Recollections of Childhood
Richard Steele
There are those among mankind who can enjoy no relish of their being,except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to them, and think everything lost that passes unobserved; but others find a solid delight in stealing by the crowd and modelling their life after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true friendship or goodwill, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a certain reverence for the manes[1] of their deceased friends, and have withdrawn themselves from the rest of the world at certain seasons,to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life; and indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleasing entertainment than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we have parted with, that have been dear and agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. With such inclinations in my heart, I went to my closet yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrowful;upon which occasion I could not but look with disdain upon myself,that, though all the reasons which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now as forcible as at the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at that time;but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleasing adventures I have had with some who have long been blended with common earth.Though it is by the benefit of nature that length of time thus blots out the violence of aflictions, yet with tempers too much given to pleasure it is almost necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory,and ponder step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart and makes it beat with due time,without being quickened with desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order to make it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours before it can recover the regularity of its time. ‘Such,’ thought I, ‘shall be my method this evening; and since it is that day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circumstances of this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life.’
The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the cofin, and calling ‘Papa’; for I know not how I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother caught me in her arms, and,transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in,she almost smothered me in her embrace, and told me, in a flood of tears, Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence he could never come to us again. She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport,which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow which, before I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo, and receives impressions so forcible that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark with which a child is born is to be taken away by any future application.Hence it is that good-nature in me is no merit; but having been so frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of any afliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I imbibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten thousand calamities, and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be that in such a humour as I am now in,I can the better indulge myself in the softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety which arises from the memory of past aflictions.
We, that are very old, are better able to remember things which befell us in our distant youth than the passages of later days. For this reason it is that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me in this ofice of sorrow. Untimely or unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament, so little are we able to make it indiferent when a thing happens, though we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises diferent passions according to the circumstance of their departure. Who can have lived in an army,and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the imprecations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices? But gallant men who are cut off by the sword move rather our veneration than our pity; and we gather relief enough from their own contempt of death, to make it no evil, which was approached with so much cheerfulness and attended with so much honour. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions,and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those from whom they had the fortune to receive it,—I say, when we let our thoughts wander from such noble objects, and consider the havoc which is made among the tender and the innocent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once.
Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper tenderness) I should record the beauty, innocence, and untimely death of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin! How ignorantly did she charm, how carelessly excel! Oh death! Thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty; but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless? Nor age, nor business, nor distress can erase the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I saw her dressed for a ball and in a shroud. How ill did the habit of death become the pretty trifler! I still behold the smiling earth—
A large train of disasters were coming on to my memory, when my servant knocked at my closet door and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thursday next at Garraway’s Coffee house. Upon the receipt of it, I sent for three of my friends. We are so intimate that we can be company in whatever state of mind we meet,and can entertain each other without expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such a heat as moved us rather to be cheerful than frolicsome. It revived the spirits without firing the blood. We commended it till two of the clock this morning; and, having to-day met a little before dinner, we found that,though we drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had passed the night before.
Notes
This essay, from the Tatler, No. 181 (June 6, 1710), reveals Steele’s tender Irish heart. An incorrigible sentimentalist, Steele delighted in depicting misery and producing tears, and he was candid enough to admit that he enjoyed melancholy for its own sake. The passage about the death of his father is autobiographical; Steele lost his father when he was‘not quite five years of age.’
Motto, from Virgil, The Aeneid, V, 49:‘The day has come, if I mistake not, which I shall hold always bitter, always memorable, if ye gods will it.’Compare Dryden’s verse translation:
‘And now the rising day renews the year;
A day for ever sad, for ever dear.’
manes, spirits.
poises the heart, gives the heart its true balance.
beyond all patience of, beyond all power of enduring.
the body in embryo, the body before it is born.
draw defences from my own judgment, apply my reason to check my emotions.
this office of sorrow, this sorrowful duty.
How ignorantly did she charm, etc. How little she knew her own power of attracting, how little trouble she took to outshine others.
habit of death. Here ‘habit’ means dress or garment (archaic).
Garraway’s Coffee-house, a rendezvous of commercial people. The‘hamper of wine’ here mentioned is an allusion to an advertisement,which appeared in the same number of the Tatler, of the sale of ‘forty-six hogsheads and one half of extraordinary French claret.’
【作品简介】
本文选自《闲话报》181期（1710年6月6日），揭示了斯梯尔那一颗温柔的爱尔兰之心。斯梯尔是一个不可救药的情感主义者，喜欢描写苦难和催人泪下的情景；他坦率地承认自己很享受这种悲壮的感觉。他的自传里记载了他父亲去世的一段往事；斯梯尔在他“不满五岁”时，便失去了父亲。
篇首格言出自维吉尔的《埃涅阿斯纪》第五卷：“这一天已经到来，如果我没有弄错，如果上帝愿意的话，那么我将永远怀揣着苦涩。”而用德莱顿诗歌形式翻译则是：“一年到头/每一天都带着悲伤，也带着亲情和爱。”
【作品解析】
manes：这里指死者的灵魂。
poises the heart：让心灵得到真正的平静。
beyond all patience of：无法忍受。
the body in embryo：尚在胚胎中的人体。
draw defences from my own judgment：用理性控制感情。
this office of sorrow：这悲痛的职责。
How ignorantly did she charm, etc.：她对自己的魅力毫无察觉，几乎不费什么力气就可以超越别人。
habit of death：这里“habit”是指衣着（古义）。
Garraway’s Coffee-house：商人聚会场所。这里的“hamper of wine”（一篮子的葡萄酒）指的是当时刊登在同期《闲话报》上的一则销售广告，内容是出售“四十六桶半法国优质红葡萄酒”。