There is a certain graveyard1, looked upon on the one side by a prison, on the other by the windows of a quiet hotel; below, under a steep cliff, it beholds2 the traffic of many lines of rail, and the scream of the engine and the shock of meeting buffers3 mount to it all day long. The aisles4 are lined with the inclosed sepulchres of families, door beyond door, like houses in a street; and in the morning the shadow of the prison turrets6, and of many tall memorials, fall upon the graves. There, in the hot fits of youth, I came to be unhappy. Pleasant incidents are woven with my memory of the place. I here made friends with a plain old gentleman, a visitor on sunny mornings, gravely cheerful, who, with one eye upon the place that awaited him, chirped8 about his youth like winter sparrows; a beautiful housemaid of the hotel once, for some days together, dumbly flirted9 with me from a window and kept my wild heart flying; and once — she possibly remembers — the wise Eugenia followed me to that austere10 inclosure. Her hair came down, and in the shelter of the tomb my trembling fingers helped her to repair the braid. But for the most part I went there solitary11 and, with irrevocable emotion, pored on the names of the forgotten. Name after name, and to each the conventional attributions and the idle dates: a regiment12 of the unknown that had been the joy of mothers, and had thrilled with the illusions of youth, and at last, in the dim sick-room, wrestled13 with the pangs14 of old mortality. In that whole crew of the silenced there was but one of whom my fancy had received a picture; and he, with his comely15, florid countenance16, bewigged and habited in scarlet17, and in his day combining fame and popularity, stood forth18, like a taunt19, among that company of phantom20 appellations21. It was then possible to leave behind us something more explicit22 than these severe, monotonous23 and lying epitaphs; and the thing left, the memory of a painted picture and what we call the immortality24 of a name, was hardly more desirable than mere25 oblivion. Even David Hume, as he lay composed beneath that “circular idea,” was fainter than a dream; and when the housemaid, broom in hand, smiled and beckoned26 from the open window, the fame of that bewigged philosopher melted like a raindrop in the sea.
And yet in soberness I cared as little for the housemaid as for David Hume. The interests of youth are rarely frank; his passions, like Noah’s dove, come home to roost. The fire, sensibility, and volume of his own nature, that is all that he has learned to recognise. The tumultuary and gray tide of life, the empire of routine, the unrejoicing faces of his elders, fill him with contemptuous surprise; there also he seems to walk among the tombs of spirits; and it is only in the course of years, and after much rubbing with his fellow-men, that he begins by glimpses to see himself from without and his fellows from within: to know his own for one among the thousand undenoted countenances27 of the city street, and to divine in others the throb28 of human agony and hope. In the meantime he will avoid the hospital doors, the pale faces, the cripple, the sweet whiff of chloroform — for there, on the most thoughtless, the pains of others are burned home; but he will continue to walk, in a divine self-pity, the aisles of the forgotten graveyard. The length of man’s life, which is endless to the brave and busy, is scorned by his ambitious thought. He cannot bear to have come for so little, and to go again so wholly. He cannot bear, above all, in that brief scene, to be still idle, and by way of cure, neglects the little that he has to do. The parable29 of the talent is the brief epitome30 of youth. To believe in immortality is one thing, but it is first needful to believe in life. Denunciatory preachers seem not to suspect that they may be taken gravely and in evil part; that young men may come to think of time as of a moment, and with the pride of Satan wave back the inadequate31 gift. Yet here is a true peril32; this it is that sets them to pace the graveyard alleys33 and to read, with strange extremes of pity and derision, the memorials of the dead.
Books were the proper remedy: books of vivid human import, forcing upon their minds the issues, pleasures, busyness, importance and immediacy of that life in which they stand; books of smiling or heroic temper, to excite or to console; books of a large design, shadowing the complexity34 of that game of consequences to which we all sit down, the hanger-back not least. But the average sermon flees the point, disporting35 itself in that eternity36 of which we know, and need to know, so little; avoiding the bright, crowded, and momentous37 fields of life where destiny awaits us. Upon the average book a writer may be silent; he may set it down to his ill-hap7 that when his own youth was in the acrid38 fermentation, he should have fallen and fed upon the cheerless fields of Obermann. Yet to Mr. Arnold, who led him to these pastures, he still bears a grudge39. The day is perhaps not far oft when people will begin to count Moll Flanders, ay, or The Country Wife, more wholesome40 and more pious41 diet than these guide-books to consistent egoism.
But the most inhuman42 of boys soon wearies of the inhumanity of Obermann. And even while I still continued to be a haunter of the graveyard, I began insensibly to turn my attention to the grave-diggers, and was weaned out of myself to observe the conduct of visitors. This was dayspring, indeed, to a lad in such great darkness. Not that I began to see men, or to try to see them, from within, nor to learn charity and modesty43 and justice from the sight; but still stared at them externally from the prison windows of my affectation. Once I remember to have observed two working-women with a baby halting by a grave; there was something monumental in the grouping, one upright carrying the child, the other with bowed face crouching44 by her side. A wreath of immortelles under a glass dome45 had thus attracted them; and, drawing near, I overheard their judgment46 on that wonder. “Eh! what extravagance!”
To a youth afflicted47 with the callosity of sentiment, this quaint48 and pregnant saying appeared merely base.
My acquaintance with grave-diggers, considering its length, was unremarkable. One, indeed, whom I found plying49 his spade in the red evening, high above Allan Water and in the shadow of Dunblane Cathedral, told me of his acquaintance with the birds that still attended on his labours; how some would even perch50 about him, waiting for their prey51; and in a true Sexton’s Calendar, how the species varied52 with the season of the year. But this was the very poetry of the profession. The others whom I knew were somewhat dry. A faint flavour of the gardener hung about them, but sophisticated and dis-bloomed. They had engagements to keep, not alone with the deliberate series of the seasons, but with man-kind’s clocks and hour-long measurement of time. And thus there was no leisure for the relishing53 pinch, or the hour-long gossip, foot on spade. They were men wrapped up in their grim business; they liked well to open long-closed family vaults54, blowing in the key and throwing wide the grating; and they carried in their minds a calendar of names and dates. It would be “in fifty-twa” that such a tomb was last opened for “Miss Jemimy.” It was thus they spoke55 of their past patients — familiarly but not without respect, like old family servants. Here is indeed a servant, whom we forget that we possess; who does not wait at the bright table, or run at the bell’s summons, but patiently smokes his pipe beside the mortuary fire, and in his faithful memory notches56 the burials of our race. To suspect Shakespeare in his maturity57 of a superficial touch savours of paradox58; yet he was surely in error when he attributed insensibility to the digger of the grave. But perhaps it is on Hamlet that the charge should lie; or perhaps the English sexton differs from the Scotch59. The “goodman delver,” reckoning up his years of office, might have at least suggested other thoughts. It is a pride common among sextons. A cabinet-maker does not count his cabinets, nor even an author his volumes, save when they stare upon him from the shelves; but the grave-digger numbers his graves. He would indeed be something different from human if his solitary open-air and tragic60 labours left not a broad mark upon his mind. There, in his tranquil61 aisle5, apart from city clamour, among the cats and robins62 and the ancient effigies63 and legends of the tomb, he waits the continual passage of his contemporaries, falling like minute drops into eternity. As they fall, he counts them; and this enumeration64, which was at first perhaps appalling65 to his soul, in the process of years and by the kindly66 influence of habit grows to be his pride and pleasure. There are many common stories telling how he piques67 himself on crowded cemeteries68. But I will rather tell of the old grave-digger of Monkton, to whose unsuffering bedside the minister was summoned. He dwelt in a cottage built into the wall of the church-yard; and through a bull’s-eye pane69 above his bed he could see, as he lay dying, the rank grasses and the upright and recumbent stones. Dr. Laurie was, I think, a Moderate: ’tis certain, at least, that he took a very Roman view of deathbed dispositions70; for he told the old man that he had lived beyond man’s natural years, that his life had been easy and reputable, that his family had all grown up and been a credit to his care, and that it now behoved him unregretfully to gird his loins and follow the majority. The grave-digger heard him out; then he raised himself upon one elbow, and with the other hand pointed72 through the window to the scene of his life-long labours. “Doctor,” he said, “I ha’e laid three hunner and fower-score in that kirkyaird; an it had been His wull,” indicating Heaven, “I would ha’e likit weel to ha’e made out the fower hunner.” But it was not to be; this tragedian of the fifth act had now another part to play; and the time had come when others were to gird and carry him.
II
I would fain strike a note that should be more heroical; but the ground of all youth’s suffering, solitude73, hysteria, and haunting of the grave, is nothing else than naked, ignorant selfishness. It is himself that he sees dead; those are his virtues74 that are forgotten; his is the vague epitaph. Pity him but the more, if pity be your cue; for where a man is all pride, vanity, and personal aspiration75, he goes through fire unshielded. In every part and corner of our life, to lose oneself is to be gainer; to forget oneself is to be happy; and this poor, laughable and tragic fool has not yet learned the rudiments76; himself, giant Prometheus, is still ironed on the peaks of Caucasus. But by-and-by his truant77 interests will leave that tortured body, slip abroad and gather flowers. Then shall death appear before him in an altered guise78; no longer as a doom79 peculiar80 to himself, whether fate’s crowning injustice81 or his own last vengeance82 upon those who fail to value him; but now as a power that wounds him far more tenderly, not without solemn compensations, taking and giving, bereaving83 and yet storing up.
The first step for all is to learn to the dregs our own ignoble84 fallibility. When we have fallen through storey after storey of our vanity and aspiration, and sit rueful among the ruins, then it is that we begin to measure the stature85 of our friends: how they stand between us and our own contempt, believing in our best; how, linking us with others, and still spreading wide the influential86 circle, they weave us in and in with the fabric87 of contemporary life; and to what petty size they dwarf88 the virtues and the vices89 that appeared gigantic in our youth. So that at the last, when such a pin falls out — when there vanishes in the least breath of time one of those rich magazines of life on which we drew for our supply — when he who had first dawned upon us as a face among the faces of the city, and, still growing, came to bulk on our regard with those clear features of the loved and living man, falls in a breath to memory and shadow, there falls along with him a whole wing of the palace of our life.
III
One such face I now remember; one such blank some half-a-dozen of us labour to dissemble. In his youth he was most beautiful in person, most serene90 and genial91 by disposition71; full of racy words and quaint thoughts. Laughter attended on his coming. He had the air of a great gentleman, jovial92 and royal with his equals, and to the poorest student gentle and attentive93. Power seemed to reside in him exhaustless; we saw him stoop to play with us, but held him marked for higher destinies; we loved his notice; and I have rarely had my pride more gratified than when he sat at my father’s table, my acknowledged friend. So he walked among us, both hands full of gifts, carrying with nonchalance94 the seeds of a most influential life.
The powers and the ground of friendship is a mystery; but, looking back, I can discern that, in part, we loved the thing he was, for some shadow of what he was to be. For with all his beauty, power, breeding, urbanity and mirth, there was in those days something soulless in our friend. He would astonish us by sallies, witty95, innocent and inhumane; and by a misapplied Johnsonian pleasantry, demolish96 honest sentiment. I can still see and hear him, as he went his way along the lamplit streets, La ci darem la mano on his lips, a noble figure of a youth, but following vanity and incredulous of good; and sure enough, somewhere on the high seas of life, with his health, his hopes, his patrimony97 and his self-respect, miserably98 went down.
From this disaster, like a spent swimmer, he came desperately99 ashore100, bankrupt of money and consideration; creeping to the family he had deserted101; with broken wing, never more to rise. But in his face there was a light of knowledge that was new to it. Of the wounds of his body he was never healed; died of them gradually, with clear-eyed resignation; of his wounded pride, we knew only from his silence. He returned to that city where he had lorded it in his ambitious youth; lived there alone, seeing few; striving to retrieve102 the irretrievable; at times still grappling with that mortal frailty103 that had brought him down; still joying in his friend’s successes; his laugh still ready but with kindlier music; and over all his thoughts the shadow of that unalterable law which he had disavowed and which had brought him low. Lastly, when his bodily evils had quite disabled him, he lay a great while dying, still without complaint, still finding interests; to his last step gentle, urbane104 and with the will to smile.
The tale of this great failure is, to those who remained true to him, the tale of a success. In his youth he took thought for no one but himself; when he came ashore again, his whole armada lost, he seemed to think of none but others. Such was his tenderness for others, such his instinct of fine courtesy and pride, that of that impure105 passion of remorse106 he never breathed a syllable107; even regret was rare with him, and pointed with a jest. You would not have dreamed, if you had known him then, that this was that great failure, that beacon108 to young men, over whose fall a whole society had hissed109 and pointed fingers. Often have we gone to him, red-hot with our own hopeful sorrows, railing on the rose-leaves in our princely bed of life, and he would patiently give ear and wisely counsel; and it was only upon some return of our own thoughts that we were reminded what manner of man this was to whom we disembosomed: a man, by his own fault, ruined; shut out of the garden of his gifts; his whole city of hope both ploughed and salted; silently awaiting the deliverer. Then something took us by the throat; and to see him there, so gentle, patient, brave and pious, oppressed but not cast down, sorrow was so swallowed up in admiration110 that we could not dare to pity him. Even if the old fault flashed out again, it but awoke our wonder that, in that lost battle, he should have still the energy to fight. He had gone to ruin with a kind of kingly Abandon, like one who condescended111; but once ruined, with the lights all out, he fought as for a kingdom. Most men, finding themselves the authors of their own disgrace, rail the louder against God or destiny. Most men, when they repent112, oblige their friends to share the bitterness of that repentance113. But he had held an inquest and passed sentence: mene, mene; and condemned114 himself to smiling silence. He had given trouble enough; had earned misfortune amply, and foregone the right to murmur115.
Thus was our old comrade, like Samson, careless in his days of strength; but on the coming of adversity, and when that strength was gone that had betrayed him — “for our strength is weakness” — he began to blossom and bring forth. Well, now, he is out of the fight: the burden that he bore thrown down before the great deliverer. We
“In the vast cathedral leave him;
God accept him,
Christ receive him!”
IV
If we go now and look on these innumerable epitaphs, the pathos116 and the irony117 are strangely fled. They do not stand merely to the dead, these foolish monuments; they are pillars and legends set up to glorify118 the difficult but not desperate life of man. This ground is hallowed by the heroes of defeat.
I see the indifferent pass before my friend’s last resting-place; pause, with a shrug119 of pity, marvelling120 that so rich an argosy had sunk. A pity, now that he is done with suffering, a pity most uncalled for, and an ignorant wonder. Before those who loved him, his memory shines like a reproach; they honour him for silent lessons; they cherish his example; and in what remains121 before them of their toil122, fear to be unworthy of the dead. For this proud man was one of those who prospered123 in the valley of humiliation124; — of whom Bunyan wrote that, “Though Christian125 had the hard hap to meet in the valley with Apollyon, yet I must tell you, that in former times men have met with angels here; have found pearls here; and have in this place found the words of life.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
graveyard
|
|
| n.坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
beholds
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
buffers
|
|
| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
aisles
|
|
| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
aisle
|
|
| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
turrets
|
|
| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
hap
|
|
| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
chirped
|
|
| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
flirted
|
|
| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
austere
|
|
| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
wrestled
|
|
| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
pangs
|
|
| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
comely
|
|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
taunt
|
|
| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
appellations
|
|
| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
explicit
|
|
| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
monotonous
|
|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
immortality
|
|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
countenances
|
|
| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
throb
|
|
| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
parable
|
|
| n.寓言，比喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
epitome
|
|
| n.典型，梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
inadequate
|
|
| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
alleys
|
|
| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
complexity
|
|
| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
disporting
|
|
| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
eternity
|
|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
momentous
|
|
| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
acrid
|
|
| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
inhuman
|
|
| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
modesty
|
|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
crouching
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
dome
|
|
| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
afflicted
|
|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
plying
|
|
| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
perch
|
|
| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
relishing
|
|
| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
vaults
|
|
| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
notches
|
|
| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
maturity
|
|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
paradox
|
|
| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
robins
|
|
| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
effigies
|
|
| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
enumeration
|
|
| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
appalling
|
|
| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
piques
|
|
| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
cemeteries
|
|
| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
pane
|
|
| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
dispositions
|
|
| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
aspiration
|
|
| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
rudiments
|
|
| n.基础知识，入门 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
truant
|
|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
guise
|
|
| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
bereaving
|
|
| v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的现在分词 )；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
84
ignoble
|
|
| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
stature
|
|
| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
influential
|
|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
fabric
|
|
| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
dwarf
|
|
| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
vices
|
|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
jovial
|
|
| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
nonchalance
|
|
| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
demolish
|
|
| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
patrimony
|
|
| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
miserably
|
|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
ashore
|
|
| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
retrieve
|
|
| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
frailty
|
|
| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
urbane
|
|
| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
impure
|
|
| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
beacon
|
|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
hissed
|
|
| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
condescended
|
|
| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
repentance
|
|
| n.懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
glorify
|
|
| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
shrug
|
|
| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
marvelling
|
|
| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
prospered
|
|
| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |