I am so far from deriding7 the criticism of this honest gentleman that I would wish to have equal sincerity8 and boldness in saying what I thought—if I really thought any thing at all—concerning the art which I spent so great a share of my time at Venice in looking at. But I fear I should fall short of the terseness9 as well as the candor10 I applaud, and should presently find myself tediously rehearsing criticisms which I neither respect for their honesty, nor regard for their justice. It is the sad fortune of him who desires to arrive at full perception of the true and beautiful in art, to find that critics have no agreement except upon a few loose general principles; and that among the artists, to whom he turns in his despair, no two think alike concerning the same master, while his own little learning has made him distrust his natural likings and mislikings. Ruskin is undoubtedly11 the best guide you can have in your study of the Venetian painters; and after reading him, and suffering confusion and ignominy from his theories and egotisms, the exercises by which you are chastised12 into admission that he has taught you any thing cannot fail to end in a humility13 very favorable to your future as a Christian14. But even in this subdued15 state you must distrust the methods by which he pretends to relate the aesthetic16 truths you perceive to certain civil and religious conditions: you scarcely understand how Tintoretto, who genteelly disdains17 (on one page) to paint well any person baser than a saint or senator, and with whom “exactly in proportion to the dignity of the character is the beauty of the painting,”—comes (on the next page) to paint a very “weak, mean, and painful” figure of Christ; and knowing a little the loose lives of the great Venetian painters, you must reject, with several other humorous postulates18, the idea that good colorists are better men than bad colorists. Without any guide, I think, these painters may be studied and understood, up to a certain point, by one who lives in the atmosphere of their art at Venice, and who, insensibly breathing in its influence, acquires a feeling for it which all the critics in the world could not impart where the works themselves are not to be seen. I am sure that no one strange to the profession of artist ever received a just notion of any picture by reading the most accurate and faithful description of it: stated dimensions fail to convey ideas of size; adjectives are not adequate to the ideas of movement; and the names of the colors, however artfully and vividly19 introduced and repeated, cannot tell the reader of a painter’s coloring. I should be glad to hear what Titian’s “Assumption” is like from some one who knew it by descriptions. Can any one who has seen it tell its likeness20, or forget it? Can any cunning critic describe intelligibly21 the difference between the styles of Titian, of Tintoretto, and of Paolo Veronese,—that difference which no one with the slightest feeling for art can fail to discern after looking thrice at their works? It results from all this that I must believe special criticisms on art to have their small use only in the presence of the works they discuss. This is my sincere belief, and I could not, in any honesty, lumber22 my pages with descriptions or speculations23 which would be idle to most readers, even if I were a far wiser judge of art than I affect to be. As it is, doubting if I be gifted in that way at all, I think I may better devote myself to discussion of such things in Venice as can be understood by comparison with things elsewhere, and so rest happy in the thought that I have thrown no additional darkness on any of the pictures half obscured now by the religious dimness of the Venetian churches.
Doubt, analogous24 to that expressed, has already made me hesitate to spend the reader’s patience upon many well-known wonders of Venice; and, looking back over the preceding chapters, I find that some of the principal edifices25 of the city have scarcely got into my book even by name. It is possible that the reader, after all, loses nothing by this; but I should regret it, if it seemed ingratitude27 to that expression of the beautiful which beguiled29 many dull hours for me, and kept me company in many lonesome ones. For kindnesses of this sort, indeed, I am under obligations to edifices in every part of the city; and there is hardly a bit of sculptured stone in the Ducal Palace to which I do not owe some pleasant thought or harmless fancy. Yet I am shy of endeavoring in my gratitude28 to transmute30 the substance of the Ducal Palace into some substance that shall be sensible to the eyes that look on this print; and I forgive myself the reluctance31 the more readily when I remember how, just after reading Mr. Ruskin’s description of St. Mark’s Church, I, who had seen it every day for three years, began to have dreadful doubts of its existence.
To be sure, this was only for a moment, and I do not think all the descriptive talent in the world could make me again doubt St. Mark’s, which I remember with no less love than veneration32. This church indeed has a beauty which touches and wins all hearts, while it appeals profoundly to the religious sentiment. It is as if there were a sheltering friendliness33 in its low-hovering domes6 and arches, which lures34 and caresses35 while it awes36; as if here, where the meekest38 soul feels welcome and protection, the spirit oppressed with the heaviest load of sin might creep nearest to forgiveness, hiding the anguish39 of its repentance40 in the temple’s dim cavernous recesses41, faintly starred with mosaic42, and twilighted by twinkling altar-lamps. Though the temple is enriched with incalculable value of stone and sculpture, I cannot remember at any time to have been struck by its mere45 opulence46 Preciousness of material has been sanctified to the highest uses, and there is such unity47 and justness in the solemn splendor48, that wonder is scarcely appealed to. Even the priceless and rarely seen treasures of the church—such as the famous golden altarpiece, whose costly49 blaze of gems50 and gold was lighted in Constantinople six hundred years ago—failed to impress me with their pecuniary51 worth, though I
“Value the giddy pleasure of the eyes,”
and like to marvel52 at precious things. The jewels of other churches are conspicuous53 and silly heaps of treasure; but St. Mark’s, where every line of space shows delicate labor54 in rich material, subdues55 the jewels to their place of subordinate adornment56. So, too, the magnificence of the Romish service seems less vainly ostentatious there. In other churches the ceremonies may sometimes impress you with a sense of their grandeur57, and even spirituality, but they all need the effect of twilight43 upon them. You want a foreground of kneeling figures, and faces half visible through heavy bars of shadow; little lamps must tremble before the shrines58; and in the background must rise the high altar, all ablaze60 with candles from vault61 to pavement, while a hidden choir62 pours music from behind, and the organ shakes the heart with its heavy tones. But with the daylight on its splendors63 even the grand function of the Te Deum fails to awe37, and wearies by its length, except in St. Mark’s alone, which is given grace to spiritualize what elsewhere would be mere theatric pomp. 19 The basilica, however, is not in every thing the edifice26 best adapted to the Romish worship; for the incense64, which is a main element of the function, is gathered and held there in choking clouds under the low wagon-roofs of the cross-naves.—Yet I do not know if I would banish65 incense from the formula of worship even in St. Mark’s. There is certainly a poetic66 if not a religious grace in the swinging censer and its curling fumes67; and I think the perfume, as it steals mitigated68 to your nostrils69, out of the open church door, is the reverendest smell in the world.
The music in Venetian churches is not commonly very good: the best is to be heard at St. Mark’s, though the director of the choir always contrives70 to make so odious71 a slapping with his baton72 as nearly to spoil your enjoyment73. The great musical event of the year is the performance (immediately after the Festa del Redentore) of the Soldini Masses. These are offered for the repose74 of one Guiseppe Soldini of Verona, who, dying possessed75 of about a million francs, bequeathed a part (some six thousand francs) annually76 to the church of St. Mark, on conditions named in his will. The terms are, that during three successive days, every year, there shall be said for the peace of his soul a certain number of masses,—all to be done in the richest and costliest78 manner. In case of delinquency, the bequest79 passes to the Philharmonic Society of Milan; but the priesthood of the basilica so strictly80 regard the wishes of the deceased that they never say less than four masses over and above the prescribed number. 20
As there is so little in St. Mark’s of the paltry81 or revolting character of modern Romanism, one would form too exalted82 an idea of the dignity of Catholic worship if he judged it there. The truth is, the sincerity and nobility of a spirit well-nigh unknown to the Romish faith of these times, are the ruling influences in that temple: the past lays its spell upon the present, transfiguring it, and the sublimity83 of the early faith honors the superstition84 which has succeeded it. To see this superstition in all its proper grossness and deformity you must go into some of the Renaissance85 churches,—fit tabernacles for that droning and mumming spirit which has deprived all young and generous men in Italy of religion; which has made the priests a bitter jest and byword; which has rendered the population ignorant, vicious, and hopeless; which gives its friendship to tyranny and its hatred86 to freedom; which destroys the life of the Church that it may sustain the power of the Pope. The idols87 of this superstition are the foolish and hideous88 dolls which people bow to in most of the Venetian temples, and of which the most abominable89 is in the church of the Carmelites. It represents the Madonna with the Child, elevated breast-high to the worshipers. She is crowned with tinsel and garlanded with paper flowers; she has a blue ribbon about her tightly corseted waist; and she wears an immense spreading hoop90. On her painted, silly face of wood, with its staring eyes shadowed by a wig91, is figured a pert smile; and people come constantly and kiss the cross that hangs by a chain from her girdle, and utter their prayers to her; while the column near which she sits is hung over with pictures celebrating the miracles she has performed.
These votive pictures, indeed, are to be seen on most altars of the Virgin92, and are no less interesting as works of art than as expressions of hopeless superstition. That Virgin who, in all her portraits, is dressed in a churn-shaped gown and who holds a Child similarly habited, is the Madonna most efficacious in cases of dreadful accident and hopeless sickness, if we may trust the pictures which represent her interference. You behold93 a carriage overturned and dragged along the ground by frantic95 horses, and the fashionably dressed lady and gentleman in the carriage about to be dashed into millions of pieces, when the havoc96 is instantly arrested by this Madonna who breaks the clouds, leaving them with jagged and shattered edges, like broken panes97 of glass, and visibly holds back the fashionable lady and gentleman from destruction. It is the fashionable lady and gentleman who have thus recorded their obligation; and it is the mother, doubtless, of the little boy miraculously98 preserved from death in his fall from the second-floor balcony, who has gratefully caused the miracle to be painted and hung at the Madonna’s shrine59. Now and then you also find offerings of corn and fruits before her altar, in acknowledgment of good crops which the Madonna has made to grow; and again you find rows of silver hearts, typical of the sinful hearts which her intercession has caused to be purged100. The greatest number of these, at any one shrine, is to be seen in the church of San Nicolò dei Tolentini, where I should think there were three hundred.
Whatever may be the popularity of the Madonna della Salute101 in pestilent times, I do not take it to be very great when the health of the city is good, if I may judge from the spareness of the worshipers in the church of her name: it is true that on the annual holiday commemorative of her interposition to save Venice from the plague, there is an immense concourse of people there; but at other times I found the masses and vespers slenderly attended, and I did not observe a great number of votive offerings in the temple,—though the great silver lamp placed there by the city, in memory of the Madonna’s goodness during the visitation of the cholera102 in 1849, may be counted, perhaps, as representative of much collective gratitude. It is a cold, superb church, lording it over the noblest breadth of the Grand Canal; and I do not know what it is saves it from being as hateful to the eye as other temples of the Renaissance architecture. But it has certainly a fine effect, with its twin belltowers and single massive dome5, its majestic103 breadth of steps rising from the water’s edge, and the many-statued sculpture of its fa?ade. Strangers go there to see the splendor of its high altar (where the melodramatic Madonna, as the centre of a marble group, responds to the prayer of the operatic Venezia, and drives away the haggard, theatrical104 Pest), and the excellent Titians and the grand Tintoretto in the sacristy.
The Salute is one of the great show-churches, like that of San Giovanni e Paolo, which the common poverty of imagination has decided105 to call the Venetian Westminster Abbey, because it contains many famous tombs and monuments. But there is only one Westminster Abbey; and I am so far a believer in the perfectibility of our species as to suppose that vergers are nowhere possible but in England. There would be nothing to say, after Mr. Ruskin, in praise or blame of the great monuments in San Giovanni e Paolo, even if I cared to discuss them; I only wonder that, in speaking of the bad art which produced the tomb of the Venieri, he failed to mention the successful approach to its depraved feeling, made by the single figure sitting on the case of a slender shaft106, at the side of the first altar on the right of the main entrance. I suppose this figure typifies Grief, but it really represents a drunken woman, whose drapery has fallen, as if in some vile107 debauch108, to her waist, and who broods, with a horrible, heavy stupor109 and chopfallen vacancy110, on something which she supports with her left hand upon her knee. It is a round of marble, and if you have the daring to peer under the arm of the debauchee, and look at it as she does, you find that it contains the bass-relief of a skull111 in bronze. Nothing more ghastly and abominable than the whole thing can be conceived, and it seemed to me the fit type of the abandoned Venice which produced it; for one even less Ruskinian than I might have fancied that in the sculptured countenance112 could be seen the dismay of the pleasure-wasted harlot of the sea when, from time to time, death confronted her amid her revels113.
People go into the Chapel114 of the Rosary here to see the painting of Titian, representing The Death of Peter Martyr115. Behind it stands a painting of equal size by John Bellini,—the Madonna, Child, and Saints, of course,—and it is curious to study in the two pictures those points in which Titian excelled and fell short of his master. The treatment of the sky in the landscape is singularly alike in both, but where the greater painter has gained in breadth and freedom, he has lost in that indefinable charm which belonged chiefly to Bellini, and only to that brief age of transition, of which his genius was the fairest flower and ripest fruit. I have looked again and again at nearly every painting of note in Venice, having a foolish shame to miss a single one, and having also a better wish to learn something of the beautiful from them; but at last I must say, that, while I wondered at the greatness of some, and tried to wonder at the greatness of others, the only paintings which gave me genuine and hearty116 pleasure were those of Bellini, Carpaccio, and a few others of that school and time.
Every day we used to pass through the court of the old Augustinian convent adjoining the church of San Stefano. It is a long time since the monks118 were driven out of their snug119 hold; and the convent is now the headquarters of the Austrian engineer corps120, and the colonnade121 surrounding the court is become a public thoroughfare. On one wall of this court are remains122—very shadowy remains indeed—of frescos painted by Pordenone at the period of his fiercest rivalry123 with Titian; and it is said that Pordenone, while he wrought124 upon the scenes of scriptural story here represented, wore his sword and buckler, in readiness to repel125 an attack which he feared from his competitor. The story is very vague, and I hunted it down in divers126 authorities only to find it grow more and more intangible and uncertain. But it gave a singular relish127 to our daily walk through the old cloister128, and I added, for my own pleasure (and chiefly out of my own fancy, I am afraid, for I can nowhere localize the fable129 on which I built), that the rivalry between the painters was partly a love-jealousy, and that the disputed object of their passion was that fair Violante, daughter of the elder Palma, who is to be seen in so many pictures painted by her father, and by her lover, Titian. No doubt there are readers will care less for this idleness of mine than for the fact that the hard-headed German monk117, Martin Luther, once said mass in the adjoining church of San Stefano, and lodged130 in the convent, on his way to Rome. The unhappy Francesco Carrara, last Lord of Padua, is buried in this church; but Venetians are chiefly interested there now by the homilies of those fervent131 preacher-monks, who deliver powerful sermons during Lent. The monks are gifted men, with a most earnest and graceful132 eloquence133, and they attract immense audiences, like popular and eccentric ministers among ourselves. It is a fashion to hear them, and although the atmosphere of the churches in the season of Lent is raw, damp, and most uncomfortable, the Venetians then throng134 the churches where they preach. After Lent the sermons and church-going cease, and the sanctuaries135 are once more abandoned to the possession of the priests, droning from the altars to the scattered136 kneelers on the floor,—the foul137 old women and the young girls of the poor, the old-fashioned old gentlemen and devout138 ladies of the better class, and that singular race of poverty-stricken old men proper to Italian churches, who, having dabbled139 themselves with holy water, wander forlornly and aimlessly about, and seem to consort140 with the foreigners looking at the objects of interest. Lounging young fellows of low degree appear with their caps in their hands, long enough to tap themselves upon the breast and nod recognition to the high-altar; and lounging young fellows of high degree step in to glance at the faces of the pretty girls, and then vanish. The droning ends, presently, and the devotees disappear, the last to go being that thin old woman, kneeling before a shrine, with a grease-gray shawl falling from her head to the ground. The sacristan, in his perennial141 enthusiasm about the great picture of the church, almost treads upon her as he brings the strangers to see it, and she gets meekly142 up and begs of them in a whispering whimper. The sacristan gradually expels her with the visitors, and at one o’clock locks the door and goes home.
By chance I have got a fine effect in churches at the five o’clock mass in the morning, when the worshipers are nearly all peasants who have come to market, and who are pretty sure, each one, to have a bundle or basket. At this hour the sacristan is heavy with sleep; he dodges143 uncertainly at the tapers144 as he lights and extinguishes them; and his manner to the congregation, as he passes through it to the altar, is altogether rasped and nervous. I think it is best to be one’s self a little sleepy,—when the barefooted friar at the altar (if it is in the church of the Scalzi, say) has a habit of getting several centuries back from you, and of saying mass to the patrician145 ghosts from the tombs under your feet and there is nothing at all impossible in the Renaissance angels and cherubs146 in marble, floating and fatly tumbling about on the broken arches of the altars.
I have sometimes been puzzled in Venice to know why churches should keep cats, church-mice being proverbially so poor, and so little capable of sustaining a cat in good condition; yet I have repeatedly found sleek147 and portly cats in the churches, where they seem to be on terms of perfect understanding with the priests, and to have no quarrel even with the little boys who assist at mass. There is, for instance, a cat in the sacristy of the Frari, which I have often seen in familiar association with the ecclesiastics149 there, when they came into his room to robe or disrobe, or warm their hands, numb77 with supplication150, at the great brazier in the middle of the floor. I do not think this cat has the slightest interest in the lovely Madonna of Bellini which hangs in the sacristy; but I suspect him of dreadful knowledge concerning the tombs in the church. I have no doubt he has passed through the open door of Canova’s monument, and that he sees some coherence151 and meaning in Titian’s; he has been all over the great mausoleum of the Doge Pesaro, and he knows whether the griffins descend152 from their perches153 at the midnight hour to bite the naked knees of the ragged94 black caryatides. This profound and awful animal I take to be a blood relation of the cat in the church of San Giovanni e Paolo, who sleeps like a Christian during divine service, and loves a certain glorious bed on the top of a bench, where the sun strikes upon him through the great painted window, and dapples his tawny154 coat with lovely purples and crimsons155.
The church cats are apparently156 the friends of the sacristans, with whom their amity157 is maintained probably by entire cession99 of the spoils of visitors. In these, therefore, they seldom take any interest, merely opening a lazy eye now and then to wink44 at the sacristans as they drag the deluded158 strangers from altar to altar, with intense enjoyment of the absurdity159, and a wicked satisfaction in the incredible stories rehearsed. I fancy, being Italian cats, they feel something like a national antipathy160 toward those troops of German tourists, who always seek the Sehenswürdigkeiten in companies of ten or twenty,—the men wearing their beards, and the women their hoops161 and hats, to look as much like English people as possible; while their valet marshals them forward with a stream of guttural information, unbroken by a single punctuation162 point. These wise cats know the real English by their “Murrays;” and I think they make a shrewd guess at the nationality of us Americans by the speed with which we pass from one thing to another, and by our national ignorance of all languages but English. They must also hear us vaunt the superiority of our own land in unpleasant comparisons, and I do not think they believe us, or like us, for our boastings. I am sure they would say to us, if they could, ”Quando finirà mai quella guerra? Che sangue! che orrore!” 21 The French tourist they distinguish by his evident skepticism concerning his own wisdom in quitting Paris for the present purpose; and the traveling Italian, by his attention to his badly dressed, handsome wife, with whom he is now making his wedding trip.
I have found churches undergoing repairs (as most of them always are in Venice) rather interesting. Under these circumstances, the sacristan is obliged to take you into all sorts of secret places and odd corners, to show you the objects of interest; and you may often get glimpses of pictures which, if not removed from their proper places, it would be impossible to see. The carpenters and masons work most deliberately163, as if in a place so set against progress that speedy workmanship would be a kind of impiety164. Besides the mechanics, there are always idle priests standing148 about, and vagabond boys clambering over the scaffolding. In San Giovanni e Paolo I remember we one day saw a small boy appear through an opening in the roof, and descend by means of some hundred feet of dangling165 rope. The spectacle, which made us ache with fear, delighted his companions so much that their applause was scarcely subdued by the sacred character of the place. As soon as he reached the ground in safety, a gentle, good-natured looking priest took him by the arm and cuffed166 his ears. It was a scene for a painter.
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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deriding
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的现在分词 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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terseness
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| 简洁，精练 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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postulates
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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awes
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| n.敬畏，惊惧( awe的名词复数 )v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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41
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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42
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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43
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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44
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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47
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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48
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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49
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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50
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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51
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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52
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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53
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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54
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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55
subdues
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| 征服( subdue的第三人称单数 )； 克制； 制服 | |
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56
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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57
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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58
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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59
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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60
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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61
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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62
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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63
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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64
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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65
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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66
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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67
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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68
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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70
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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71
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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72
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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73
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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74
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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75
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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76
annually
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|
| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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77
numb
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|
| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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78
costliest
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|
| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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79
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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80
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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81
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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82
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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83
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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84
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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85
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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86
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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87
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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88
hideous
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|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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89
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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90
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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91
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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92
virgin
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|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
ragged
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|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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95
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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96
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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97
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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98
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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99
cession
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| n.割让，转让 | |
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100
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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101
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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102
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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103
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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104
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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105
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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106
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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107
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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108
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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109
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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110
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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111
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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112
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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113
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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114
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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115
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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116
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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117
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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118
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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119
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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120
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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121
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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122
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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123
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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124
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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125
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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126
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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127
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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128
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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129
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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130
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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131
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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132
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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133
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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134
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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135
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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136
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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137
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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138
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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139
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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140
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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141
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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142
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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143
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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144
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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145
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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146
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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147
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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148
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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149
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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150
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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151
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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152
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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153
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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154
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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155
crimsons
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| 变为深红色（crimson的第三人称单数形式） | |
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156
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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157
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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158
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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160
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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161
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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162
punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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163
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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164
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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165
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
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