The sky was serene1 and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh scent2 of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The neighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward3 with a tuneful sound; the dew glistened4 on the green mounds5, like tears shed by Good Spirits over the dead. Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid from each other, with laughing faces. They had an infant with them, and had laid it down asleep upon a child’s grave, in a little bed of leaves. It was a new grave — the resting-place, perhaps, of some little creature, who, meek6 and patient in its illness, had often sat and watched them, and now seemed, to their minds, scarcely changed.
She drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child answered that that was not its name; it was a garden — his brother’s. It was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds loved it better because he had been used to feed them. When he had done speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and nestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily away.
She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the wicket gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a crutch7, was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good morrow.
‘You are better?’ said the child, stopping to speak with him.
‘Ay surely,’ returned the old man. ‘I’m thankful to say, much better.’
‘YOU will be quite well soon.’
‘With Heaven’s leave, and a little patience. But come in, come in!’ The old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step, which he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into his little cottage.
‘It is but one room you see. There is another up above, but the stair has got harder to climb o’ late years, and I never use it. I’m thinking of taking to it again, next summer, though.’
The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him — one of his trade too — could talk of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering to the tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled.
‘I warrant now,’ he said, ‘that you think all those are used in making graves.’
‘Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many.’
‘And well you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant things that are to live and grow. My works don’t all moulder8 away, and rot in the earth. You see that spade in the centre?’
‘The very old one — so notched9 and worn? Yes.’
‘That’s the sexton’s spade, and it’s a well-used one, as you see. We’re healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it could speak now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected job that it and I have done together; but I forget ’em, for my memory’s a poor one. — That’s nothing new,’ he added hastily. ‘It always was.’
‘There are flowers and shrubs10 to speak to your other work,’ said the child.
‘Oh yes. And tall trees. But they are not so separate from the sexton’s labours as you think.’
‘No!’
‘Not in my mind, and recollection — such as it is,’ said the old man. ‘Indeed they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for such a man. There it stands, to remind me that he died. When I look at its broad shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me to the age of my other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I made his grave.’
‘But it may remind you of one who is still alive,’ said the child.
‘Of twenty that are dead, in connexion with that one who lives, then,’ rejoined the old man; ‘wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters, children, friends — a score at least. So it happens that the sexton’s spade gets worn and battered11. I shall need a new one — next summer.’
The child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he jested with his age and infirmity: but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest.
‘Ah!’ he said, after a brief silence. ‘People never learn. They never learn. It’s only we who turn up the ground, where nothing grows and everything decays, who think of such things as these — who think of them properly, I mean. You have been into the church?’
‘I am going there now,’ the child replied.
‘There’s an old well there,’ said the sexton, ‘right underneath12 the belfry; a deep, dark, echoing well. Forty year ago, you had only to let down the bucket till the first knot in the rope was free of the windlass, and you heard it splashing in the cold dull water. By little and little the water fell away, so that in ten year after that, a second knot was made, and you must unwind so much rope, or the bucket swung tight and empty at the end. In ten years’ time, the water fell again, and a third knot was made. In ten years more, the well dried up; and now, if you lower the bucket till your arms are tired, and let out nearly all the cord, you’ll hear it, of a sudden, clanking and rattling13 on the ground below; with a sound of being so deep and so far down, that your heart leaps into your mouth, and you start away as if you were falling in.’
‘A dreadful place to come on in the dark!’ exclaimed the child, who had followed the old man’s looks and words until she seemed to stand upon its brink14.
‘What is it but a grave!’ said the sexton. ‘What else! And which of our old folks, knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided15, of their own failing strength, and lessening16 life? Not one!’
‘Are you very old yourself?’ asked the child, involuntarily.
‘I shall be seventy-nine — next summer.’
‘You still work when you are well?’
‘Work! To be sure. You shall see my gardens hereabout. Look at the window there. I made, and have kept, that plot of ground entirely17 with my own hands. By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, the boughs18 will have grown so thick. I have my winter work at night besides.’
He opened, as he spoke19, a cupboard close to where he sat, and produced some miniature boxes, carved in a homely20 manner and made of old wood.
‘Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient days, and what belongs to them,’ he said, ‘like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins. Sometimes, I make them of scraps22 of oak, that turn up here and there; sometimes of bits of coffins23 which the vaults24 have long preserved. See here — this is a little chest of the last kind, clasped at the edges with fragments of brass25 plates that had writing on ’em once, though it would be hard to read it now. I haven’t many by me at this time of year, but these shelves will be full — next summer.’
The child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards departed; thinking, as she went, how strange it was, that this old man, drawing from his pursuits, and everything around him, one stern moral, never contemplated26 its application to himself; and, while he dwelt upon the uncertainty27 of human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem himself immortal28. But her musings did not stop here, for she was wise enough to think that by a good and merciful adjustment this must be human nature, and that the old sexton, with his plans for next summer, was but a type of all mankind.
Full of these meditations29, she reached the church. It was easy to find the key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap21 of yellow parchment. Its very turning in the lock awoke a hollow sound, and when she entered with a faltering30 step, the echoes that it raised in closing, made her start.
If the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly, because of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through which she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep impression of finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the very light, coming through sunken windows, seemed old and grey, and the air, redolent of earth and mould, seemed laden31 with decay, purified by time of all its grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle32, and clustered pillars, like the breath of ages gone! Here was the broken pavement, worn, so long ago, by pious33 feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims’ steps, had trodden out their track, and left but crumbling34 stones. Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped and mouldering35 wall, the lowly trench36 of earth, the stately tomb on which no epitaph remained — all — marble, stone, iron, wood, and dust — one common monument of ruin. The best work and the worst, the plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing37 — both of Heaven’s work and Man’s — all found one common level here, and told one common tale.
Some part of the edifice38 had been a baronial chapel39, and here were effigies40 of warriors41 stretched upon their beds of stone with folded hands — cross-legged, those who had fought in the Holy Wars — girded with their swords, and cased in armour42 as they had lived. Some of these knights43 had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, and dangling44 from rusty45 hooks. Broken and dilapidated as they were, they yet retained their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect. Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth themselves.
The child sat down, in this old, silent place, among the stark46 figures on the tombs — they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her fancy — and gazing round with a feeling of awe47, tempered with a calm delight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from the shelf, and read; then, laying it down, thought of the summer days and the bright springtime that would come — of the rays of sun that would fall in aslant48, upon the sleeping forms — of the leaves that would flutter at the window, and play in glistening49 shadows on the pavement — of the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms out of doors — of the sweet air, that would steal in, and gently wave the tattered50 banners overhead. What if the spot awakened51 thoughts of death! Die who would, it would still remain the same; these sights and sounds would still go on, as happily as ever. It would be no pain to sleep amidst them.
She left the chapel — very slowly and often turning back to gaze again — and coming to a low door, which plainly led into the tower, opened it, and climbed the winding52 stair in darkness; save where she looked down, through narrow loopholes, on the place she had left, or caught a glimmering53 vision of the dusty bells. At length she gained the end of the ascent54 and stood upon the turret55 top.
Oh! the glory of the sudden burst of light; the freshness of the fields and woods, stretching away on every side, and meeting the bright blue sky; the cattle grazing in the pasturage; the smoke, that, coming from among the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth; the children yet at their gambols56 down below — all, everything, so beautiful and happy! It was like passing from death to life; it was drawing nearer Heaven.
The children were gone, when she emerged into the porch, and locked the door. As she passed the school-house she could hear the busy hum of voices. Her friend had begun his labours only on that day. The noise grew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and disperse57 themselves with merry shouts and play. ‘It’s a good thing,’ thought the child, ‘I am very glad they pass the church.’ And then she stopped, to fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently it would seem to die away upon the ear.
Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel, and in her former seat read from the same book, or indulged the same quiet train of thought. Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of coming night made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one rooted to the spot, and had no fear or thought of stirring.
They found her there, at last, and took her home. She looked pale but very happy, until they separated for the night; and then, as the poor schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon his face.
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1
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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7
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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8
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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10
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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11
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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12
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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13
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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14
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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15
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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16
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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20
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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21
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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23
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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24
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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25
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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26
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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29
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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30
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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32
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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33
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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34
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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35
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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36
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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38
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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40
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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41
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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42
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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43
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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44
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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45
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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46
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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47
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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48
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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49
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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50
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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51
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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52
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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53
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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54
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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55
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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56
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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