There are few more desolate1 and cheerless places in England than the spot where this old coaching inn stands beside the open road, with the unenclosed downs stretching away to the far horizon, fold after fold. Somewhere amid these hills and hollows, but quite hidden, is the village of West Winterslow, from which the ‘Hut’ obtains its name. The place, save for the periodical passing of the coaches, was as solitary2 in old times as it is now,{157} and its quiet as profound. The very name is chilling, and as excellently descriptive as it is possible for a name to be.
When, coming within sight of its isolated3 roof-tree from the summit of the hills on either side, the coach-guards used to blow fanfares4 on their bugles5 as a reminder6 for the ostler to have his fresh teams ready, the inn and its surrounding stables woke into life, and when they were gone their several ways, it dozed7 again. Save that it doubtless looked more prosperous then, the present appearance of ‘Winterslow Hut’ is identical with its aspect of sixty years ago. The same horse-pond by the roadside, the same trees, only older and more decrepit8, the same prehistoric9 dykes10 and tumuli on the unchanging downs; it must have been capable of absorbing the fun and jollity of a fair, and still presenting its characteristically dour11 and dreary12 aspect; but now that, sitting in the bay window of the parlour that commands the road in either direction, you may watch the highway by the half-hour and see no traveller, the emptiness is appalling13.
To this solitary outpost of civilisation14 came William Hazlitt, critic and essayist, during several years, for quietude. For four years, from 1808 to 1812, he and his wife lived in a cottage at West Winterslow, on the small income derived15 from her other cottage property there, supplemented by the sums the wayward Hazlitt earned fitfully by the practice of literature. Then they removed to London, where they disagreed, Hazlitt retiring to the ‘Hut’ in 1819, and leaving his wife in town. Nervous and{158} irritable16, he wanted quiet, nor can it be doubted that in this spot he found what he sought. He was cursed, according to the widely different beliefs of his friends, with ‘an ingrained selfishness,’ or ‘a morbid17 self-consciousness,’ and oil the downs he would walk, for the pleasure of having the neighbourhood all to himself, from forty to fifty miles a day. He wrote his Winterslow essays here, and his Napoleon, for whom he had an almost insane reverence18. The ‘diabolical scowl’ of Hazlitt when Napoleon or any other of his pet susceptibilities were abused must have been worth seeing.
‘Now,’ says a literary hero-hunter, who has visited ‘Winterslow Hut,’ as a place of pilgrimage,—‘now it is a desolate place, fallen into decay, and tenanted by a labouring man and his family, cultivating a small farm of some thirty acres, and barely able to make a living out of it. In winter two or three weeks will sometimes elapse without even a beggar or tramp or cart passing the door. On the ground floor, looking out upon a horse-pond, flanked by two old lime-trees, is a little parlour, which was the one probably used by Hazlitt as his sitting-room19. At the other end of the house is a large empty room, formerly20 devoted21 to cock-fighting matches and singlestick combats. It was with a strange and eerie22 feeling that I contemplated23 this little parlour, and pictured to myself the many solitary evenings during which Hazlitt sat in it enjoying copious24 libations of his favourite tea (for during the last fifteen years of his life he never tasted alcoholic25 drinks of any kind) perhaps reading Tom Jones for the tenth time, or enjoying{159}
A LITERARY RECLUSE26
Image unavailable: ‘WINTERSLOW HUT.’
‘WINTERSLOW HUT.’
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one of Congreve’s comedies, or Rousseau’s Confessions27, or writing, in his large flowing hand, a dozen pages of the essay on Persons one would Wish to have Seen, or On Living to One’s Self. One cannot imagine any retreat more consonant28 with the feelings of this lonely thinker, during one of his periods of seclusion29, than the out-of-the-world place in which I stood. In winter time it must have been desolate beyond description—on wild nights especially—“heaven’s chancel-vault” blind with sleet—the fierce wind sweeping30 down from the bare wolds around, and beating furiously against the doors and windows of the unsheltered hostelry.’
It is not to be supposed that Hazlitt was insensible to the dreariness31 of the spot. ‘Here, even here,’ he says, as though the dolour of the place had come home to him, ‘with a few old authors I can manage to get through the summer or winter months without ever knowing what it is to feel ennui32. They sit with me at breakfast; they walk out with me before dinner. After a long walk through unfrequented tracts33, after starting the hare from the fern, or hearing the wing of the raven34 rustling35 above my head, or being greeted by the woodman’s “stern good-night,” as he strikes into his narrow homeward path, I can “take mine ease at mine inn,” beside the blazing hearth36, and shake hands with Signor Orlando Friscobaldo, as the oldest acquaintance I have.’
His Farewell to Essay Writing was written here 20th February 1828. He had long given up the intemperance37 of former years, and cultivated literature on copious tea-drinking. ‘As I quaff38 my{162} libations of tea in a morning,’ he says, ‘I love to watch the clouds sailing from the west, and fancy that “the spring comes slowly up this way.” In this hope, while “fields are dank, and ways are mire,” I follow the same direction to a neighbouring wood, where, having gained the dry, level greensward, I can see my way for a mile before me, closed in on each side by copse-wood, and ending in a point of light more or less brilliant, as the day is bright or cloudy.’ And so this harbinger of our own literary neurotics39 continues, dropping into a morbid introspective strain, pulling up his soul, like a plant, by the roots, to see how it is growing, and babbling40 to the world, between the jewel-work of his literature, of his follies41 and his unrest. Strange, that this wiry pedestrian, this apostle of fresh air, should be of the same dough42 of which the degenerates43 of our time are compounded.
点击收听单词发音
1 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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2 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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3 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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4 fanfares | |
n.仪式上用的短曲( fanfare的名词复数 ) | |
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5 bugles | |
妙脆角,一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食; 号角( bugle的名词复数 ); 喇叭; 匍匐筋骨草; (装饰女服用的)柱状玻璃(或塑料)小珠 | |
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6 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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7 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 decrepit | |
adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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9 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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10 dykes | |
abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 );坝;堰;沟 | |
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11 dour | |
adj.冷酷的,严厉的;(岩石)嶙峋的;顽强不屈 | |
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12 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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13 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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14 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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15 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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16 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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17 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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18 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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19 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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20 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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21 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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22 eerie | |
adj.怪诞的;奇异的;可怕的;胆怯的 | |
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23 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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24 copious | |
adj.丰富的,大量的 | |
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25 alcoholic | |
adj.(含)酒精的,由酒精引起的;n.酗酒者 | |
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26 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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27 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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28 consonant | |
n.辅音;adj.[音]符合的 | |
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29 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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30 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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31 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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32 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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33 tracts | |
大片土地( tract的名词复数 ); 地带; (体内的)道; (尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的)短文 | |
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34 raven | |
n.渡鸟,乌鸦;adj.乌亮的 | |
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35 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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36 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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37 intemperance | |
n.放纵 | |
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38 quaff | |
v.一饮而尽;痛饮 | |
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39 neurotics | |
n.神经官能症的( neurotic的名词复数 );神经质的;神经过敏的;极为焦虑的 | |
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40 babbling | |
n.胡说,婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 );作潺潺声(如流水);含糊不清地说话;泄漏秘密 | |
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41 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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42 dough | |
n.生面团;钱,现款 | |
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43 degenerates | |
衰退,堕落,退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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