你值得拥有这美好的世界：汉英对照(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：暖小昕

出版社：北京联合出版公司

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

你值得拥有这美好的世界：汉英对照试读：

海之滨 At the Edge of the Sea

海岸是一个古老的世界。自从有地球和大海，就有了这个水陆相接的地方。人们却感觉它是一个总在进行创造、生命力顽强而又充沛的世界。每当我踏入这个世界，感觉到生物之间以及每一生物与它周围的环境之间，通过错综复杂的生命结构彼此相连的时候，我对它的美，对它的深层意蕴，都会产生某种新的认识。

我想起海岸，心中就有一个地方因为它所表现出的独特美景而感动。那是一个隐匿于洞中的水潭。平时，这个洞被海水淹没，一年当中只有海潮降落到最低，以至低于水潭时，人们才能在这难得的短时间内看见它。也许正因为如此，它获得了某种特殊的美。我选好这样一个低潮的时机，希望能看一眼水潭。

根据推算，潮水将在清晨退下去。我知道，如果

不刮西北风，远处的风暴就不会掀起惊涛骇浪，海平面就会落得比水潭的入口还低。夜里突然下了几场预示不祥的阵雨，碎石般的雨点密集地打在屋顶上。清晨，我向外眺望，只见天边笼罩着灰蒙蒙的曙光，只是太阳还没有升起。水和空气一片暗淡。一轮明月挂在海湾对面的西天上，月下灰暗的一线就是远方的海岸——八月的满月把海潮吸得很低，低到那与人世隔离的海的世界的门槛。在我观望的时候，一只海鸥飞过云杉。冉冉升起的太阳把它的腹部照成粉色。天终于晴了。

后来，当我在高于海潮的水潭入口附近驻足时，四周已笼罩着玫红色的晨光。从我立足的峭岩底部，一块被青苔覆盖的礁石伸向大海的最深处。海水拍击着礁石周围，水藻上下左右地漂动，像皮革般滑溜溜、亮闪闪。通往隐藏的小洞和洞中水潭的路径是那些凸现的礁石。偶尔一阵强于一阵的波涛，悠然地漫过礁石的边缘，并在岩壁上击成水沫。在这波涛间歇的

时间足以让我踏上礁石，足以让我欣赏那仙境般的水潭。那平时不露面，露面也只是一瞬间的小潭。

我跪在那海苔藓铺成的湿漉漉的地毯上，向那些黑洞里窥探，就是这些黑洞把水潭环抱成浅盆模样。洞的底部距离顶部只有几英寸，一面天造明镜使得洞顶上的一切生物都倒映在下面纹丝不动的水中。

在透明如镜的水底，铺着一层碧绿的海绵。洞顶上一片片灰色的海蛸闪闪发光，一堆堆柔软的珊瑚披着淡淡的杏黄色衣裳。就在我朝洞里窥探时，从洞顶上挂下一只小海星，仅仅悬在一条线上，或许就在它的一只管足上。它向下接触到自己的倒影。多么完美的画面！看上去不是一只海星，而是一对海星。水中倒影的美，清澈的水潭本身的美，这都是些稍纵即逝的事物所体现的强烈而动人心扉的美——海水一旦漫过小洞，这种美便不复存在了。

The shore is an ancient world，for as long as there has been an earth and sea there has been this place of the meeting of land and water. Yet it is a world that keeps alive the sense of continuing creation and of the relentless drive of life. Each time that I enter it，I gain some new awareness of its beauty and its deeper meanings，sensing that intricate fabric of life by which one creature is linked with another，and each with its surroundings.

In my thoughts of the shore，one place stands apart for its revelation of exquisite beauty. It is a pool hidden within a cave that one can visit only rarely and briefly when the lowest of the year's low tides fall below it，and perhaps from that very fact it acquires some of its special beauty. Choosing such a tide，I hoped for a glimpse of the pool. The ebb was to fall early in the morning. I knew that if the wind held from the northwest and no interfering swell ran in from a distant storm the level of the sea should drop below the entrance to the pool. There had been sudden ominous showers in the night，with rain like handfuls of gravel flung on the roof. When I looked out into the early morning the sky was full of a gray dawn light but the sun had not yet risen. Water and air were pallid. Across the bay the moon was a luminous disc in the western sky，suspended above the dim line of distant shore the full August moon，drawing the tide to the low，low levels of the threshold of the alien sea world. As I watched，a gull flew by，above the spruces. Its breast was rosy with the light of the unrisen sun. The day was，after all，to be fair.

Later，as I stood above the tide near the entrance to the pool，the promise of that rosy light was sustained. From the base of the steep wall of rock on which I stood，a moss-covered ledge jutted seaward into deep water. In the surge at the rim of the ledge the dark fronds of oar weeds swayed smooth and gleaming as leather. The projecting ledge was the path to the small hidden cave and its pool. Occasionally a swell，stronger than the rest，rolled smoothly over the rim and broke in foam against the cliff. But the intervals between such swells were long enough to admit me to the ledge and long enough for a glimpse of that fairy pool，so seldom and so briefly exposed.

And so I knelt on the wet carpet of sea moss and looked back into the dark cavern that held the pool in a shallow basin. The floor of the cave was only a few inches below the roof，and a mirror had been created in which all that grew on the ceiling was reflected in the still water below.

Under water that was clear as glass the pool was carpeted with green sponge. Gray patches of sea squirts glistened on the ceiling and colonies of raft coral were a pale apricot color. In the moment when I looked into the cave a little elfin starfish hung down，suspended by the merest thread，perhaps by only a single tube foot. It reached down to touch its own reflection，so perfectly delineated that there might have been，not one starfish，but two. The beauty of the reflected images and of the limpid pool itself was the poignant beauty of things that are ephemeral，existing only until the sea should return to fill the little cave.

如花的托斯卡纳 Flowery Tuscany

在阿尔卑斯山的北面，漫长的冬天受到了夏季的顽强进攻，很快屈服了。而其南面，夏季被间歇性的、充满敌意的寒冬阻挡，永远也不能真正占上风。在两者的斗争中，任何一种情况都只是可能。但是，阳光普照的地方，永远都是阿尔卑斯山的南面。

清晨，阳光强烈地照射着绿云一样的松树，天气晴朗，充满了生机。河水急匆匆地流着，直到被最后一些压碎的橄榄汁染成棕色。遍地的番红花更是令人诧异不已。你不会相信这些花是静止的。它们如此欢快地绽放，那橘红色的雌蕊如此茂盛。不计其数的花朵竞相开放，争奇斗艳，让人如痴如醉。花朵们翩翩起舞，涌动着鲜亮的紫和橙色调，和着无形的美妙节奏欢快地摆动。你不得不相信它们在动，而且发出了水晶般的欢快声。如果你静静地欣赏花朵，你就会不由自主地随着它们舞动，就好像跟着星星走一样。当然，你还会听到花朵们欢快的笑声。这些花儿的每一个小细胞都跳跃着绚丽的生命和思想。

现在正是三月，也是花儿竞相开放的时节。在其他一些朝太阳方向流动的溪流边，荆棘灌木交错，菟葵无助而不屈地对抗着冬天，一丛丛白色的樱草花出乎意料地生长着。丛丛的樱草花占满了杂乱的灌木丛和溪水的拐角处。可它们比菟葵更加无助，更加苍白，比英格兰的樱草花单薄许多。樱草花不像北面的花朵那样让人惊奇。人们往往注意不到它，而是会被长在河岸边庄严而美丽的紫罗兰所吸引，当然会更愿意欣赏那些深紫色的风信子小花塔。

三月，刚好是溪边灌木乱丛中白色的刺李花若隐若现，粉红的桃树独自站立在山坡的时节。银粉色的杏花已渐渐褪去，桃树裹着深深的蓝，一点儿也不飘逸，却是本来面目，而桃树与杏树看起来就像毫不相干的个体。绿意盎然的春天里，桃树的粉色是如此别致。因为最先从冬天开出来的花，通常都是白色、黄色或紫色的。白屈菜也冒出头来了。在湖边高大强壮的银莲花中，你可以发现深紫色、黑色的花蕊。

雏菊穿着红色的衣服成群地跑出来，开始的时候，花儿开得又大又漂亮。可是进入三月中下旬，花儿就变成了光鲜的小东西，像小小的纽扣聚在一起。这预示着夏天的来临。

你还可以在一些地方，看到一些修长、带穗的黄色郁金香。在细长的穗上嵌着光亮的黄色，十分惹人喜爱。不过，它们很快就会倾斜，然后虚弱起来，仿佛幻觉一样消失得无影无踪。

郁金香离开以后，在夏天前，花儿们都短暂地歇息了一下。夏天即将到来。

寂静的四月底，在花儿们踌躇不定的时候，叶子们一股脑地跑了出来。一时间，纯净的绿色从无花果的树枝上冒出，好像烛台顶那生动的绿色小火舌头一样在燃烧。现在，这团绿焰伸展开来，变成小手的样子，触摸着夏天的气息。小小的绿色无花果像山羊喉咙的腺体一样附在下面。

现在，山坡上白杨的叶子上有一层半透明薄膜的叶脉，格外引人注目。与秋天不同，这些叶子是金棕色的，像是薄翼的蝙蝠，它们如同鸟儿一样——我们暂且就叫它们鸟儿吧——在落日的余晖中，叶子在云层里涌动，太阳照射在这薄翼拉紧似的薄膜上，仿佛透过棕红色的彩绘玻璃。这是夏天里树叶旺盛时所特有的红色树液，并不意味着秋天的红尘。

樱桃树和白杨差不多，只是更加顽强。现在已是四月的最后一个星期，白色的樱桃花依然绽放，可已经渐渐虚弱，即将逝去。今年的时节晚了，树叶团团紧簇，鲜红的光亮中挥洒着轻柔的铜色。这个地方的果树十分不同寻常，梨花和桃花会在同一时节开放。不过，现在这里有还未伸长的麦子，翠绿色的橄榄，柏树所没有的棕绿，长青橡树的墨绿色，石松浓重的绿团团，小桃树和杏树脆弱的绿色，七叶树强壮的新绿。而在这所有的绿色中，梨树清新光亮的绿色是可爱的、浓密的、轻柔的，像苹果绿色叶子柔和的饱满一样鲜明。在这绿色的海洋中，绿色一片一片的，一层一层的，像斜斜的一块板，像圆圆的肩膀，又像羽毛，像矮树丛，像挺直的灌木。有时在夜晚，从外面向绿色里望去，仿佛绿色带着绿色，带着金色在里面燃烧，显得光彩夺目。

冬天的森林里，矮灌木即将倒下，而松树则稳稳地保持着自己的站姿。冬天是最适宜石松生长的季节。到圣诞节的时候，石松团团的深绿色更显得艳丽华贵。当柏树裸露地显示出自己高高的、墨绿色的身躯时，柳树仍然在蓝色的天空下展现着自己活泼的鲜橙色。大地染上淡紫色的时候，隆冬时节就到了。这儿将成为颜色的世界，颜色才是最美的风景。

当然，这一个星期还会有花的足迹，但这时候的花儿成了孤独的小东西，四处分散。你会在不经意间发现它们的足迹：提前出来的紫兰花，红润而有生命力；成群结队的蜜蜂兰，它们对自身的外表，都显露出刻意的、不屑的神情。当然，也少不了顶着巨大的花苞穗，长满茂密花儿的强壮粉红兰花，兰花那巨大的花苞穗如同饱满的麦穗一样，配上耀眼的紫色，让人觉得完美无缺。但零星的花苞穗已经开花了，在紫色中旋着一幅由娇嫩小花编织成的精致花布。还有那些非常可爱的、米色的兰花，在它们的细长花蕊上有些棕色斑点。兰花喜欢在较潮湿的地方生长，因此它奇异柔和的穗是不常见的。其他的兰花都是小小的花形，漂亮的黄色。

五月一到，夜莺便不间断地唱着歌。这时候，小心翼翼的托斯卡纳杜鹃也会唱出平日里听不到的歌。接着，浅淡紫色的丁香花大量地出现，展示着它们柔嫩、穗状的花，直到空气中露出紫红，清澈透明地四处飘荡。

世界将变成一丛丛蝴蝶花的天下，它们得意而温柔地昂起头。五六月，谷物还没收割的时候，在野外，玫瑰色的唐菖蒲就混合在谷物中。而黑种草开着蓝色的花朵。但现在还没到五六月——只是四月末，春夏之交的间歇，在这个时节里：夜莺不停地歌唱；豆地里，豆花正在凋谢，豆的芳香正随着春天一起逝去；小鸟在巢里成长；橄榄已被修剪；葡萄已经过了最后的耕种时节；豌豆成熟之前的未来两个星期，没有多少活儿要做。这样才是变化，永不停息的快速变化。在阳光照耀的地方，变化似乎更显著，比在昏暗地带更彻底。而在没有阳光的地方，是一成不变的灰暗和阴暗。变化只是短暂的事，不会留下任何记号。

然而，对于生活在阳光地带的人，却是不同的概念。变化对他们来说就是现实，永久是人创造的，是一种禁锢。

因此，生活在北面的人认为，变化中的世界实际上是悲惨的，因为世界只是短暂的，注定消逝的。世界的存在意味着自己的结束，这就是伤感的根源。

而生活在南面的人，对他们来说，阳光具有决定性的作用，阴影或黑暗不过是相关联的事物——只是在人和太阳之间才会出现的东西。

对于人类来说，有一件事是千真万确的，那就是在这个世界上，仅有一个发光的太阳，黑色的影子不过是一个意外干扰罢了。

而在我看来，尽管争议纷纷，但太阳一直光芒四射，也将永远光芒四射。在阳光下，即便死亡也是充满阳光的。阳光没有终点。

托斯卡纳的春天飞快地流逝，而我没有一丝的伤感，这就是原因所在。太阳永远在照耀。如果不这样想，那就是我们的问题了。

North of the Alps，the everlasting winter is interrupted by summers that struggle and soon yield；south of the Alps，the everlasting summer is interrupted by spasmodic and spiteful winters that never get a real hold，but that are mean and dogged. The in-between，in either case，is just as it may be. But the lands of the sun are south of the Alps，forever.

In the morning，the sun shines strong on the horizontal green cloud-puffs of the pines，the sky is clear and full of life，the water runs hastily，still browned by the last juice of crushed olives. And there the earth's bowl of crocuses is amazing. You cannot believe that the flowers are really still. They are open with such delight，and their pistil thrust is so red-orange，and they are so many，all reaching out wide and marvellous，that it suggests a perfect ecstasy of radiant，thronging movement，lit-up violet and orange，and surging in some invisible rhythm of concerted，delightful movement. You cannot believe they do not move，and make some sort of crystalline sound of delight. If you sit still and watch，you begin to move with them，like moving with the stars，and you feel the sound of their radiance. All the little cells of the flowers must be leaping with flowery life and utterance.

And now that it is March，there is a rush of flowers. Down by the other stream，which turns sideways to the sun，and tangles the brier and bramble，down where the hellebore has stood so wan and dignified all winter，there are now white tufts of primroses，suddenly come. Among the tangle and near the water-lip，tufts and bunches of primroses，in abundance. Yet they look more wan，more pallid，more flimsy than English primroses. They lack some of the full wonder of the northern flowers. One tends to overlook them，to turn to the great，solemn-faced purple violets that rear up from the bank，and above all，to the wonderful little towers of the grape hyacinth.

This is the time，in March，when the sloe is white and misty in the hedge-tangle by the stream，and on the slope of land the peach tree stands pink and alone. The almond blossom，silvery pink，is passing，but the peach，deep-toned，bluey，not at all ethereal，this reveals itself like flesh，and the trees are like isolated individuals，the peach and the apricot. It is so conspicuous and so individual，that pink among the coming green of spring，because the first flowers that emerge from winter seem always white or yellow or purple. Now the celandines are out，and along the edges of the podere，the big，sturdy，black-purple anemones，with black hearts.

The daisies are out too，in sheets，and they too red-mouthed. The first ones are big and handsome. But as March goes on，the dwindle to bright little things，like tiny buttons，clouds of them together. That means summer is nearly here.

In some places there are odd yellow tulips，slender，spiky and Chinese-looking. They are very lovely，pricking out their dulled yellow in slim spikes. But they too soon lean，expand beyond themselves，and are gone like an illusion.

And when the tulips are gone，there is a moment's pause，before summer. Summer is the next move.

In the pause towards the end of April，when the flowers seem to hesitate，the leaves make up their minds to come out. For sometime，at the very ends of the bare boughs of fig trees，spurts of pure green have been burning like little cloven tongues of green fire vivid on the tips of the candelabrum. Now these spurts of green spread out，and begin to take the shape of hands，feeling for the air of summer. And tiny green figs are below them，like glands on the throat of a goat.

Now the aspens on the hill are all remarkable with the translucent membranes of blood-veined leaves. They are gold-brown，but not like autumn，rather like thin wings bats when like birds-call them birds-they wheel in clouds against the setting sun，and the sun glows through the stretched membrane of their wings，as through thin，brown-red stained glass. This is the red sap of summer，not the red dust of autumn.

The cherry tree is something the same，but more sturdy. Now，in the last week of April，the cherry blossom is still white，but waning and passing away：it is late this year，and the leaves are clustering thick and softly copper in their dark blood-filled glow. It is queer about fruit trees in this district. The pear and the peach were out together. But now the pear tree is a lovely thick softness of new and glossy green，vivid with a tender fullness of apple-green leaves，gleaming among all the other green of the landscape，the half-high wheat，emerald，and the grey olive，half-invisible，the browning green of the dark cypress，the black of the evergreen oak，the rolling of the heavy green puffs of the stone-pines，the flimsy green of small peach and almond trees，the sturdy young green of horse-chestnut. So many greens，all in flakes and shelves and tilted tables and round shoulders and plumes and shaggles and uprisen bushes，of greens and greens，sometimes blindingly brilliant at evening，when the landscape looks as if it were on fire from inside，with greenness and with gold.

In the wood，the scrub-oak is only just coming uncrumpled，and the pines keep their hold on winter. They are wintry things，stone-pines. At Christmas，their heavy green clouds are richly beautiful. When the cypresses rise their tall and naked bodies of dark green，and the osiers are vivid red-orange，on the still blue air，and the land is lavender；then，in mid-winter，the landscape is the most beautiful in colour，surging with colour.

Not that this week is flowerless. But the flowers are a little lonely things，here and there：the early purple orchid，ruddy and very much alive，you come across occasionally，then the little groups of bee-orchids，with their ragged concerted indifference to their appearance. Also there are the huge bud-spikes of the stout，thick flowering pink orchid，huge buds like fat ears of wheat，hard-purple and splendid. But already odd grains of the wheat-ear are open，and out of the purple hangs the delicate pink rag of floweret. Also there are very lovely and choice cream-clouted orchids with brown spots on the long and delicate lip. These grow in the more moist places，and have exotic tender spikes，very rare-seeming. Another orchid is a little，pretty yellow one.

By May，the nightingale will sing an unbroken song，and the discreet，barely audible Tuscan cuckoo will be a little more audible. Then the lovely pale-lilac irises will come out in all their showering abundance of tender，proud，spiky bloom，till the air will gleam with mauve，and a new crystalline lightness will be everywhere.

There will be tufts of irises everywhere，arising up proud and tender. When the rose-coloured wild gladiolus is mingled in the corn，and the love-in-the-mist opens blue：in May and June，before the corn is cut. But as yet is neither May nor June，but the end of April，the pause between spring and summer，the nightingale singing uninterrupted，the bean-flowers dying in the bean-fields，the bean-perfume passing with spring，the little birds hatching in the nests，the olives pruned，and the vines，the last bit of late ploughing finished，and not much work to hand，now，not until the peas are ready to pick，in another two weeks or so.

So the change，the endless and rapid change. In the sunny countries，the change seems more vivid，and more complete than in the grey countries. In the grey countries，there is a grey or dark permanency，over whose surface passes change ephemeral，leaving no real mark.

But in the sunny countries，change is the reality and permanence is artificial and a condition of imprisonment. Hence，to the northerner，the phenomenal world is essentially tragical，because it is temporal and must cease to exist. Its very existence implies ceasing to exist，and this is the root of the feeling of tragedy.

But to the southerner，the sun is so dominant that shadow，or dark，is only merely relative：merely the result of something getting between one and the sun.

In the human race，the one thing that is always there is the shining sun，and dark shadow is an accident of intervention.

For my part，if the sun always shines，and always will shine，in spite of millions of clouds of words. In the sunshine，even death is sunny. And there is no end to the sunshine.

That is why the rapid change of the Tuscan spring is utterly free，for me，of any senses of tragedy. The sun always shines. It is our fault if we don't think so.

徒步旅行 Walking Tours

我们一定不要像某些人那样，认为徒步旅行只是观赏乡村风景的一种更好或更坏的方式。其实观赏山水风景有很多选择，而且都很不错，但没有哪种比坐火车观赏生动有趣，尽管一些附庸风雅之人并不赞同。但是，徒步观光的确不是一个十分可行的方法。一个真正有兄弟情怀的人乘船出行时，并不奢求沿途特殊的景观，而是怀着愉快之情——从早晨充满希望、精神抖擞地出航，到夜晚平安、满足地归航。他说不清是挎上还是卸下背包更快乐。启程时的兴奋让他一心想着终点。不管他做什么，得到的都不仅仅是事情本身，一定也会在未来得到更丰厚的四报。因此，快乐带来的快乐，源源不断。关于这一点，只有少数人能够明白，大多数人不是长期待在一个地方不动，就是顷刻数里。他们不会将两者折中，而是终日劳碌奔忙。而且，最重要的是赶路之人不能领悟旅游的乐趣。这种人，自己对着酒罐子痛饮时，见到别人用小杯子喝就会心生反感。他不会相信，啜酒才能品出酒的醇香；也不会相信，拼命赶路只会让自己变得麻木、冷酷无情，晚上回到客栈感觉筋疲力尽、头脑昏沉。他不像悠闲的漫步者那样觉得夜晚温柔迷人。上床大睡与双份睡前饮料是他仅有的生理需要。如果他是个吸烟的人，甚至连烟斗也会变得索然无味，没有了诱惑力。在追求快乐的过程中，这种人注定要事倍功半，并且最终与快乐无缘。总之，他如同谚语中所说的那种人——走得越远越糟糕。

那么，要好好地享受旅行，徒步旅行者需要力求独自前往。如果你成群结队或结伴而行，那就不再是徒步旅行，只是徒有其表罢了，更像是大自然中的一次野炊。徒步旅行应单独前往，因为它的本质是自由，这样你就能随时停下或继续前进，按着自己的心情选择这条路或那条路；你必须有自己的步调，既不需要跟紧步履匆匆之人，也无须在女孩身上浪费时间。然后，你一定要敞开胸怀，让所见之物为你的思想添彩。你应该像一支任一种风都能吹响的笛子。哈兹里特曾说：“我不能体会行走与谈论同步的乐趣。当我身在乡村时，我向往简单纯粹的生活，就像村民们一样。”这正是独自旅行的内涵。在你的身边，不该有嘈杂之声打破清晨沉思的寂静。一个没有停止思考的人，是不会全身心地沉醉于来自户外的美好景致之中的。这种沉醉起始于思维的眩晕和停滞，最终进入一种超凡的平和境界。

任何形式的出游，第一天总会有些苦涩的瞬间。旅者对他的背包态度冷淡，几乎想要把它抛到篱笆之外时，会像基督徒在类似情形下的做法一样——“跳三跳，继续歌唱。”并且，很快你就能获得出游的舒适心境。它会变得有吸引力，出游的精神也会投入其中。于是，背包一背上肩，你残留的睡意就会顷刻全无，你立刻抖擞精神，大踏步地开始新的旅行。无疑，在所有的心绪中，选择道路时的那种心情是最好的。当然，如果他要继续考虑那些烦心事，如果他向阿布达的箱子敞开胸怀，与女巫同行的话，那么无论他身在哪里，无论疾走还是漫步，他都不会快乐。而且，这会给自己的人生带来多少遗憾啊！如果现在有30个人同时出发的话，我敢跟你打赌，在这30个人中，你不会找到一个脸色忧郁之人。这是一件很值得去做的事情。试想，一个夏日的清晨，这些旅者带着夜色，一个接一个地上路了。他们当中有一个步调很快的人，他的目光中带着渴望，全神贯注于自己的思绪中，原来他正在自发机杼，字斟句酌，将山水秀景再现于文字。还有一个人，边走边凝视着草间；他在小河边停下，去看看那里飞舞的蜻蜓；他倾斜着身子依靠在茅屋门前，看不够那悠然自得的黄羊群。另外有一个人，他说着、笑着，对自己比比画画地一路走来。随着眼中闪现的怒火和额上的阴云，他的脸色在不时地变化着。原来，他正在路边构思文稿，表达演说，进行着最激烈的会谈。再过一会儿，他极可能会引吭高歌。对他而言，假如在这方面不是很擅长，刚好又在拐角处碰上一个并不木讷的农民，我想不出还有什么比这更糟糕的情形，我实在不知道这位行吟诗人和那位农民谁更难受。久居室内的人通常不习惯去那些陌生的地方，也不能理解这些游客的乐趣所在。我认识一个人，他曾被指控为疯汉，因为尽管他已是一个长着红胡子的成年人，但是走起路来像孩子一样蹦蹦跳跳。如果我告诉你，很多学识渊博的学者都向我坦白：他们徒步出游的时候都会唱歌，而且唱得很难听。当他们遇到上面的情况——与一个不幸的农民相遇时，都会羞愧难当，你一定会很吃惊的。

It must not be imagined that a walking tour，as some would have us fancy，is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good；and none more vivid，in spite of canting dilettantes，than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage inquest of the picturesque，but of certain jolly humors of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning，and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening's rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on，or takes it off，with more delight. The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself，but will be further rewarded in the sequel；and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand；they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour；they do not play off the one against the other，prepare all day for the evening，and all evening for the next day. And，above all，it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who drink their curacoa in liqueur glasses，when he himself can swill it in a brown John. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalize himself，and come to his inn，at night，with a sort of frost on his five wits，and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker！ He has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap；and even his pipe，if he be a smoker，will be savorless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness，and miss the happiness in the end；he is the man of the proverb，in short，who goes farther and fares worse.

Now，to be properly enjoyed，a walking tour should be gone upon alone. If you go in a company，or even in pairs，it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name；it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone，because freedom is of the essence；because you should be able to stop and go on，and follow this way or that，as the freak takes you；and because you must have your own pace，and neither trot alongside a champion walker，nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. “I cannot see the wit，” says Hazlitt，“of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country，” which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow，to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air，that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain，and ends in a peace that passes comprehension.

During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness，when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack，when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and，like Christian on a similar occasion，“give three leaps and go on singing.”And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic；the spirit of the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you，you pull yourself together with a shake，and fall at once into your stride. And surely，of all possible moods，this，in which a man takes the road，is the best. Of course，if he will keep thinking of his anxieties，if he will open the merchant Abudah's chest and walk arm-in-arm with the hag-why，wherever he is，and whether he walks fast or slow，the chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself！ There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour，and I would lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine thing to follow，in a coat of darkness，one after another of these wayfarers，some summer morning，for the first few miles upon the road. This one，who walks fast，with a keen look in his eyes，is all concentrated in his own mind；he is up at his loom，weaving and weaving，to set the landscape to words. This one peers about，as he goes，among the grasses；he waits by the canal to watch the dragonflies；he leans on the gate of the pasture，and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. And here comes another，talking，laughing，and gesticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time，as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles，delivering orations，and conducting the most impassioned interviews，by the way. A little farther on，and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well for him，supposing him to be no great master in that art，if he stumbles across no stolid peasant at a corner；for on such an occasion，I scarcely know which is the more troubled，or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour，or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary population，accustomed，besides，to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp，can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passersby. I knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic，because although a full-grown person with a red beard，he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that，when on walking tours，they sang-and sang very ill-and had a pair of red ears when，as described above，the inauspicious peasant plumped into their arms from round a corner.

威斯敏斯特教堂 Westminster Abbey

正值深秋时节，天气让人感觉冷清而忧郁，早晨的阴影几乎和傍晚相接，这更给岁末衰落的气氛笼罩了一层灰蒙蒙的色彩。就是在这样的一天，我一个人在威斯敏斯特教堂走了几个小时。在这古老的建筑群中，凄凉的感觉与这个季节的色调刚好吻合。我跨进门槛，似乎一脚迈进了古老的年代，融入消逝的岁月之中。

我是从威斯敏斯特学校的内庭进去的，穿过一道低矮的有着弧顶的长廊，感觉像是在隧道里。周围是厚厚的墙壁，墙上的小孔透出丝丝光线，反而使这里显得更加幽暗了。穿过这道长廊，我可以远远地望见前方的拱廊，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，景色分外荒凉，我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，也逐渐呈现出衰败的迹象。墙壁上覆盖了一层灰白的苔衣，让人无法辨认清楚上面的碑文、死者头像和其他丧葬的标志。拱门上本来雕刻有华丽富贵的花纹，如今早已不见那些斧凿的痕迹；当年拱石顶上雕刻的枝繁叶茂的玫瑰花，如今也不见了昔日的风采。这里所有的一切都刻上了岁月的痕迹，然而就是在这样的衰败之中，依然有一种让人怦然心动、欢喜愉悦的感觉。

一道金秋的阳光从拱廊的广场上空倾泻下来，照耀着中间稀稀拉拉的小草，也给拱廊的一角披上一层微暗的光线。从拱廊中间抬头远望，可以看见一小片蓝天或时而飘过的白云，还有那铺满了金子般阳光的塔尖正笔直地向蓝天延伸。

我缓缓地走在拱廊上，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，三座工艺粗糙的雕像吸引了我的目光，经过几代人在上面来来回回的行踏，它们几乎很难辨认清楚了。这是这座教堂早期三位修道

院院长的雕像，上面的墓志铭已经全被磨掉了，只剩下三个名字——很明显这也是经过后人重新修整的。（泰里斯院长，1082年；吉斯勃塔斯·克里斯宾诺斯院长，1114年；劳伦修斯院长，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。它们就像几艘抛了锚的破船，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，突然被教堂的钟声唤醒，钟声在墙壁之间回荡，刹那间整个拱廊都产生了共鸣。从坟墓里传出来的钟声，真是让人不寒而栗，它向人们提示时光的消逝，好似巨大的浪潮，不断地把我们推向坟墓。我继续向前走，到了一扇通向大寺里面的拱门前。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，圆柱上横架着一根根拱梁，它们那么高，真让人惊叹不已。站在柱脚下，我不禁想到，与人类的建筑比起来，人类自己是如此渺小。这座空旷幽暗的大教堂，顿时让人产生一种神秘的敬畏之情。我们小心翼翼地走过，生怕打破了墓地的肃静；而每当四周的墙壁传出脚步声时，坟墓间也作出了低沉的回应，我们更加深刻地感受到四周的宁静，只是此时的宁静已被我们破坏了。

也许是教堂本身庄严肃穆的气氛压抑着游客的心灵，令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，他们的丰功伟绩载满史册，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落地挤在这尘土之中，想当初他们在世时，整个帝国都不曾让他们满足，而死后只是在这个荒凉的地方一个阴暗的角落，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，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显赫一时的名字抛到脑后。

……

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晚祷的时间到了，我远远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，走过大堂前的几层台阶，然后穿过一道昏暗却雄伟的长拱门。巨大的铜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。墙上每个地方都布满了精巧的装饰，里面镶嵌着雕花窗格，拼成一座座壁龛，其中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几乎看不出它本来的重量和密度，像被施了魔法似的吊在半空中。还有那屋顶，装饰着无比精巧美丽的花纹，好像是一张牢不可破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橡木坐席，它们全部雕琢得富贵华丽，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。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，他和王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。

这种奢华瑰丽的气氛，却让人有种阴沉压抑的感觉：这是一个混合了坟墓和战利品的怪异场合，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萧条苍凉的地方，心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，重新恢复到这死气沉沉的寂静，除了偶尔几声小鸟的鸣叫。连鸟儿都驻扎在

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，这些人曾经被派驻到各个地方，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，但他们有个共同的愿望——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，让世代夙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的愤怒。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，大部分地方都被黑暗的阴影笼罩着，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——苏格兰蓟花。我走得有点儿累了，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。

教堂里零零落落的脚步声渐渐地消失了，我的耳边偶尔传来远处修士们的晚祷声和唱诗班轻柔的应答声。当所有这些声音都停息后，整个教堂也沉静下来。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，只有尘土和无际的黑暗。

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 sun-gilt 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 Gislebertus 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 them to such an amazing height；and man wandering about their bases，shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. 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 footfall 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 besidemementos 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 borne 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 heavedat 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.

亚顿河水 Afton Water

八月 August

一年之中，没有任何一个月的自然风光比得过八月。春天美不胜收，而五月也是—个清新、花开的月份，由于有冬季的对比，所以每年的此刻更显得魅力四射。八月就没有这样的优势。它来的时候，我们只记得明朗的天空，绿绿的田野，还有芳香四溢的花朵——记忆中的冰雪、寒风都已完全消失，仿佛它们在地球上了无踪迹——然而八月是多么愉快的季节啊！果园和麦田到处都充溢着工作的声响，串串硕果压得果树都弯下了腰，枝条低垂到地面，还有玉米，有的一捆捆优雅地堆在一起，有的则迎着微风招展，仿佛等待收割，把景致染上淡淡的金黄色。整个大地似乎笼罩着醇美的柔和。季节的影响，似乎蔓延至那辆马车，它缓慢地越过收割好的田地，这一切只有用肉眼才觉察得到，耳朵却听不到任何刺耳的声音。

马车摇晃着，轻快地经过路边的田野与果园，一群群的妇女和孩子们，有的正将水果往筛子上堆，有的则在捡散落的谷穗子，他们稍停了会儿手中的活儿，用深褐色的手遮在晒黑的脸上，以好奇的眼神望着乘客。一些结实的小顽童，太小还不能上学，但又不能把他们留在家中胡闹，便出于安全的考虑被安置在篮子里，这时也爬过了篮边，高兴得又踢又叫。收割的人停下了手里的活儿，双臂交叉地站着看马车通过，而拖货车的毛茸茸的马也睡眼惺忪地向那灵巧的马车队看了一眼，它的眼神很明白地表露出：“看看倒是不错，但在崎岖的田地上慢慢走，总比那么辛苦地工作要好，尤其是在尘土飞扬的路上。”当你拐过转角时，回头瞧瞧你的身后吧。妇女和孩子们又开始干活儿了：收割的人又弯下了腰，拖货车的马已继续前进。所有的一切都恢复了工作。

There is no month in the whole year，in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties，and May is a fresh and blooming month，but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies，green fields，and sweet-smelling flowers-when the recollection of snow，and ice，and bleak winds，has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth-and yet what a pleasant time it is！ Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour；trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground；and the corn，piled in graceful sheaves，or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it，as if it wooed the sickle，tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth；the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very waggon，whose slow motion across the well-reaped field，is perceptible only to the eye，but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.

As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road，groups of women and children，piling the fruit in sieves，or gathering the scattered ears of corn，pause for an instant from their labour，and shading the sunburnt face with a still browner hand，gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes，while some stout urchin，too small to work but too mischievous to be left at home，scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security，and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work，and stands with folded arms，looking at the vehicle as it whirls past；and the rough cart-horses bestow asleepy glance upon the smart coach team，which says，as plainly as a horse's glance can，“It's all very fine to look at，but slow going，over a heavy field，is better than warm work like that，upon a dusty road，after all.”You cast a look behind you，as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour：the reaper once more stoops to his work：the cart-horses has moved on：and all are again in motion.

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