29 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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30 arid | |
adj.干旱的;(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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31 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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32 scone | |
n.圆饼,甜饼,司康饼 | |
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33 gratis | |
adj.免费的 | |
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34 smothering | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的现在分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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35 bowers | |
n.(女子的)卧室( bower的名词复数 );船首锚;阴凉处;鞠躬的人 | |
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36 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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37 velvety | |
adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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38 wombat | |
n.袋熊 | |
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39 glade | |
n.林间空地,一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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40 buffalo | |
n.(北美)野牛;(亚洲)水牛 | |
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41 gaping | |
adj.口的;张口的;敞口的;多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 );张开,张大 | |
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42 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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43 withers | |
马肩隆 | |
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44 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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45 wails | |
痛哭,哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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46 sables | |
n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 );紫貂皮;阴暗的;暗夜 | |
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47 holocaust | |
n.大破坏;大屠杀 | |
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