威廉·黑兹里特/ William Hazlitt

威廉·黑兹利特（1778—1830），英国散文家，评论家，画家。他曾从事过绘画，但是在柯尔雷基的鼓励下写出《论人的行为准则》，随后又写了更多的散文作品。1812年在伦敦当记者，并为《爱丁堡评论》撰稿。从其作品来看，他热衷于争论，擅长撰写警句，漫骂和讽刺性的文字。他最著名的散文集是《席间闲谈》和《时代精神》。

Ace in the Hole

Understand these new phrases before you read this article.

1. brood upon：苦思

2. burst open:猛然打开

3. carry out:执行，实行；贯彻

4. cast down:使沮丧

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.

“The fields his study, nature was his book.”

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for criticizing hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbowroom and fewer incumbrance. I like solitude, when I give myselfup to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for“a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet.”

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation“May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impaired,”that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the greenturf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and three hours’march to dinner—and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the sun-burnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like“sunken wrack and sunless treasuries,”burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull common-places mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is prefect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, argument, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had rather be without them.“Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!”I have just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is with me“very stuff of the conscience.”Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from thence onward to the far-distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said that you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your receives. But this looks like a breach of manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party.“Out upon such half-faced fellowship,”say I . I like to be either entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable or solitary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett’s, that he thought“it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time.”So I cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy musing and lively conversation by fits and starts.

“Let me have a companion of my way,”says Sterne,“Were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.”It is beautifully said; but, in my opinion, this continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid; if you have to explain it, it is making a toil of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others. I am for this synthetical method on a journey in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, or in such company as I do not covet. I have no objection to argue a point with any one for twenty miles of measured road, but not for pleasure. If you remark the scent of a bean field crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant object, perhaps he is shortsighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the color of a cloud, which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy carving after it, andadissatisfactionwhich pursues you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill-humor. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend then against objections.

It is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you—these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can escape from the throng to do so. To give way to our feeling before company seems extravagance or affectation; and on the other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered), is a task to which few are competent. We must“give it an understanding, but no tongue.”My old friend Coleridge, however, could do both. He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale a summer’s day and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode.“He talked far above singing.”If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All-Fox-den. They had“that fine madness in them which our first poets had”; and if they could have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such stains as the following:

“Here be woods as green

As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet

As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet

Face of the curled streams, with flowers' as many

As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;

Here be all new delights, cool stream and wells,

Arbours o’ergrown with woodbine, caves and dells;

Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,

Or gather rushes to make many a ring,

For the long fingers; tell thee tales of love,

How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,

First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes

She took eternal fire that never dies;

How she convey’d him softly in a sleep

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep

Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,

Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,

To kiss her sweetest.”

...

I have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reserved. They are intelligible matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is not tacit, but communicable and overt.Salisbury Plain is barren of criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go to, in taking a solitary ramble, the question is what we shall meet with by the way.“The mind is its own place”; nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no meanéclat—showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance,“With glistering spires and pinnacles adorn’d—”descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy quadrangles and stone walls of halls and colleges—was at home in the Bodleian; And at Blenheim quite superseded the powdered Cicerone that attended us, and that pointed in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures. As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language. There is an involuntary antipathy in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. A person would almost feel stifled to find himself in the deserts of Arabia without friends and countrymen there must be allowed to be something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance of speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one’s ordinary train of ideas, one seems a species by one’s self, a limb torn off from society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support.—Yet I did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with novelty and delight. The confuse, busy murmur of the place was like oil and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners’hymn, which was sung from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the sun went down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of general humanity. I walked over“the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France,”erect and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedoms, all are fled, nothing remains but the Bourbons and the French people!—There is undoubtedly a sensation in travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else, but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting. It is too remote from our habitual associations to be a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is an animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we must“jump”all our present comforts and connexions. Our romantic and itinerant character is not to be domesticated. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful, and in one sense instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial downright existence, and never to join kindly on to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friend. So the poet somewhat quaintly sings,“Out of my country and myself I go.”Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall them; but we can be said only to fulfill our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in traveling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!

参考译文

这世上最快乐的事情之一就是旅行，不过我喜欢独自出门。在房间里，我享受的是社会生活，但是在室外，大自然就是我最好的伙伴。虽然我是一个人，但我从不感到孤独。

“田野是书房，自然是书籍。”

我不认为边走边谈有多明智。置身于乡村田野，我希望自己像草木一样复得自然。我不是来挑剔灌木丛和黑牛的，我走出城市是为了忘却城市和城市中的一切。有的人或许也是因为这个目的来到海滨，却又随身带去了城市的喧闹。我向往世界有着博大的空间而没有世俗的牵绊。我喜欢独处，身在其中独享其乐，而不会去要求“于僻远处觅友，共话独居之乐”。

旅行的意义在于享受自由，无拘无束的自由。一个人让思想驰骋飞翔，尽情地做让自己愉快的事情。出行的目的就是摆脱困扰和担忧，放松自我，不再因为他人而顾虑重重。我需要放松一下自己，静静地思考一些事情。让思绪“插上健壮的翅膀自由放飞，在嘈杂的人群中，它们曾经受到伤害，变得凌乱”。于是我暂时把我自己从城市中解脱出来，即使独自一人也不觉得失落。比起与那些朋友寒暄，为某些陈旧的话题喋喋不休地谈论，我像这样一个人坐在驿车或轻便的马车里，头顶湛蓝的天空，脚踏翠绿的田野，悠然地行驶在蜿蜒的小路上，真的很愉快。饭前我有三个小时的时间可以散步，顺便思考一些问题！独自享受这些美好的东西，我的心中强烈地涌动着一股喜悦。我情不自禁地大笑，愉快地奔跑，纵情高歌。天边云层翻滚，我陷入对往事的回忆之中，我是多么欣喜呀，就像久经烈日烤晒的印第安人一头扎进浪涛里，让大浪带他回到故乡的海岸。多少尘封往事，犹如“沉没的船只和无数的宝藏”涌现在我热切的眼中。我重温那时的所感所想，似乎回到儿时。我所说的沉默不是死气沉沉，不需要时不时刻意地加点喧闹的气氛，而是一种能抵御外界干扰的内心的安宁。这沉默本身就是最有力的雄辩。没有人比我更喜欢使用双关语、头韵、对仗、辩论和分析，但有时我宁愿撇开它们。“啊，别打扰我，让我独自享受宁静吧！”此时我还有其他事情要做，也许这些事情对你来说无关紧要，但却是我“所期待已久的”。一朵野玫瑰难道只有得到人们的称赞才能证明它有芳香吗？这朵翠绿的雏菊不已经植入我的心底了吗？我对你们解释这些在我看来值得珍惜的事物时，你们可能会笑话我，因此我把这一切掩埋在我心里，供我平日里冥想，让思绪从这里飞到远处的悬崖峭壁，再从那里飞向更遥远的地平线的另一端，不是更美妙吗？也许我不是某种意义上的好旅伴，因此我还是愿意独自旅行。我听说当你闷闷不乐时，也会独自出门或策马前行，沉浸在想象之中。但是你却认为这样做是违背礼节的，很没有礼貌，因此你总在想要不要回到朋友当中，而我却要说：“不要再伪装这种虚假的友谊了。”我喜欢要么完全是自己支配自己，要么完全由别人来支配自己；要么高谈阔论，要么沉默不语；要么散步或静坐，要么活跃或独处。我很同意考柏特先生的见解，他认为“法国人的一个坏习惯是一边吃饭一边喝酒，而英国人则应该在一个时间里专注于做一件事情。”因此我不能边谈话边思考，或因为太放纵自己的情绪导致时而忧心忡忡，时而情绪激昂、滔滔不绝。

“让我有个同行的伴，”斯特恩说，“哪怕只是聊聊太阳下山时影子怎么拉长也行。”这是一种很完美的说法，但我的观点是，反复地交换意见会破坏我们对事物最初最本质的印象，从而让思维变得很杂乱，假如你用一种哑语的方式表达自己的感受，那就真的是索然无味；假如你不得不解释一番，那么本要来享受的事物就变成了苦差。在阅读“自然”这本书时，为了使别人能弄明白，你不得不经常翻译它，给自己带来很多麻烦。所以，对于旅行，我倾向于用综合法而不是分析法，我喜欢储存一大堆想法，然后慢慢地解析研究。我希望能看着那些不清晰的想法像花絮一样飞舞在空中，而不是在一群矛盾的荆棘丛中纠缠不清。这一次，我要按照自己的方式做事情。这种情况只有独自一人时才能实现，或者是和我并不奢求在一起的一些人合作。我并不反对与朋友算好二十英里路程，然后边走边聊，但这么做绝不是兴趣所在。你对同伴说路旁的豆田散发着扑鼻的香气，可是他的嗅觉不太灵敏；当你评论远处的美景时，你的朋友或许是个近视眼，他得先戴上眼镜；当你感觉空气中蕴涵着某种情调，云朵的颜色很别致，所有这些让你陶醉，而这种感觉却无法对他言传。因此你们无法产生共鸣，而最后以至于你兴致大跌，只剩下一种幻想达成共鸣的渴望和不满的情绪。我现在已经不再和自己争吵，并且把我所有的结论都看做是理所当然，除非有人提出反对意见，这时我才认为有必要为我的观点辩护。

这不仅仅是因为你们对眼前的事物或环境持有不同的意见，而且是因为它们会引起你对很多往事的回忆，引起一些只能意会无法言传的奇思妙想。然而我却很珍爱它们，当我远离人群时，我甚至会深情地拥抱它们。让我们的感情在老朋友面前放纵显得有些牵强，同时，随时随地向人们披露这一人类的奇异，并引发他人的兴趣（否则就没有达到目的），这项艰巨的工作很难有人能承担。我们应该“领悟它，但是别说出来”。但是，我的老朋友柯勒律治能同时做到这两点。夏天在山林里漫步，他可以一边兴奋地口若悬河，滔滔不绝，一边又能把这种美景写进一篇有教育意义的诗歌中，或者写成一篇朴实无华的颂歌。“他说出来比唱出来都好听。”假如我也能够流利而又有文采地表达自己的想法，只怕我也希望身边也有一个同伴来和我一起颂扬那刚刚展开的话题。又或者说，只要我能听到他那依旧回**在山林中的声音我就会更加心满意足。这些诗人身上都含有“我们早期的诗人才有的纯朴的狂妄”，如果把他们的诗歌用一种稀有

的乐器演奏出来，他们就会吟唱如下的旋律：

“愿此处的树林

与别处一般翠绿，空气也是这样甜美，

像是有微风轻抚，微波**漾；

河面流水匆匆，花开遍野，

犹如初春时那样茂盛艳丽；

这里生机勃勃，流淌着清澈的小溪与山泉，

忍冬花爬满了凉亭，岩洞和山涧；

你可以随处停歇，我就在你身边歌唱，

或者我来采摘灯芯草为你编一枚戒指，

戴在你修长的手指上，为你讲述爱情的传说。容光μ然的月亮女神在林中狩猎，

一眼瞥见少年恩底弥翁，他的双眼

从此点燃了她心中生生不熄的爱火。

在他熟睡之际，她把罂粟花贴在他的双鬓上，

把它带到古老的阿特莫斯山陡峭的巅峰，

每当夜色降临，她便用太阳的光芒，

装点山脉，然后俯下身来，

亲吻她的心上人。”

……

我并不反对在参观古迹、地下渠道和欣赏名画时，身边有一个朋友或游伴同行。刚好与前面所说的理由相反，这些事情都与知识和智力有关，有值得深入探讨的价值。这个时候，情感的表达不应该模糊不清，而应该坦**利落，能够交流。索尔兹伯里平原没有什么值得谈论的，但是人们可以怀念草原上的巨石圈，可以从艺术和哲学的角度研究它。和一群人出去游玩时，首先需要考虑的事情是该到什么地方，而独自一个人出游，想到的问题则是路上会遇见什么人。“人的心灵便是旅程的终点站。”我们不必急于到达目的地，我们可以恰如其分地像当地的主人那样介绍艺术品。我曾经带朋友参观牛津，而且比较成功——远远地，我就把那座艺术的殿堂指给他们看，只见“闪闪发光的顶峰和豪华的塔尖”。我赞颂着，院里绿草茵茵，大厅被石墙包围，一股浓郁的博学气息从学院与大厅之间散发出来。——在鲍得里安楼里畅所欲言；在布伦海姆，我的讲解令我们那位头戴用白粉装饰成假发的导游相形见绌，他用小棍在那些美妙绝伦的图画中只点出来一些平凡无奇的地方。对于上面提到的各种理由有一个例外，那就是在国外旅游时，如果没有人陪同，我会觉得有点不踏实。我需要时不时地听点家乡话，英国人有一种思想，就是不由自主地排斥其他国家的风俗和思想，因此要有人与之共鸣才能克服这种不好的习惯。离家越远，这种慰藉就会由原来的奢求慢慢地变成一种渴求与欲望。独行在阿拉伯沙漠，远离亲人和朋友，人们会感到沉闷窒息，看见雅典和古罗马时，不得不承认心中有很多感慨想倾诉，我也不得不承认金字塔真的是宏伟壮观，一个简洁的概念实在不足以描绘。在这种情况下，一切都好像与人平时的观念背道而驰，自己一个人就似乎是一个种族，就像是从社会的躯体上卸下的一只臂膀，除非这时能获得友情和支持——然而有一次我并没有这种迫切的需求与渴望，那是我第一次来到法国，踏上那到处洋溢着欢笑的海滨。加来这个城市充满了新奇和快乐，连那里乱七八糟混杂在一起的声音都很好听。在夕阳的余晖中，港口停靠着一只破旧的船，听着水手们轻轻地歌唱，我丝毫没有觉得是在异国他乡，我只嗅到了人类共有的气息。我漫步在“法兰西满是葡萄藤的山区和飘**着笑声的平原”，顿时精神大振，心情爽朗，我没有目睹人民被锁在专制的王家宝座下、遭受压迫的情形，语言的不同也没有令我手足无措，因为我能领悟所有大画派的语言。但是所有这些都像幻影一样化为乌有了，绘画、英雄、荣耀与自由，所有这些都消失了，只剩下波旁王朝统治下的法兰西人民！——在国外旅行，能感受到在别的地方没有的兴奋，这一点是确定无疑的，虽然这种感觉不能持久，但在当时却让人心情愉快。这种情感与我们普通的日常生活截然不同，因此不能作为交谈或讨论的话题，而且就像梦境和其他某种生存状态一样，它也无法融入我们的日常生活。这是一种生动却转眼即逝的幻觉，我们只有通过努力，才能把正处于现实中的自己变成我们理想中的那样，为了再现那些曾经激动人心的时刻，我们就必须“跳出”现在安逸的生活和千丝万缕的各种关系。人类浪迹天涯的浪漫个性是不能被驯化的。约翰逊博士在谈到曾到国外旅行的人的时候说过，出国旅行并没有提高他们的社交能力。事实上，我们在国外确实度过了一些很美好的时光，从某种意义上讲也很能教育人，可是与我们本质的生活状态却背道而驰，这两者永远无法结合。当我出国旅行时，我们就不再是我们自己，而是也许会变成另外一个更让人羡慕的人。我们离开了朋友，离开了自我。于是诗人才吟唱出如此优雅的诗句：“离开祖国，离开自我。”如果想遗忘那些让人痛苦的思索，最好的办法是暂时离开那能触景伤情的事物以及与之相关的联系，然而只有生养我们的故乡才是我们安身立命的地方。因此，如果我可以再活一次，我就要用今生的时间巡游世界，而在来生，我将永远守候在我的故乡！

心灵小语

生活有了旅行就多姿多彩。如果说快乐是生活的画板，那么旅游就是画板的颜料，生活是快乐的，**的，梦想的。没有好的颜色，生活就会失去很多乐趣，让我们放飞心情，在旅行中体味人生，体味自然，体味自己的心境。

Seize Your Time

According to the article, match each of the following words with its synonym.

(1) vegetatea. an idea or feeling that someone expresses in words

(2) solitudeb. to hold it tightly

(3) sentimentc. to replace something

(4) clutchd. the state of being alone

(5) gloriouse. to spend their time doing boring or worthless things

Practicing for Better Learning

Do the following statements agree with the information in the reading text?

Write

TRUEif the statement agrees with the information

FALSEif the statement contradicts the information

______ (1) The British people are so concentrated as the French while eating.

______ (2) It is suggested to travel aboard if you want to improve social ability.

Now a Try

Translate the following sentences into English.

1.母爱是世界上最伟大的爱。

_____________________________________________________________________________

2.我每天至少步行两个小时。

_____________________________________________________________________________

3.他兴奋地叙述着刚看完的电影。