5 Since traced by many obliging correspondents to the gallery of Charles Kingsley.
Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance. The pleasure that we take in life is of two sorts — the active and the passive. Now we are conscious of a great command over our destiny; anon we are lifted up by circumstance, as by a breaking wave, and dashed we know not how into the future. Now we are pleased by our conduct, anon merely pleased by our surroundings. It would be hard to say which of these modes of satisfaction is the more effective, but the latter is surely the more constant. Conduct is three parts of life, they say; but I think they put it high. There is a vast deal in life and letters both which is not immoral23, but simply a-moral; which either does not regard the human will at all, or deals with it in obvious and healthy relations; where the interest turns, not upon what a man shall choose to do, but on how he manages to do it; not on the passionate24 slips and hesitations25 of the conscience, but on the problems of the body and of the practical intelligence, in clean, open-air adventure, the shock of arms or the diplomacy26 of life. With such material as this it is impossible to build a play, for the serious theatre exists solely27 on moral grounds, and is a standing28 proof of the dissemination29 of the human conscience. But it is possible to build, upon this ground, the most joyous30 of verses, and the most lively, beautiful, and buoyant tales.
One thing in life calls for another; there is a fitness in events and places. The sight of a pleasant arbour puts it in our mind to sit there. One place suggests work, another idleness, a third early rising and long rambles31 in the dew. The effect of night, of any flowing water, of lighted cities, of the peep of day, of ships, of the open ocean, calls up in the mind an army of anonymous32 desires and pleasures. Something, we feel, should happen; we know not what, yet we proceed in quest of it. And many of the happiest hours of life fleet by us in this vain attendance on the genius of the place and moment. It is thus that tracts33 of young fir, and low rocks that reach into deep soundings, particularly torture and delight me. Something must have happened in such places, and perhaps ages back, to members of my race; and when I was a child I tried in vain to invent appropriate games for them, as I still try, just as vainly, to fit them with the proper story. Some places speak distinctly. Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck34. Other spots again seem to abide35 their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable, “miching mallecho.” The inn at Burford Bridge, with its arbours and green garden and silent, eddying36 river — though it is known already as the place where Keats wrote some of his Endymion and Nelson parted from his Emma — still seems to wait the coming of the appropriate legend. Within these ivied walls, behind these old green shutters37, some further business smoulders, waiting for its hour. The old Hawes Inn at the Queen’s Ferry makes a similar call upon my fancy. There it stands, apart from the town, beside the pier38, in a climate of its own, half inland, half marine39 — in front
the ferry bubbling with the tide and the guardship swinging to her anchor; behind, the old garden with the trees. Americans seek it already for the sake of Lovel and Oldbuck, who dined there at the beginning of the Antiquary. But you need not tell me — that is not all; there is some story, unrecorded or not yet complete, which must express the meaning of that inn more fully40. So it is with names and faces; so it is with incidents that are idle and inconclusive in themselves, and yet seem like the beginning of some quaint41 romance, which the all-careless author leaves untold42. How many of these romances have we not seen determine at their birth; how many people have met us with a look of meaning in their eye, and sunk at once into trivial acquaintances; to how many places have we not drawn43 near, with express intimations — “here my destiny awaits me” — and we have but dined there and passed on! I have lived both at the Hawes and Burford in a perpetual flutter, on the heels, as it seemed, of some adventure that should justify44 the place; but though the feeling had me to bed at night and called me again at morning in one unbroken round of pleasure and suspense45, nothing befell me in either worth remark. The man or the hour had not yet come; but some day, I think, a boat shall put off from the Queen’s Ferry, fraught46 with a dear cargo47, and some frosty night a horseman, on a tragic17 errand, rattle48 with his whip upon the green shutters of the inn at Burford. 6
6 Since the above was written I have tried to launch the boat with my own hands in Kidnapped. Some day, perhaps, I may try a rattle at the shutters.
Now, this is one of the natural appetites with which any lively literature has to count. The desire for knowledge, I had almost added the desire for meat, is not more deeply seated than this demand for fit and striking incident. The dullest of clowns tells, or tries to tell, himself a story, as the feeblest of children uses invention in his play; and even as the imaginative grown person, joining in the game, at once enriches it with many delightful49 circumstances, the great creative writer shows us the realisation and the apotheosis50 of the day-dreams of common men. His stories may be nourished with the realities of life, but their true mark is to satisfy the nameless longings51 of the reader, and to obey the ideal laws of the day-dream. The right kind of thing should fall out in the right kind of place; the right kind of thing should follow; and not only the characters talk aptly and think naturally, but all the circumstances in a tale answer one to another like notes in music. The threads of a story come from time to time together and make a picture in the web; the characters fall from time to time into some attitude to each other or to nature, which stamps the story home like an illustration. Crusoe recoiling52 from the footprint, Achilles shouting over against the Trojans, Ulysses bending the great bow, Christian53 running with his fingers in his ears, these are each culminating moments in the legend, and each has been printed on the mind’s eye for ever. Other things we may forget; we may forget the words, although they are beautiful; we may forget the author’s comment, although perhaps it was ingenious and true; but these epoch-making scenes, which put the last mark of truth upon a story and fill up, at one blow, our capacity for sympathetic pleasure, we so adopt into the very bosom54 of our mind that neither time nor tide can efface55 or weaken the impression. This, then, is the plastic part of literature: to embody56 character, thought, or emotion in some act or attitude that shall be remarkably57 striking to the mind’s eye. This is the highest and hardest thing to do in words; the thing which, once accomplished58, equally delights the schoolboy and the sage14, and makes, in its own right, the quality of epics59. Compared with this, all other purposes in literature, except the purely61 lyrical or the purely philosophic62, are bastard63 in nature, facile of execution, and feeble in result. It is one thing to write about the inn at Burford, or to describe scenery with the word-painters; it is quite another to seize on the heart of the suggestion and make a country famous with a legend. It is one thing to remark and to dissect64, with the most cutting logic65, the complications of life, and of the human spirit; it is quite another to give them body and blood in the story of Ajax or of Hamlet. The first is literature, but the second is something besides, for it is likewise art.
English people of the present day [1882] are apt, I know not why, to look somewhat down on incident, and reserve their admiration66 for the clink of teaspoons67 and the accents of the curate. It is thought clever to write a novel with no story at all, or at least with a very dull one. Reduced even to the lowest terms, a certain interest can be communicated by the art of narrative68; a sense of human kinship stirred; and a kind of monotonous69 fitness, comparable to the words and air of Sandy’s Mull, preserved among the infinitesimal occurrences recorded. Some people work, in this manner, with even a strong touch. Mr. Trollope’s inimitable clergymen naturally arise to the mind in this connection. But even Mr. Trollope does not confine himself to chronicling small beer. Mr. Crawley’s collision with the Bishop’s wife, Mr. Melnotte dallying70 in the deserted71 banquet-room, are typical incidents, epically72 conceived, fitly embodying73 a crisis. Or again look at Thackeray. If Rawdon Crawley’s blow were not delivered, Vanity Fair would cease to be a work of art. That scene is the chief ganglion of the tale; and the discharge of energy from Rawdon’s fist is the reward and consolation74 of the reader. The end of Esmond is a yet wider excursion from the author’s customary fields; the scene at Castlewood is pure Dumas; the great and wily English borrower has here borrowed from the great, unblushing French thief; as usual, he has borrowed admirably well, and the breaking of the sword rounds off the best of all his books with a manly75, martial76 note. But perhaps nothing can more strongly illustrate77 the necessity for marking incident than to compare the living fame of Robinson Crusoe with the discredit78 of Clarissa Harlowe. Clarissa is a book of a far more startling import, worked out, on a great canvas, with inimitable courage and unflagging art. It contains wit, character, passion, plot, conversations full of spirit and insight, letters sparkling with unstrained humanity; and if the death of the heroine be somewhat frigid79 and artificial, the last days of the hero strike the only note of what we now call Byronism, between the Elizabethans and Byron himself. And yet a little story of a shipwrecked sailor, with not a tenth part of the style nor a thousandth part of the wisdom, exploring none of the arcana of humanity and deprived of the perennial80 interest of love, goes on from edition to edition, ever young, while Clarissa lies upon the shelves unread. A friend of mine, a Welsh blacksmith, was twenty-five years old and could neither read nor write, when he heard a chapter of Robinson read aloud in a farm kitchen. Up to that moment he had sat content, huddled81 in his ignorance, but he left that farm another man. There were day-dreams, it appeared, divine day-dreams, written and printed and bound, and to be bought for money and enjoyed at pleasure. Down he sat that day, painfully learned to read Welsh, and returned to borrow the book. It had been lost, nor could he find another copy but one that was in English. Down he sat once more, learned English, and at length, and with entire delight, read Robinson. It is like the story of a love-chase. If he had heard a letter from Clarissa, would he have been fired with the same chivalrous82 ardour? I wonder. Yet Clarissa has every quality that can be shown in prose, one alone excepted — pictorial83 or picture-making romance. While Robinson depends, for the most part and with the overwhelming majority of its readers, on the charm of circumstance.
In the highest achievements of the art of words, the dramatic and the pictorial, the moral and romantic interest, rise and fall together by a common and organic law. Situation is animated84 with passion, passion clothed upon with situation. Neither exists for itself, but each inheres indissolubly with the other. This is high art; and not only the highest art possible in words, but the highest art of all, since it combines the greatest mass and diversity of the elements of truth and pleasure. Such are epics, and the few prose tales that have the epic60 weight. But as from a school of works, aping the creative, incident and romance are ruthlessly discarded, so may character and drama be omitted or subordinated to romance. There is one book, for example, more generally loved than Shakespeare, that captivates in childhood, and still delights in age — I mean the Arabian Nights — where you shall look in vain for moral or for intellectual interest. No human face or voice greets us among that wooden crowd of kings and genies85, sorcerers and beggarmen. Adventure, on the most naked terms, furnishes forth the entertainment and is found enough. Dumas approaches perhaps nearest of any modern to these Arabian authors in the purely material charm of some of his romances. The early part of Monte Cristo, down to the finding of the treasure, is a piece of perfect story-telling; the man never breathed who shared these moving incidents without a tremor86; and yet Faria is a thing of packthread and Dantes little more than a name. The sequel is one long-drawn error, gloomy, bloody87, unnatural88 and dull; but as for these early chapters, I do not believe there is another volume extant where you can breathe the same unmingled atmosphere of romance. It is very thin and light to be sure, as on a high mountain; but it is brisk and clear and sunny in proportion. I saw the other day, with envy, an old and a very clever lady setting forth on a second or third voyage into Monte Cristo. Here are stories which powerfully affect the reader, which can he reperused at any age, and where the characters are no more than puppets. The bony fist of the showman visibly propels them; their springs are an open secret; their faces are of wood, their bellies89 filled with bran; and yet we thrillingly partake of their adventures. And the point may be illustrated90 still further. The last interview between Lucy and Richard Feveril is pure drama; more than that, it is the strongest scene, since Shakespeare, in the English tongue. Their first meeting by the river, on the other hand, is pure romance; it has nothing to do with character; it might happen to any other boy or maiden91, and be none the less delightful for the change. And yet I think he would be a bold man who should choose between these passages. Thus, in the same book, we may have two scenes, each capital in its order: in the one, human passion, deep calling unto deep, shall utter its genuine voice; in the second, according circumstances, like instruments in tune92, shall build up a trivial but desirable incident, such as we love to prefigure for ourselves; and in the end, in spite of the critics, we may hesitate to give the preference to either. The one may ask more genius — I do not say it does; but at least the other dwells as clearly in the memory.
True romantic art, again, makes a romance of all things. It reaches into the highest abstraction of the ideal; it does not refuse the most pedestrian realism. Robinson Crusoe is as realistic as it is romantic; both qualities are pushed to an extreme, and neither suffers. Nor does romance depend upon the material importance of the incidents. To deal with strong and deadly elements, banditti, pirates, war and murder, is to conjure93 with great names, and, in the event of failure, to double the disgrace. The arrival of Haydn and Consuelo at the Canon’s villa94 is a very trifling95 incident; yet we may read a dozen boisterous96 stories from beginning to end, and not receive so fresh and stirring an impression of adventure. It was the scene of Crusoe at the wreck, if I remember rightly, that so bewitched my blacksmith. Nor is the fact surprising. Every single article the castaway recovers from the hulk is “a joy for ever” to the man who reads of them. They are the things that should be found, and the bare enumeration97 stirs the blood. I found a glimmer98 of the same interest the other day in a new book, The Sailor’s Sweetheart, by Mr. Clark Russell. The whole business of the brig Morning Star is very rightly felt and spiritedly written; but the clothes, the books and the money satisfy the reader’s mind like things to eat. We are dealing99 here with the old cut-and-dry, legitimate100 interest of treasure trove101. But even treasure trove can be made dull. There are few people who have not groaned102 under the plethora103 of goods that fell to the lot of the Swiss Family Robinson, that dreary104 family. They found article after article, creature after creature, from milk kine to pieces of ordnance105, a whole consignment106; but no informing taste had presided over the selection, there was no smack107 or relish108 in the invoice109; and these riches left the fancy cold. The box of goods in Verne’s Mysterious Island is another case in point: there was no gusto and no glamour110 about that; it might have come from a shop. But the two hundred and seventy-eight Australian sovereigns on board the Morning Star fell upon me like a surprise that I had expected; whole vistas111 of secondary stories, besides the one in hand, radiated forth from that discovery, as they radiate from a striking particular in life; and I was made for the moment as happy as a reader has the right to be.
To come at all at the nature of this quality of romance, we must bear in mind the peculiarity112 of our attitude to any art. No art produces illusion; in the theatre we never forget that we are in the theatre; and while we read a story, we sit wavering between two minds, now merely clapping our hands at the merit of the performance, now condescending113 to take an active part in fancy with the characters. This last is the triumph of romantic story-telling: when the reader consciously plays at being the hero, the scene is a good scene. Now in character-studies the pleasure that we take is critical; we watch, we approve, we smile at incongruities114, we are moved to sudden heats of sympathy with courage, suffering or virtue115. But the characters are still themselves, they are not us; the more clearly they are depicted116, the more widely do they stand away from us, the more imperiously do they thrust us back into our place as a spectator. I cannot identify myself with Rawdon Crawley or with Eugene de Rastignac, for I have scarce a hope or fear in common with them. It is not character but incident that woos us out of our reserve. Something happens as we desire to have it happen to ourselves; some situation, that we have long dallied117 with in fancy, is realised in the story with enticing118 and appropriate details. Then we forget the characters; then we push the hero aside; then we plunge119 into the tale in our own person and bathe in fresh experience; and then, and then only, do we say we have been reading a romance. It is not only pleasurable things that we imagine in our day-dreams; there are lights in which we are willing to contemplate120 even the idea of our own death; ways in which it seems as if it would amuse us to be cheated, wounded or calumniated121. It is thus possible to construct a story, even of tragic import, in which every incident, detail and trick of circumstance shall be welcome to the reader’s thoughts. Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child; it is there that he changes the atmosphere and tenor122 of his life; and when the game so chimes with his fancy that he can join in it with all his heart, when it pleases him with every turn, when he loves to recall it and dwells upon its recollection with entire delight, fiction is called romance.
Walter Scott is out and away the king of the romantics. The Lady of the Lake has no indisputable claim to be a poem beyond the inherent fitness and desirability of the tale. It is just such a story as a man would make up for himself, walking, in the best health and temper, through just such scenes as it is laid in. Hence it is that a charm dwells undefinable among these slovenly123 verses, as the unseen cuckoo fills the mountains with his note; hence, even after we have flung the book aside, the scenery and adventures remain present to the mind, a new and green possession, not unworthy of that beautiful name, The Lady of the Lake, or that direct, romantic opening — one of the most spirited and poetical124 in literature — “The stag at eve had drunk his fill.” The same strength and the same weaknesses adorn125 and disfigure the novels. In that ill-written, ragged126 book, The Pirate, the figure of Cleveland — cast up by the sea on the resounding127 foreland of Dunrossness — moving, with the blood on his hands and the Spanish words on his tongue, among the simple islanders — singing a serenade under the window of his Shetland mistress — is conceived in the very highest manner of romantic invention. The words of his song, “Through groves128 of palm,” sung in such a scene and by such a lover, clench129, as in a nutshell, the emphatic130 contrast upon which the tale is built. in Guy Mannering, again, every incident is delightful to the imagination; and the scene when Harry131 Bertram lands at Ellangowan is a model instance of romantic method.
“I remember the tune well,” he says, “though I cannot guess what should at present so strongly recall it to my memory.” He took his flageolet from his pocket and played a simple melody. Apparently132 the tune awoke the corresponding associations of a damsel. She immediately took up the song —
“ ‘Are these the links of Forth, she said;
Or are they the crooks133 of Dee,
Or the bonny woods of Warroch Head
That I so fain would see?’
“‘By heaven!’ said Bertram, ‘it is the very ballad134.’”
On this quotation135 two remarks fall to be made. First, as an instance of modern feeling for romance, this famous touch of the flageolet and the old song is selected by Miss Braddon for omission136. Miss Braddon’s idea of a story, like Mrs. Todgers’s idea of a wooden leg, were something strange to have expounded137. As a matter of personal experience, Meg’s appearance to old Mr. Bertram on the road, the ruins of Derncleugh, the scene of the flageolet, and the Dominie’s recognition of Harry, are the four strong notes that continue to ring in the mind after the book is laid aside. The second point is still more curious. The, reader will observe a mark of excision138 in the passage as quoted by me. Well, here is how it runs in the original: “a damsel, who, close behind a fine spring about half-way down the descent, and which had once supplied the castle with water, was engaged in bleaching139 linen140.” A man who gave in such copy would be discharged from the staff of a daily paper. Scott has forgotten to prepare the reader for the presence of the “damsel”; he has forgotten to mention the spring and its relation to the ruin; and now, face to face with his omission, instead of trying back and starting fair, crams141 all this matter, tail foremost, into a single shambling sentence. It is not merely bad English, or bad style; it is abominably142 bad narrative besides.
Certainly the contrast is remarkable143; and it is one that throws a strong light upon the subject of this paper. For here we have a man of the finest creative instinct touching144 with perfect certainty and charm the romantic junctures145 of his story; and we find him utterly146 careless, almost, it would seem, incapable, in the technical matter of style, and not only frequently weak, but frequently wrong in points of drama. In character parts, indeed, and particularly in the Scotch147, he was delicate, strong and truthful148; but the trite149, obliterated150 features of too many of his heroes have already wearied two generations of readers. At times his characters will speak with something far beyond propriety151 with a true heroic note; but on the next page they will he wading152 wearily forward with an ungrammatical and undramatic rigmarole of words. The man who could conceive and write the character of Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot, as Scott has conceived and written it, had not only splendid romantic, but splendid tragic gifts. How comes it, then, that he could so often fob us off with languid, inarticulate twaddle?
It seems to me that the explanation is to be found in the very quality of his surprising merits. As his books are play to the reader, so were they play to him. He conjured153 up the romantic with delight, but he had hardly patience to describe it. He was a great day-dreamer, a seer of fit and beautiful and humorous visions, but hardly a great artist; hardly, in the manful sense, an artist at all. He pleased himself, and so he pleases us. Of the pleasures of his art he tasted fully; but of its toils154 and vigils and distresses155 never man knew less. A great romantic — an idle child.
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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affected
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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tempestuous
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wreck
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immoral
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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hesitations
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diplomacy
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solely
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standing
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dissemination
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| 传播,宣传,传染(病毒) | |
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joyous
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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anonymous
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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shipwreck
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abide
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eddying
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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41
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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42
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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45
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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46
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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47
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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48
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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49
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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50
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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51
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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52
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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53
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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54
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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55
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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56
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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57
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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58
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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59
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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60
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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61
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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62
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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63
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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64
dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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65
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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66
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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67
teaspoons
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| n.茶匙( teaspoon的名词复数 )；一茶匙的量 | |
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68
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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69
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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70
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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71
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
epically
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| adv.史诗式地，宏伟地 | |
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73
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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74
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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75
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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76
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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77
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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78
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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79
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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80
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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81
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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83
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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84
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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85
genies
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| n.（阿拉伯神话故事中的）神怪，妖怪( genie的名词复数 )；（形容将对人们的生活造成永久性的、尤指负面影响的事件已经发生）妖怪已经放出魔瓶了 | |
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86
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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87
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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88
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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89
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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90
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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92
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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93
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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94
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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95
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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96
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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97
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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98
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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99
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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100
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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101
trove
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| n.被发现的东西，收藏的东西 | |
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102
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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103
plethora
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| n.过量，过剩 | |
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104
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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105
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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106
consignment
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| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
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107
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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108
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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109
invoice
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| vt.开发票；n.发票，装货清单 | |
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110
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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111
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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112
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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113
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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114
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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115
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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116
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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117
dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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118
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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119
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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120
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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121
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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123
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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124
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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125
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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126
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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127
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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128
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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129
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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130
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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131
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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132
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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133
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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135
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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136
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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137
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
excision
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| n.删掉；除去 | |
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139
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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140
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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141
crams
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| v.塞入( cram的第三人称单数 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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142
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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143
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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144
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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145
junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
scotch
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| 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 | |
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148
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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149
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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150
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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151
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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152
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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153
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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154
toils
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| 网 | |
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155
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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