And the sea! Who shall tell the beauty of the restless Atlantic in such weather? For nearly three weeks there was a gentle wind, now here, now there, which just curled the water, and made a purple shadow for such light clouds as crept across the blue sky above. Night and morning the fishing-boats crept out and in. Never was such a fishing season. The mouth of the stream was crowded with salmon, waiting to get up the first fresh. You might see them as you sailed across he shallow sandbank, the Delta15 of the stream, which had never risen above the water for forty years, yet which now, so still had been the bay for three weeks, was within a foot of the surface at low tide.
A quiet, happy time. The three old Master Lees lay all day on the sand, where the fishing-boats were drawn16 up, and had their meals brought to them by young male relatives, who immediately pulled off every rag of clothes they had, and went into the water for an hour or two. The minding of these ’ere clothes, and the looking out to sea, was quite enough employment for these three old cronies. They never fell out once for three weeks. They used to talk about the war, or the cholera17, which was said to be here, or there, or coming, or gone. But they cared little about that. Ravenshoe was not a cholera place. It had never come there before, and they did not think that it was coming now. They were quite right; it never came. Cuthbert used his influence, and got the folks to move some cabbage stalks, and rotten fish, just to make sure, as he said. They would have done more for him than that just now; so it was soon accomplished18. The juvenile19 population, which is the pretty way of saying the children, might have offered considerable opposition20 to certain articles of merchandise being removed without due leave obtained and given; but, when it was done, they were all in the water as naked as they were born. When it was over they had good sense enough to see that it could not be helped. These sweeping21 measures of reform, however, are apt to bear hard on particular cases. For instance, young James Lee, great-grandson of Master James Lee, up to Slarrow, lost six dozen (some say nine, but that I don’t believe) of oyster22 shells, which he was storing up for a grotto23. Cuthbert very properly refunded24 the price of them, which amounted to twopence.
“Nonsense, again,” you say. Why no! What I have written above is not nonsense. The whims25 and oddities of a village; which one has seen with one’s own eyes, and heard with one’s own ears, are not nonsense. I knew, when I began, what I had to say in this chapter, and I have just followed on a train of images. And the more readily, because I know that what I have to say in this chapter must be said without effort to be said well.
If I thought I was writing for a reader who was going to criticise26 closely my way of telling my story, I tell you the honest truth, I should tell my story very poorly indeed. Of course I must submit to the same criticism as my betters. But there are times when I feel that I must have my reader go hand in hand with me. To do so, he must follow the same train of ideas as I do. At such times I write as naturally as I can. I see that greater men than I have done the same. I see that Captain Marryat, for instance, at a particular part of his noblest novel, “The King’s Own,” has put in a chapter about his grandmother and the spring tide?, which, for perfect English and rough humour, it is hard to match anywhere.
I have not dared to play the fool, as he has, for two reasons. The first, that I could not play it so well, and the second, that I have no frightful27 tragedy to put before you, to counterbalance it, as he had. Well, it is time that this rambling28 came to an end. I hope that I have not rambled30 too far, and bored you. That would be very unfortunate just now.
Ravenshoe bay again, then — in the pleasant summer drought I have been speaking of before. Father Mackworth and the two Tiernays were lying on the sand, looking to sea. Cuthbert had gone off to send away some boys who were bathing too near the mouth of the stream and hunting his precious salmon. The younger Tiernay had recently taken to collect “ common objects of the shore” — a pleasant, healthy mania31 which prevailed about that time. He had been dabbling32 among the rocks at the western end of the bay, and had just joined his brother and Father Mackworth with a tin-box full of all sorts of creatures, and he turned them out on the sand and called theu’ attention to them.
“A very good morning’s work, my brother,” he said, “These anemones33 are all good and rare ones.”
“Bedad,” said the jolly priest, “they’d need be of some value, for they ain’t pretty to look at; what’s this cockle now wid the long red spike34 coming out of him?”
“Cardium tuberculatum.”
“See here, Mackworth,” said Tiernay, rolling over toward him on the sand with the shell in his hand.
“Here’s the rid-nosed oysther of Carlingford. Ye remember the legend about it, surely?”
“I don’t, indeed,” said Mackworth, angrily, pretty sure that Father Tiernay was going to talk nonsense, but not exactly knowing how to stop him.
“Not know the legend!” said Father Tiernay. “Why, when Saint Bridget was hurrying across the sand, to attend Saint Patrick in his last illness, poor dear, this divvil of a oysther was sunning himself on the shore, and, as she went by, he winked35 at her holiness with the wicked eye of ‘um, and he says, says he, ‘Nate ankles enough, anyhow,’ he ‘says. ‘Ye’re drunk ye spalpeen,’ says St. Bridget, ‘to talk like that at an honest gentlewoman.’ ‘ Sorra a bit of me,’ says the oysther. ‘Ye’re always drunk,’ says St. Bridget. ‘ Drunk yourself,’ says the oysther; ‘ I’m fastin from licker since the tide went down.’ ‘ What makes yer nose so red, ye scoundrel?’ says St. Bridget: ‘No ridder nor yer own,’ says the oysther, getting angry. For the Saint was stricken in years, and red-nosed by rayson of being out in all weathers, seeing to this and to that. ‘ Yer nose is red through drink,’ says she, ‘ and yer nose shall stay as rid as mine is now, till the day of judgment36.’ And that’s the legend about St. Bridget and the Carlingford oysther, and ye ought to be ashamed that ye never heard it before.”
“I wish, sir,” said Mackworth, “that you could possibly stop yourself from talking this preposterous37, indecent nonsense. Surely the first and noblest of Irish Saints may claim exemption38 from your clumsy wit.”
“Begorra, I’m catching39 it, Mr. Ravenshoe,” said Tiernay.
“What for?” said Cuthbert, who had just come up.
“Why, for telling a legend. Sure, I made it up on the spot. But it is none the worse for that; d’ye think so now?”
“Not much the better, I should think,” said Cuthbert, laughing.
“Allow me to say,” said Mackworth, “that I never heard such shameless, blasphemous40 nonsense in my life.”
The younger Tiernay was frightened, and began gathering41 up his shells and weeds. His handsome weak face was turned towards the great, strong, coarse face of his brother, with a look of terror, and his fingers trembled as he put the sea-spoils into his box. Cuthbert, watching them both, guessed that sometimes Father Tiernay could show a violent, headlong temper, and that his brother had seen an outbreak of this kind and trembled for one now. It was only a guess, possibly a good one; but there were no signs of such an outbreak now. Father Tiernay only lay back on the sand and laughed, without a cloud on his face.
“Bedad,” he said, “I’ve been lying on the sand, and the sun has got into my stomach and made me talk nonsense. When I was a gossoon, I used to sleep with the pig; and it was a poor feeble-minded pig, as never ot fat on petaty skins. If folly’s catchin’, I must have caught it from that pig. Did ye ever hear the legend of St. Laurence O’Toole’s wooden-legged sow, Mackworth?”
It was evident, after this, that the more Mackworth fulminated against good Father Tiernay’s unutterable nonsense, the more he would talk; so he rose and moved sulkily away. Cuthbert asked him, laughing, what the story was.
“Faix,” said Tiernay, “I ain’t sure, principally because I havn’t had time to invent it; but we’ve got rid of Mackworth, and can now discourse43 reasonable.”
Cuthbert sent a boy up to the hall for some towels, and then lay down on the sand beside Tiernay. He was very fond of that man in spite of his recldess Irish habit of talking nonsense. He was not alone there. I think that every one who knew Tiernay liked him.
They lay on the sand together, those tlu-ee; and, when Father Mackworth’s anger had evaporated, he came back and lay beside him. Tiernay put his hand out to him, and Mackworth shook it, and they were reconciled. I believe Mackworth esteemed44 Tiernay, though they were so utterly45 unlike in character and feeling. I know that Tiernay had a certain admiration46 for Mackworth.
“Do you think, now,” said Tiernay, “that you Englishmen enjoy such a scene and such a time as this as much as we Irishmen do? I cannot tell. You talk etter about it. You Lave a dozen poets to our one. Our best poet, I take it, is Tommy Moore. You class him as third-rate; but I doubt, mind you, whether you feel nature so acutely as we do.”
“I think we do,” said Cuthbert, eagerly. “I cannot think that you can feel the beauty of the scene we are looking at more deeply than I do. You feel nature as in ‘ Silent O’Moyle; ‘ we feel it as in Keats’ ‘St. Agnes’ Eve.’”
He was sitting up on the sand, with his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. None of them spoke47 for a time; and he, looking seaward, said, idly, in a low voice —
“St. Agnes’ Eve. Ah! bitter chill it was.
The owl48, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass;
And drowsy49 was the flock in woolly fold.”
What was the poor lad thinking of? God knows. There are times when one can’t follow the train of a man’s thoughts — only treasure up their spoken words as priceless relics50.
His beautiful face was turned towards the dying sun, and in that face there was a look of such kindly51, quiet peace, that they who watched it were silent, and waited to hear what he would say.
The western headland was black before the afternoon sun, and, far to sea, Lundy lay asleep in a golden haze52. All before them the summer sea heaved between the capes53, and along the sand, and broke in short crisp surf at their feet, gently moving the seaweed, the sand, and he shells.
“St. Agnes’ Eve,” he said again. “Ah, yes! that is ne of the poems written by Protestants which help to ake men Catholics. Nine-tenths of their highest eligious imagery is taken from Catholicism. The English poets have nothing to supply the place of it. Milton felt it, and wrote about it; yes, after ranging hrough all heathendom for images, he comes home to us at last:—
“Let ray due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters54 pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof.
And storied windows, richly dight.
Casting a dim religious light.
“Yes; he could feel for that cloister55 life. The highest form of human happiness! We have the poets with us, at all events. Why, what is the most perfect bijou of a poem in the English language? Tennyson’s ‘ St. Agnes.’ He had to come to us.”
The poor fellow looked across the sea, which was breaking in crisp ripples56 at his feet among the seaweed, the sand, and the shells; and, as they listened, they heard him say, almost passionately58 —
“Break up the heavens, oh Lord! and far
Through all yon starhght keen
Draw rae, thy bride, a glittering star
In raiment white and clean.
“They have taken our churches from us, and driven us into Birmingham-built chapels59. They sneer60 at us, but they forget that we built their arches and stained their glass for them. Art has revenged herself on them for their sacrilege by quitting earth in disgust. They have robbed us of our churches and our revenues, and turned us out on the world. Ay, but we are revenged. They don’t know the use of them now they have got them; and the only men who could teach them, the Tractarians, are abused and persecuted61 by them for their superior knowledge.”
So he rambled on, looking seaward; at his feet the surf playing with the sand, the seaweed, and the shells.
He made a very long pause, and then, when they thought that he was thinking of something quite different, he suddenly said —
“I don’t believe it matters whether a man is buried in the chancel, or out of it. But they are mad to discourage such a feeling as that, and not make use of it. Am I the worse man because I fancy that, when I lie there so quiet, I shall hear above my head the footfalls of those who go to kneel around the altar? What is it one of them says —
“Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice62 of the grapes of God.”
He very seldom spoke so much as this. They were surprised to hear him ramble29 on so; but it was an afternoon in which it was natural to sit upon the shore and talk, saying straight on just what came uppermost — a quiet, pleasant afternoon; an afternoon to lie upon the sand and conjure63 up old memories.
“I have been rambling, hav’n’t I?” he said presently. “Have I been talking aloud, or only thinking?”
“You have been talking,” said Tiernay, wondering at such a question.
“Have I? I thought I had been only thinking. I will go and bathe, I think, and clear my head from dreams. I must have been quoting poetry, then,” he added, smiling.
“Ay, and quoting it well too,” said Tiernay.
A young fisherman was waiting with a boat, and the lad had come with his towels. He stepped lazily across the sand to the boat, and they shoved off.
Besides the murmur64 of the surf upon the sand, playing with the shells and seaweed; besides the shouting of the bathing boys; besides the voices of the home — returning fishermen, carried sharp and distinct along the water; besides the gentle chafing65 of the stream among the pebbles66, was there no other sound upon the beach that afternoon? Yes, a sound different to all these. A loud-sounding alarm drum, beating more rapidly and furiously each moment, but only heard by one man, and not heeded67 by him.
The tide drawing eastward68, and a gentle wind following it, hardly enough to fill the sails of the lazy fishing-boats and keep them to their course. Here and there among the leeward69 part of the fleet, you might hear the sound of an oar1 working in the rowlocks sleepily coming over the sea and mingling70 harmoniously71 with the rest.
The young man with Cuthbert rowed out a little distance, and then they saw Cuthbert standing72 in the prow73 undressing himself. The fishing-boats near him luffed and hurriedly put out oars42, to keep away. The Squire74 was going to bathe, and no Ravenshoe man was ill-mannered enough to come near.
Those on the shore saw him standing stripped for one moment — a tall majestic75 figure. Then they saw him plunge76 into the water and begin swimming.
And then; — it is an easy task to tell it. They saw his head go under water, and, though they started on their feet and waited till seconds grew to minutes and hope was dead, it never rose again. Without one cry, without one struggle, without even one last farewell wave of the hand, as the familiar old landscape faded on his eyes for ever, poor Cuthbert went down; to be seen no more until the sea gave up its dead. The poor wild, passionate57 heart had fluttered itself to rest for ever.
The surf still gently playing with the sand, the sea changing from purple to grey, and from grey to black, under the fading twilight77. The tide sweeping westward78 towards the tall black headland, towards the slender-curved thread of the new moon, which grew more brilliant as the sun dipped to his rest in the red Atlantic.
Groups of fishermen and sea boys and servants, that followed the ebbing79 tide as it went westward, peering into the crisping surf to see something they knew was here. One group that paused among the tumbled boulders80 on the edge of the retreating surges, under the dark promontory81 and bent82 over something which lay at their feet.
The naked corpse83 of a young man, calm and beautiful in death, lying quiet and still between two rocks, softly pillowed on a bed of green and purple seaweed. And a priest that stood upon the shore, and cried wildly to the four winds of heaven, “Oh, my God, I loved him! My God! my God! I loved him!”
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1
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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coordinate
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| adj.同等的，协调的；n.同等者；vt.协作，协调 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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refunded
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| v.归还，退还( refund的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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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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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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cloisters
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| 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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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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passionate
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| 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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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60
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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61
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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62
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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63
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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65
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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66
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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67
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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69
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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70
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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71
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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72
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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73
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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74
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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75
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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76
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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77
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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78
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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79
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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80
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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81
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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