美文阅读 | 赠花卿 A Poem for Hua-Qing (杜甫)
Daily Quote The most efficient way to live reasonably is every morning to make a plan of one's day and every night to examine the results obtained. (Alexis Carrel) 合理生活最有效的方法是每天早上制定一天的计划，每天晚上检查结果。（亚历克西·卡雷尔）Poem of the Day 赠花卿杜甫 锦城丝管日纷纷，半入江风半入云。此曲只应天上有，人间能得几回闻。 Beauty of Words Oliver TwistBy Charles Dickens "This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child." "The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyong the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself"; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her Christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had."
Daily Quote
The most efficient way to live reasonably is every morning to make a plan of one's day and every night to examine the results obtained. (Alexis Carrel)
合理生活最有效的方法是每天早上制定一天的计划，每天晚上检查结果。（亚历克西·卡雷尔）
Poem of the Day
赠花卿
杜甫
锦城丝管日纷纷，半入江风半入云。
此曲只应天上有，人间能得几回闻。
Beauty of Words
Oliver Twist
By Charles Dickens
"This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why."
"Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don’t keep me here."
"This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth."
"Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."
"The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyong the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town."
"In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
"I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.
"Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her—to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself"; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will."
"What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow.
"The letter?—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her Christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before—and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had."
