1 Dreamthorp
It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp；it will be sufficient to say I am not a native born，but that I came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and villages in which，in my time，I have pitched a tent did not please for one obscure reason or another；this one was too large，t'other too small：but when on a summer evening，about the hour of eight，I first beheld Dreamthorp，with its westward-looking windows painted by sunset，its children playing in the single straggling street，the mothers knitting at the open doors，the fathers standing about in long white blouses，chatting or smoking；the great tower of the ruined castle rising high into the rosy air，with a whole troop of swallows — by distance made as small as gnats — skimming about its rents and fissures：— when I beheld all this，I felt instinctively that my knapsack might be taken off my shoulders，that my tired feet might roam no more，that at last，on the planet，I had found a home. From that evening I have dwelt here，and the only journey I am like now to make is a very inconsiderable one，so far at least as distance is concerned，from the house in which I live to the graveyard beside the ruined castle. There，with the former inhabitants of the place，I trust to sleep quietly enough，and nature will draw over our heads her coverlet of green sod，and tenderly tuck us in，as a mother her sleeping ones，so that no sound from the world shall ever reach us，and no sorrow trouble us any more.
The village stands far inland；and the streams that trot through the soft green valleys all about have as little knowledge of the sea，as the three-years'-old child of the storms and passions of manhood. The surrounding country is smooth and green，full of undulations；and pleasant country roads strike through it in every direction，bound for distant towns and villages，yet in no hurry to reach them. On these roads the lark in summer is continually heard；nests are plentiful in the hedges and dry ditches；and on the grassy banks，and at the foot of the bowed dikes，the blue-eyed speed-well smiles its benison on the passing wayfarer. On these roads you may walk for a year and encounter nothing more remarkable than the country cart，troops of tawny children from the woods，laden with primroses，and，at long intervals — for people in this district live to a ripe old age — a black funeral creeping in from some remote hamlet；and to this last the people reverently doff their hats and stand aside. Death does not walk about here often，but when he does he receives as much respect as the squire himself. Everything round one is unhurried，quiet，moss-grown，and orderly. Season follows in the track of season，and one year can hardly be distinguished from another. Time should be measured here by the silent dial rather than by the ticking clock，or by the chimes of the church.
Dreamthorp can boast of a respectable antiquity，and in it the trade of the builder is unknown. Ever since I remember not a single stone has been laid on the top of another. The castle，inhabited now by jackdaws and starlings，is old；the chapel，which adjoins it，is older still；and the lake，behind both，and in which their shadows sleep，is，I suppose，as old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place，all mouths and faces and curious arabesques — as dry，however，as the castle moat — has a tradition connected with it；and a great noble riding through the street one day，several hundred years ago，was shot from a window by a man whom he had injured. The death of this noble is the chief link which connects the place with authentic history. The houses are old，and remote dates may yet be deciphered on the stones above the doors；the apple-trees are mossed and ancient；countless generations of sparrows have bred in the thatched roofs，and thereon have chirped out their lives. In every room of the place men have been born — men have died. On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen and have left no more trace than have last winter's snowflakes.
This commonplace sequence and flowing on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when Charles lost his head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own palace，the icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here，and the clown kicked the snowballs from his clouted shoon，and thought but of his supper when，at three o'clock，the red sun set in his purple mist. On that Sunday in June when Waterloo was going on，the gossips，after morning service，stood on the country roads discussing agricultural prospects，without the slightest suspicion that the day passing over their heads would be a famous one in the calendar. Battles have been fought，kings have died，history has transacted itself，— but，all unheeding，Dreamthorp has watched apple-trees redden and wheat ripen，and smoked its pipe and quaffed its mug of beer and rejoiced over its new-born children，and with proper solemnity carried its dead to the churchyard. As I gaze on the village of my adoption，I think of many things very far removed and seem to get closer to them. The last setting sun that Shakespeare saw reddened the windows here，and struck warmly on the faces of the hinds coming home from the fields. The mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a-dying made all the oak-woods groan round about here and tore the thatch from the very roofs I gaze upon. When I think on this，I can almost，so to speak，lay my hand on Shakespeare and on Cromwell. These poor walls were contemporaries of both，and I find something affecting in the thought. The mere soil is，of course，far older than either，but it does not touch one in the same way. A wall is the creation of a human hand，the soil is not.
这个梦屯并非实有其地，而只不过是作者想象中的一种寄托，一个imaginary land，有类我们的《桃花源记》。但一个人放着我们周围五光十色的繁华世界与热闹人生不去描写而把观察的目标完全集注到一个想象中的幻境上去，而且是在那么年轻的时候（按作者刊出此书时才不过三十二三岁），更何况仅仅在其中的这第一篇的这么不太长的一段中，便已经成了“死”字常不离口，便已经是在那里去寻觅其最终的归宿，并企盼从此而远离尘嚣，诀别人生！这实在未免有些不太好理解；也或许这背后自有其一番隐秘的伤心事情与一切不够顺遂的苦衷苦况。文中他仿佛已隐约预感到他的来日恐怕不太多了，而果不其然，三四年后他便死了。另外文中的那股凄恻的情调或许还另有来源，未尝不可追踪到从17世纪起便早已有之，而迨到18世纪末叶更屡见于文坛的那种以对生死宿命等问题为冥思默想题材的伤感派文艺潮流，而墓地诗的泛滥即是其一。这种流风遗绪，再结合其个人身世，是不可能不对他起些作用的。话拉回来。细按其文，某种悲剧式的美之外，一点纯朴慰人的气息还是能感得到的，再有不乏一定的清新淡雅的格调与诗意，只是属于那较素净的，因为他自己就是一名诗人，虽说成就不伟。有趣的是，Smith的这本书竟在上个世纪20年代时得到过郁达夫的注意，并在他的一篇谈散文的文章中提出说，这岂非即是我们的公安、竟陵派的东西吗？只是英国当日的这类作者远不会有我们那时的人数那么众多。试问郁达夫的这话是什么意思呢？显然郁认为Smith也具有当日（明万历年间）三袁式的“清新隽逸”与钟、谭式的“幽深孤峭”，再有前者的重视感悟性灵和后者的强调语须自出，等等。这些，只要我们能静下心来慢慢细读，或许也都能品尝到一些。但是如果粗粗一看便断言它太简单幼稚，那就不是真能欣赏文学了。译者写这段话的用意也正在此。