读点好英文:Westminster Abbey 西敏大寺
Westminster Abbey 西敏大寺
Washington Irving
On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages.
I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's—heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay.
The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sungilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven.
As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and, Gislebert us Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from mem to such an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own hand work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every football whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.
It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown.
And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration.
...
I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres.
On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statutes of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.
Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder—his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.
There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence: this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once born before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away; the silence of death had settled again upon the which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants—sure sign of solitariness and desertion.
When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; same mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors: the melancholy reward of a monument.
Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the graves; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.
A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem—the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the checked and disastrous story of poor Mary.
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir, these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place.
For in the silent grave no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,
No careful father's counsel—nothing's heard,
For nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust and an endless darkness.
西敏大寺
［美］华盛顿·欧文
正值深秋时节，这种天气让人感觉庄重而抑郁，早晨的阴影几乎和傍晚相互连接，给这岁末的幽情更加笼罩了一层灰蒙蒙的色彩。就是在这样一天，我一个人在西敏大寺走了几个小时。在这古老的建筑群中，有一种凄凉的感觉刚好与这个季节的色调相吻合；我跨进门槛，似乎一脚迈进了古老的年代，将自己融入到那些前人的阴影当中。
我是从西敏学校的内庭进去的，穿过一条低矮的有着弧顶的长廊，感觉像是在地下室。周围是厚厚的墙壁，只有墙上的小孔透出丝丝光亮，反而显得这里更加幽暗了。穿过这条长廊，我可以远远地看见前方的拱廊；一个上了年纪的教堂司事，身着黑色长袍，正从阴影里走过，那模样就像是一个刚刚从附近墓中爬出来的幽灵。这条路正是古修道院的遗址，景色分外凄凉，我的头脑也因此陷入了庄严的沉思默想之中。这条道路一如既往地寂静，与世隔绝。灰色的墙壁因为受到潮湿空气的侵蚀，早已褪了色，而且由于年代久远，也逐渐呈现出崩溃的迹象。墙壁上覆盖了一层灰白的苔藓，让人无法辨认清楚上面的碑文、骷髅像和各种丧葬的标识。弧顶上本来雕刻有华丽富贵的花纹，可如今早已不见了那些斧凿的痕迹；当年拱形石上枝繁叶茂的玫瑰花也不见了昔日的风采。这里所有的事物都刻上了岁月流逝的痕迹，然而就是在这样的颓废之中，依然有一种让人怦然心动、欢喜愉悦的感觉。
一道秋意绵绵的金色阳光从拱廊的方场上空倾泻下来，照耀着场上稀稀拉拉的小草，也给拱廊的一角披上一层阴郁的光线。从拱廊中间抬头远望，可以看见一小片蓝天或时不时飘过的白云，还有那铺洒了金子般阳光的塔尖，正笔直地向蓝天延伸。
我缓慢地走在拱廊上，时而思索着这融合了辉煌与颓败的景象，时而又力求辨析我脚下墓石上的碑文。这时，三座雕塑工艺粗糙的浮像吸引了我的眼光，经过几代人在上面来来回回地行踏，它们几乎很难辨认清楚了。这是这座寺院早期三位住持的浮像，上面的墓志铭已经全被磨掉了，只剩下三个名字，很明显这也是由后人重新修整了的。（泰里斯住持，1082年；吉斯勃塔斯·克里斯宾诺斯住持，1114年；劳伦地奥斯住持，1176年。）我在这里停留片刻，默默地看着这些残缺不全的古人遗迹。它们就像几艘抛锚了的破船，停靠在悠悠岁月的岸边，唯一能说给人们听的就是这几个人曾经活着，而现在已经不复存在了。它们所蕴涵的道德意义不过是告诫那些企图死后还想受人敬仰的人，要依靠墓志铭得以永生简直是痴心妄想。再过些时日，甚至连这些模糊不清的记录都将消失，而所谓的纪念碑也不再是什么纪念物了。就在我俯视这些墓碑时，突然被大寺的钟声唤醒。钟声在墙壁之间回荡，刹那间整个拱廊都产生共鸣。从坟墓里传出来的钟声，真是让人不寒而栗，它向人们提醒时光的消逝，好似巨大的浪潮，不断地把我们推向坟墓。我继续向前走，到达了一扇通向大寺里面的拱门前面。走进大门，只见在拱门的衬托下，里面的建筑物显得更加雄伟壮丽。我瞪大了双眼看着那一根根巨大的圆柱，圆柱上横架着一支支拱梁，它们这么高，真让人惊叹不已。站在柱脚下，人们不禁会想到，与人类自己的建筑比起来，人类自己的确是无足轻重。这座空旷幽暗的大寺，顿时让人产生一种神秘的敬畏之情。我们小心谨慎轻轻地走过，生怕打破了墓地的肃静；而每一次四周的墙壁传出脚步声时，坟墓间也作出了低沉的回应，我们也更加深刻地体会到四周的宁静，只是此时的宁静却被我们破坏了。
也许是寺院本身庄严肃穆的特性压抑着游客的心灵，使我们大家都肃然起敬，并且压低了所有的声音。我们感觉周身都被古代伟人的遗骸包围着，他们的丰功伟绩满载史册，声名遍誉世界。
但是，想到人类所谓的宏伟抱负到头来不过是虚幻一场，我不禁要嘲笑他们：如今这些英雄七零八散地拥挤在这尘土之中，想当初他们在世时，整个帝国都不曾令他们心满意足，而死后却只是在这个吝啬的地方里的一个阴暗角落，分得了一点点贫瘠的土地，过去他们试图让人们永远铭记他们的名字并世世代代瞻仰他们，可如今人们却在他们的坟墓上想方设法地雕刻出各种形状和花纹——而这么做只是为了吸引游客们不经意瞥来的目光，免得人们过不了几年就把他们当年显赫一时的名字抛之脑后了。
我仍然顺着这条路走过一座座坟墓，一所所礼拜堂。天色慢慢地暗了下来，从远处传来的游客的脚步声也越来越稀少了。动听的铃声提醒着人们作晚祷告的时间到了，远远地我就能看见唱诗班的人们穿着白色的法衣穿过走廊纷纷就位。我站在亨利七世礼拜堂的入口处，大堂前有几层台阶，然后要穿过一道很长的有些昏暗但很雄伟的拱门。巨大的铜制大门上雕满了精细华丽的花纹，门上的铰链发出沉重的响声，一副傲气十足的样子，似乎是不让这些凡夫俗子进入这最豪华的灵堂。
进入大堂内，里面华丽的建筑和精美的雕刻简直让人目不暇接。大墙上每一个地方都布满了精巧的装饰，里面镶嵌着雕花窗格，拼成一座座的壁龛，里面塞满了圣人和殉难者的雕像。炉火纯青的雕琢技术把石头雕刻得仿佛失去了它本来的重量和密度，像被施了魔法似地吊在半空中。还有那屋顶，装饰着无比精巧美丽的花纹，好像是一张无比牢固不能被破坏的蛛网那样悬在半空中。
在礼拜堂的两侧，设有巴斯武士高大的坐席，全部用橡木雕琢得富贵华丽，上面还有哥特式建筑的怪异装饰。武士的头盔、绶带和佩剑被摆放在坐席的顶端上。在这些物品的上方悬挂着武士的旗帜，上面装饰着纹章，这些金色、紫色和大红色耀眼夺目，与精雕细凿的灰暗屋顶形成鲜明的对比。在这个宏伟大厅的正中间，就是这座陵墓的主人——亨利七世的坟墓，他和皇后的雕像躺在一块豪华的墓石上，周围环绕着铸炼精细的黄铜栅栏。
在这种奢华瑰丽的气氛中，却让人有种沉闷压抑的感觉，这是一个把坟墓和战利品混合在一起的怪异场合，这些标志象征着朝气蓬勃和雄心壮志，如今却被摆放在满是灰尘和被人遗忘的纪念物中间，而所有的一切最终也会消逝在这些尘埃和遗忘之中。走在这个曾经热闹繁华而如今孤寂苍凉的地方，头脑中涌起一种无法言说的落寞感受。环视周围武士和他们的侍从们空空如也的座位，看着飘扬在他们面前的一排排布满了灰尘却依然锦绣华丽的军旗，我不禁想象起昔日的盛况：全国上下的英雄和美人都云集在这宽敞明亮的大厅里，这里因为有了这些珠光宝气的仕女和英武的武士行列而璀璨生辉；不绝于耳的脚步声和赞扬声在整个大厅回荡。而这一切突然就消失不见了，重新恢复了这死气沉沉的寂静，偶尔会有几声小鸟的鸣叫作为一点小插曲。连鸟儿都驻扎了这所礼拜堂，并把它们的巢穴建造在梁柱之间——由此可见，这里是多么的荒凉和寂寞。
我读着旗子上刺绣的人名，这些人曾经被派驻在各个地方，有的远渡重洋，有的征战他乡，有的在宫廷与内阁的阴谋中纠缠，他们有个共同的愿望就是，使自己的名声在这所阴暗的墓堂中得到更多的表彰——也就是一块阴郁的纪念碑。
在礼拜堂的两侧设有小型的侧堂——这样做的目的是为了明示这座墓地的平等观念：它把压迫者和被压迫者放在同一个地位，让世代宿敌的遗骸相聚在一起。其中的一个侧堂是那位傲慢的伊丽莎白之墓，而另外一个则是那可爱又可怜的被她杀死了的玛丽之墓。对于后者，每一天里的每个时刻都会有人来悲怜叹息她凄惨的命运，在这声声叹息中也包含了对前者悲愤的感情。于是，在伊丽莎白墓地周围的墙壁上就经常回荡着人们同情玛丽的声音。
一种怪异阴郁的气氛笼罩在埋葬着玛丽的那个侧堂之上。阳光透过布满灰尘的窗户照射进来，一切都是这么幽暗，大部分的地方都被深深的阴影覆盖着，岁月和气候在墙壁上留下了痕迹。一座玛丽的大理石雕像躺在碑石上面，四周的铁栅栏锈迹斑斑，上面还雕刻着她的国徽——苏格兰的蓟花。我已经走得有点累了，于是坐在纪念碑下歇息，脑海里便不由自主地想起玛丽坎坷不幸的一生。
寺院里零零碎碎的脚步声渐渐地消失了。我的耳边偶尔传来远处修士们进行晚祷的声音和唱诗班轻柔的应答声。当所有这些声音都静息后，整个大寺也沉静下来了。平静、荒凉和幽暗慢慢地靠近，使人们对这个地方产生了一种更加深邃和庄严的感情。
在寂静的墓地里没有说话的声音，
没有朋友们轻快的脚步声，没有情侣们呼唤的声音，
也没有细心的父亲忠诚的告诫——什么都听不到，
因为一切都是虚无，一切都被遗忘，
只有尘土和无边无际的黑暗。
实战提升
Practising & Exercise
导读
华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving），美国著名作家，也是19世纪最伟大的美国散文家之一。欧文从少年时代起就喜爱阅读司各特、拜伦和彭斯等人的作品。中学毕业后，他遵从父命在律师事务所学习法律，但他的志趣却在文学方面。《见闻札记》是欧文的代表作。1859年欧文与世长辞。美国人民为了怀念这位在文学方面做出突出贡献的作家，在纽约降半旗致哀。他的许多优秀作品则被人们传诵至今，成为珍贵的文学遗产。他本人更被尊称为“美国文学之父”。
此文是华盛顿·欧文生平最得意的文章之一。欧文的文笔可谓独树一帜、温雅可爱、感情充沛。文中阐述了作者对文人地位的反思，文章感人至深，最能体现作者的性情。
核心单词
sober [ˈsəubə] adj. 认真的；严肃的，持重的
monastic [məˈnæstik] adj. 修道院的；修道士的
tracery [ˈtreisəri] n. 【建】（哥特式建筑）花饰窗格
cloister [ˈklɔistə] n. 回廊
abbot [ˈæbət] n. 男修道院院长；大寺院男住持
antiquity [ænˈtikwiti] n. 古，古代
martyr [ˈmɑːtə] n. 烈士，殉难者
effigy [ˈefiʤi] n. 肖像；模拟像
翻译
It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence.
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant.
