As often as I pass a little Blue-coat boy I gaze upon him lovingly: I reverence1 the quaint2 vision of a bygone age called up by the long blue gaberdine, the red leathern belt, the yellow stockings—a quaint monkish3 figure still to be seen in crowded London streets, still adding to their picturesqueness4 and ever-varying charm.
You, too, dear Reader, have yourself probably asked the meaning of the strange sight, as you have passed one of these English lads so strangely attired5. Perhaps you have been shown the famous old school, in the midst of the bustle6 of London, surrounded by ugly warehouses7, offices, and shops; and you have seen the effigy8 of the Founder9, “that godly and royal child, King Edward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudor name—the young flower that was untimely cropped as it began to fill our land with its2 early odours—the boy-patron of boys—the serious and holy child who walked with Cranmer and Ridley.”
Alas10, London is no longer to be the home of these boys, and the cloisters11 of the Old Grey Friars will soon moulder12 away, when the merry noise of sports and revels13 cease to awaken14 them to life.
As I looked through the bars the other day watching the boys at their games, a strange fancy came to me. I thought I saw a pale and studious “Grecian” (as they call the head boys of the school), and walking at his side, with glittering eyes full of wonderment, was a younger lad—a boy with crisply curling black hair, and with ruddy brown complexion15, and in his look so much lovableness and trustfulness, that I felt myself envying the elder lad, whose hand rested so affectionately on the shoulder of his friend. I drew near to listen to their talk. The thoughtful Grecian was discoursing16 learnedly yet so sweetly about some deep matter of philosophy: it seemed somewhat beyond the younger boy, but he listened quietly, rapt in admiration17. Suddenly the school-bell sounded. “Hurry on, Charles! ‘’Mid deepest meditation18 sounds the knell19.’ That’s3 how your good old Elizabethans would put it. We’ll have another talk after supper.” “I—I’ve n—not h—h—had o—one t—t—talk y—yet, S ... T ... C,” stammered20 the other in reply: a painful contrast to the sublime21 eloquence22 that flowed from his companion.
The noise of the bell and scampering23 of the boys soon made me realise that Fancy had led me back a hundred years and more, and had given me a glimpse of the boyhood of two famous Englishmen, who have added glory to their ancient school—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet and philosopher, and Charles Lamb, essayist and critic, the best beloved of all the good and great men whose writings are dear to us.
Some day you will read the story of the lives of these two men, and you will love their books,—the weird24 and fairy poetry of Coleridge, recalling a dreamy youth reared amid the woodlands of Devon—the genial25 and sweet essays of Lamb, so full of gentle humour, and kindliness26, and humanity, so rich in tender thoughts concerning all his fellow-creatures in the great city where he was born and bred, which he loved passionately27. To London he had given “his4 heart and his love in childhood and in boyhood,” and throughout his life his heart was filled with “fulness of joy at the multitudinous scenes of life in the crowded streets of ever dear London.”
Charles Lamb’s Essays are among the greatest of our treasures, but even more beautiful than his writings is the record of his noble life—a life of saintly self-sacrifice, cheerfully devoted28 to the guardianship29 of a lonely sister, whose girlhood would have been spent in loveless solitude30 but for her brother’s love. Mary Lamb’s tragic31 story (too sad to be told here) was illumined by the light of this brotherly love which shone forth32 when the world was very dark and gloomy.
Mary Lamb had something of her brother’s gift of writing; it was she indeed to whom you owe many of the Tales of Shakespeare you are so fond of. They loved children, and they loved Shakespeare, and their stories from Shakespeare have been and are still read by boys and girls all the world over. They wrote, too, a whole collection of Poetry for Children, and here also Mary’s share was much greater than her brother’s. “Mine,” wrote Charles, “are but one-third in quantity of the whole.” ... “Perhaps5 you will admire the number of subjects, all of children, picked out by an old bachelor and an old maid. Many parents would not have found so many.” This collection of “Poetry for Children” in two small volumes, was so much liked by the children that all the copies were soon bought up, and Charles Lamb himself could not get a copy, when later in life he sought one far and wide. So rare is the book now that only one or two copies are known to exist, and even the British Museum does not possess these precious little volumes. A small selection of the poems are now once again offered to boys and girls: if this prove welcome, more will follow. They are simple little poems such as children should care for, and even grown-up people, for whom they were never intended, cherish every word written by Mary and Charles Lamb, because they know how much goodness and humility33 dwelt in their souls. If there were any wish to be learned and to explain how they came to write these verses, one would have to tell you something about other writers who were then living and writing, more especially about Lamb’s friend “S. T. C.,”6 who, together with an even greater poet, William Wordsworth, had published ten years before, in 1798, a small volume of simple English poems, which was destined34 to have the greatest influence on English poetry for long years to come. In that volume Wordsworth first printed the sweet little poem I am sure you know, called We Are Seven, and Coleridge, “the inspired charity boy,” as Charles Lamb called him, gave the world the magical ballad35 of The Ancient Mariner36. One verse from this ballad ought to be printed on the title-page of this little book of poems by Mary and Charles Lamb:—
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”
I. G.
点击收听单词发音
1 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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2 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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3 monkish | |
adj.僧侣的,修道士的,禁欲的 | |
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4 picturesqueness | |
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5 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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7 warehouses | |
仓库,货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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8 effigy | |
n.肖像 | |
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9 Founder | |
n.创始者,缔造者 | |
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10 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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11 cloisters | |
n.(学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的)走廊( cloister的名词复数 );回廊;修道院的生活;隐居v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12 moulder | |
v.腐朽,崩碎 | |
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13 revels | |
n.作乐( revel的名词复数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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14 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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15 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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16 discoursing | |
演说(discourse的现在分词形式) | |
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17 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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18 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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19 knell | |
n.丧钟声;v.敲丧钟 | |
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20 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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22 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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23 scampering | |
v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑,惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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24 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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25 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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26 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
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27 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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28 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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29 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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30 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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31 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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32 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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33 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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34 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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35 ballad | |
n.歌谣,民谣,流行爱情歌曲 | |
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36 mariner | |
n.水手号不载人航天探测器,海员,航海者 | |
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