“The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn
The love of love,”
he hitched5 his chair about, and started in on his leader for the day.
He might have been more patient if he had known that this State Senator was to be President Garfield. But who could know anything of the tragical6 history that was so soon to follow that winter of 1859–60? Not I; at least I listened rapt by the poet and the reader, and it seemed to me as if the making and the reading of poetry were to go on forever, and that was to be all there was of it. To be sure I had my hard little journalistic misgivings7 that it was not quite the thing for a State Senator to come round reading Tennyson at ten o’clock in the morning, and I dare say I felt myself superior in my point of view, though I could not resist the charm of the verse. I myself did not bring Tennyson to the office at that time. I brought Thackeray, and I remember that one day when I had read half an hour or so in the ‘Book of Snobs,’ the leading editor said frankly8, Well, now, he guessed we had had enough of that. He apologized afterwards as if he were to blame, and not I, but I dare say I was a nuisance with my different literary passions, and must have made many of my acquaintances very tired of my favorite authors. I had some consciousness of the fact, but I could not help it.
I ought not to omit from the list of these favorites an author who was then beginning to have his greatest vogue9, and who somehow just missed of being a very great one. We were all reading his jaunty10, nervy, knowing books, and some of us were questioning whether we ought not to set him above Thackeray and Dickens and George Eliot, ‘tulli quanti’, so great was the effect that Charles Reade had with our generation. He was a man who stood at the parting of the ways between realism and romanticism, and if he had been somewhat more of a man he might have been the master of a great school of English realism; but, as it was, he remained content to use the materials of realism and produce the effect of romanticism. He saw that life itself infinitely11 outvalued anything that could be feigned12 about it, but its richness seemed to corrupt13 him, and he had not the clear, ethical14 conscience which forced George Eliot to be realistic when probably her artistic15 prepossessions were romantic.
As yet, however, there was no reasoning of the matter, and Charles Reade was writing books of tremendous adventure and exaggerated character, which he prided himself on deriving16 from the facts of the world around him. He was intoxicated17 with the discovery he had made that the truth was beyond invention, but he did not know what to do with the truth in art after he had found it in life, and to this day the English mostly do not. We young people were easily taken with his glittering error, and we read him with much the same fury, that he wrote. ‘Never Too Late to Mend;’ ‘Love Me Little, Love Me Long;’ ‘Christie Johnstone;’ ‘Peg Woffington;’ and then, later, ‘Hard Cash,’ ‘The Cloister18 and the Hearth,’ ‘Foul Play,’ ‘Put Yourself in His Place’ — how much they all meant once, or seemed to mean!
The first of them, and the other poems and fictions I was reading, meant more to me than the rumors19 of war that were then filling the air, and that so soon became its awful actualities. To us who have our lives so largely in books the material world is always the fable20, and the ideal the fact. I walked with my feet on the ground, but my head was in the clouds, as light as any of them. I neither praise nor blame this fact; but I feel bound to own it, for that time, and for every time in my life, since the witchery of literature began with me.
Those two happy winters in Columbus, when I was finding opportunity and recognition, were the heydey of life for me. There has been no time like them since, though there have been smiling and prosperous times a plenty; for then I was in the blossom of my youth, and what I had not I could hope for without unreason, for I had so much of that which I had most desired. Those times passed, and there came other times, long years of abeyance21, and waiting, and defeat, which I thought would never end, but they passed, too.
I got my appointment of Consul22 to Venice, and I went home to wait for my passport and to spend the last days, so full of civic23 trouble, before I should set out for my post. If I hoped to serve my country there and sweep the Confederate cruisers from the Adriatic, I am afraid my prime intent was to add to her literature and to my own credit. I intended, while keeping a sleepless24 eye out for privateers, to write poems. concerning American life which should eclipse anything yet done in that kind, and in the mean time I read voraciously25 and perpetually, to make the days go swiftly which I should have been so glad to have linger. In this month I devoured26 all the ‘Waverley novels,’ but I must have been devouring27 a great many others, for Charles Reade’s ‘Christie Johnstone’ is associated with the last moment of the last days.
A few months ago I was at the old home, and I read that book again, after not looking at it for more than thirty years; and I read it with amazement28 at its prevailing29 artistic vulgarity, its prevailing aesthetic30 error shot here and there with gleams of light, and of the truth that Reade himself was always dimly groping for. The book is written throughout on the verge31 of realism, with divinations and conjectures32 across its border, and with lapses33 into the fool’s paradise of romanticism, and an apparent content with its inanity34 and impossibility. But then it was brilliantly new and surprising; it seemed to be the last word that could be said for the truth in fiction; and it had a spell that held us like an anesthetic35 above the ache of parting, and the anxiety for the years that must pass, with all their redoubled chances, before our home circle could be made whole again. I read on, and the rest listened, till the wheels of the old stage made themselves heard in their approach through the absolute silence of the village street. Then we shut the book and all went down to the gate together, and parted under the pale sky of the October night. There was one of the home group whom I was not to see again: the young brother who died in the blossom of his years before I returned from my far and strange sojourn36. He was too young then to share our reading of the novel, but when I ran up to his room to bid him good-by I found him awake, and, with aching hearts, we bade each other good-by forever!
点击收听单词发音
1 amity | |
n.友好关系 | |
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2 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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3 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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4 burlesque | |
v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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5 hitched | |
(免费)搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 ); 搭便车; 攀上; 跃上 | |
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6 tragical | |
adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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7 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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8 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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9 Vogue | |
n.时髦,时尚;adj.流行的 | |
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10 jaunty | |
adj.愉快的,满足的;adv.心满意足地,洋洋得意地;n.心满意足;洋洋得意 | |
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11 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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12 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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13 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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14 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
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15 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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16 deriving | |
v.得到( derive的现在分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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17 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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18 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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19 rumors | |
n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷 | |
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20 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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21 abeyance | |
n.搁置,缓办,中止,产权未定 | |
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22 consul | |
n.领事;执政官 | |
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23 civic | |
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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24 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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25 voraciously | |
adv.贪婪地 | |
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26 devoured | |
吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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27 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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28 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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29 prevailing | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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30 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
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31 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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32 conjectures | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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33 lapses | |
n.失误,过失( lapse的名词复数 );小毛病;行为失检;偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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34 inanity | |
n.无意义,无聊 | |
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35 anesthetic | |
n.麻醉剂,麻药;adj.麻醉的,失去知觉的 | |
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36 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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