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西南联大英文课（英汉双语版） [:1705033824]
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18 THE WIDOW AND HER SON
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By Washington Irving
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THE WIDOW AND HER SON, by Washington Irving, in his Sketch Book ,1820.
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Washington Irving （1783-1859）, American author. He was the first American to be generally recognized abroad as a man of letters. A good deal of his importance in American literature is definitely historical. His prose still possesses a quiet charm and delightful undercurrent of kindly humor. The essays “Rip Van Winkle” and “ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” are his best pieces.
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During my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us:
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Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
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The bridal of the Earth and Sky!
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I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else; and, if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven.
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But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit old woman bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the trace of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of Heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer, —habitually conning her prayer book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, —I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to Heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
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I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.
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While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, —the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.
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As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door;his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.
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I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased, “George Somers, aged 26 years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother’s heart.
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The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection:directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched revery. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation, “Nay, now, —nay, now, —don’t take it so sorely to heart!” She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.
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As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.
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I could see no more; my heart swelled into my throat, my eyes filled with tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part, in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.
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When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on Earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich! They have friends to soothe, pleasures to beguile, a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound;their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure; their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe; the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy; the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; —these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation.
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Notes
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congregated, accumulated; assembled.
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moldering, overgrowing with mold, a minute fungus growth;moldering used in the sense of decaying, uncared for.
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oaken paneling, thin, perhaps rectangular, board made of oak, set in a surrounding frame.
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reverend, to be held in respect and esteem.
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departed years, past ages; times gone by.
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