For those who care at all passionately9 for the precious things of literature, the work of103 Lionel Johnson will always remain a cherished and secluded10 nook. The man was a scholar, a poet, and a critic, whose dominant11 note was gracile lucidity12. A friend writing of his personal appearance at the time of his death said, ‘Thin, pale, very delicate he looked, with a twitching13 of the facial muscles, which showed even at the age of twenty-four how unfit was his physique to support the strain of an abnormally nervous organization. Quick and mouselike in his movements, reticent14 of speech and low-voiced, he looked like some old-fashioned child who had strayed by chance into an assembly of men. But a child could not have shown that inward smile of appreciative humour, a little aloof15, a little contemptuous perhaps, that worked constantly around his mouth. He never changed except in the direction of a greater pallor and a greater fragility.’
Cloistral16 mysticism was the key-chord of his two volumes of poetry (1895 and 1897). In some respects he seems to have strayed out of the seventeenth century of Crashaw and Herbert. His early training, no doubt, engendered17 this aspect. After six years in the grey Gothic school of Winchester he passed on to New College, Oxford18. Here he came under104 the influence of Pater, and was charmed by the latter’s then somewhat hieratic austerity. A devout19 Irish Catholic, he was moved by three themes: his old school, Oxford, and Ireland, and to these he unfortunately too often devoted20 his muse21. After the quiet seclusion22 of his Oxford years, on entering the vortex of London literary life he found that the world of wayfaring23 was a somewhat rough passage in the mire24 for one so delicate. Out of the struggle between his scholarly aspirations25 and the cry of his time for life, more life, was woven perhaps the finest of all his poems, The Dark Angel:
Dark angel, with thine aching lust26 To rid the world of penitence27: Malicious28 angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence!—
Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering29 place of fears: Until tormented30 slumber31 seems One vehemence32 of useless tears....
Thou art the whisper in the gloom, The hinting tone, the haunting laugh: Thou art the adorner33 of my tomb, The minstrel of mine epitaph.
Most of his poems are subjective34, and the majority have a certain stiffness of movement of a priest laden35 with chasuble; but sometimes,105 however, as in Mystic and Cavalier, or in the lines on the statue of Charles I at Charing36 Cross, he writes with a winsome37 charm and freedom of spirit:
Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom38: He triumphs now, the dead Beholding39 London’s gloom....
Surely this poem has the proud note of Henley! There is another trait in his verse, which, in view of his essays, it is as well not to pass over. Like William Watson, his literary poems are pregnant with phrases of rich criticism. He calls back the immortals40 in a true bookman’s invocation hailing ‘opulent Pindar,’ ‘the pure and perfect voice of Gray,’ ‘pleasant and elegant and garrulous Pliny’:
Herodotus, all simple and all wise; Demosthenes, a lightning flame of scorn: The surge of Cicero, that never dies; And Homer, grand against the ancient morn.
But we are here chiefly concerned with his prose writings. If it is the duty of the essayist to mirror the intellectuality of his age, Lionel Johnson was a mirror for the Oxford standpoint of the nineties. There106 still remain many of his papers uncollected in various old newspaper files. But certainly the best of his work has been lovingly collected by friendly hands, and worthily41 housed in Post Liminium. Take, for instance, this passage from an essay on books published originally in The Academy (December 8th, 1900):
The glowing of my companionable fire upon the backs of my companionable books, and then the familiar difficulty of choice. Compassed about by old friends, whose virtues42 and vices43 I know better than my own, I will be loyal to loves that are not of yesterday. New poems, new essays, new stories, new lives, are not my company at Christmastide, but the never-ageing old. ‘My days among the dead are passed.’ Veracious44 Southey, how cruel a lie! My sole days among the dead are the days passed among the still-born or moribund45 moderns, not the white days and shining nights free for the strong voices of the ancients in fame. A classic has a permanence of pleasurability; that is the meaning of his estate and title.
Or again, Johnson in his paper on The Work of Mr. Pater, sets forth46 perhaps the best appreciation47 of his master that has yet appeared:
‘Magica sympathi?!’ words borne upon the shield of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, are inscribed107 upon the writings of Mr. Pater, who found his way straight from the first to those matters proper to his genius, nor did he, as Fuseli says of Leonardo, ‘waste life, insatiate in experiment.’... ‘Nemo perfectus est,’ says St. Bernard, ‘qui perfectior esse appetit’: it is as true in art as in religion. In art also ‘the way to perfection is through a series of disgusts’ ... and truly, as Joubert said, we should hesitate before we differ in religion from the saints, in poetry from the poets.... There is no languorous48 toying with things of beauty, in a kind of opiate dream, to be found here.
While Symons has written on all the arts, the sphere of Johnson has been more limited to traditional English lines. Johnson attempts no broad ?sthetical system like the former. All that he does is to illuminate49 the writer of whom he is speaking. And his little essays, eminent50 in their un-English lucidity, their scrupulous51 nicety, their conscious and deliberate beauty, adding to our belles52 lettres a classical execution and finish (which perfection accounts perhaps for the classical smallness of his bookmaking) have all the bewildering charm of a born stylist. Certain of his phrases linger in the mind like music. ‘Many a sad half-murmured thought of Pascal, many a deep and plangent53 utterance54 of Lucretius.’ Or the line: ‘The face whose changes dominate108 my heart.’ Like the styles of Newman and Pater, on which his own is founded, he is singularly allusive55. He cites critics by chapter and verse like an advocate defending a case. In fact, as in his critical magnum opus, The Art of Thomas Hardy56, he is amazingly judicial57. It is, too, since he is essentially58 academic, to the older critics he prefers to turn for guidance. As he writes: ‘Flaubert and Baudelaire and Gautier, Hennequin and M. Zola and M. Mallarmé, with all their colleagues or exponents59, may sometimes be set aside, and suffer us to hear Quintilian or Ben Jonson, Cicero or Dryden.’ This habit sometimes makes him strenuous60 reading, particularly in longer criticisms like The Art of Thomas Hardy.
We grow weary of all this quotative authority. Burton’s Anatomy61 of Melancholy62 cannot be brought into every-day literary criticism. We want to hear more of Lionel Johnson’s own direct opinions and less of these selected passages from his library. So it is to those passages where Johnson is most himself we turn in The Art of Thomas Hardy, which, in spite of its academicism and the youthfulness of its author, remains63 a genuine piece of sound critical work. The delightful64 imagery of the109 prose in such passages is often very illuminating65, as in this paragraph:
From long and frequent converse66 with works of any favourite author, we often grow to thinking of them under some symbol or image; to see them summed up and expressed in some one composite scene of our own making; this is my ‘vision’ of Mr. Hardy’s works. A rolling down country, crossed by a Roman road; here a gray standing67 stone, of what sacrificial ritual origin I can but guess; there a grassy68 barrow, with its great bones, its red-brown jars, its rude gold ornament69, still safe in earth; a broad sky burning with stars; a solitary70 man. It is of no use to turn away, and to think of the village farms and cottages, with their antique ways and looks; of the deep woods, of the fall of the woodman’s axe71, the stir of the wind in the branches; of the rustic72 feasts and festivals, when the home-brewed drink goes round, to the loosening of tongues and wits; of the hot meadows, fragrant73 hayfields, cool dairies, and blazing gardens; of shining cart-horses under the chestnut-trees and cows called in at milking time: they are characteristic scenes, but not the one characteristic scene. That is the great down by night, with its dead in their ancient graves, and its lonely living figure; ...
There is, perhaps, a reek74 about it all of a too-conscious imitation of Pater’s murmured obituaries75 which makes one in the end rather tired of this hieratic treatment of art, so that110 one turns rather gladly to the one or two tales he wrote. For example in The Lilies of France, an episode of French anti-clericalism, which appeared in The Pageant76, 1897, he slowly builds up a thing of verbal beauty that one feels was actually worthy77 of him, while in the previous number of the same quarterly he perpetrated a delightful ironism on the literary men of his period entitled Incurable78, in which, perhaps, we may trace faint autobiographical clues. Such, briefly79, was the work of this young man who was found dead in Fleet Street early one morning, aged80 thirty-five.
But the writer who was to bring irony81 in English literature to a consummate82 pitch, and add to the age a strange brief brilliance83 of his own wilful84 spirit, was Max Beerbohm. Max, the ‘Incomparable’ as Bernard Shaw once described him, is the charm of the gilded85 lily, the fairy prince of an urbane86 artificiality: he is in literature what the cocktail87 is among drinks; he is the enemy of dullness and the friend of that Greek quality called ‘charis.’ He is the public school and Varsity man who is fond of, but afraid of, being tedious in literature; so with delightful affectation his vehicle is persiflage88 with a load of wit he pretends to disdain89. Of all the prose writers of the Beardsley111 period he is the easiest and most charming to read. In fact, he is the ideal essayist. He titillates90 the literary sense. Fortunately his glass is small, for if one had to drink it in quart pots the result would be as disastrous91 as in his one and only mistake—the long novel Zuleika Dobson, which is a late work written long after the nineties had been swallowed up by that maw which swallowed up Lesbia’s sparrow and all other beautiful dead things.
Max said in jest, ‘I belong to the Beardsley period,’ and it is one of those jests which is only too painfully true. When he was at Oxford he was caught up in the movement, and wrote, under Wilde’s influence, A Defence of Cosmetics92 for the first number of The Yellow Book, and he also appeared in Lord Alfred Douglas’s magazine. Thenceforward he contributed to various quarterlies, while in 1896 the little red volume with its white paper label appeared as The Works, containing all the best of this precocious93 enfant terrible of literature, who assures us that he read in bed, while at school, Marius the Epicurean, and found it not nearly so difficult as Midshipman Easy. At the age of twenty-five he cries: ‘I shall write no more. Already I feel myself to be a trifle outmoded,’ and he religiously does not keep his word. He112 keeps pouring out caricatures, writes More, the companion volume to The Works, and perpetrates his short story The Happy Hypocrite. Beyond 1899 we cannot follow him, but he has been busy ever since with his parodies94, his Yet Again, his lamentable95 novel, his one-act play, and so on.
It is to that Beardsley period to which he said he belonged we are here restricted. And it must be admitted that though the Boer War and the Great War do not seem to have gagged him, there is something so impishly impudent96 in his earlier work which renders it more remarkable97 than the complacent98 efforts of his later years.
Amid the searching seriousness of the nineties, Max is like balm in Gilead. He has the infinite blessing99 of irony. The others, except Beardsley (who too has this gift), are so appallingly100 serious. The French influences that went to their making seem to have killed the valiant101 English humour of Falstaff, Pickwick, and Verdant102 Green. They are all like young priests who will take no liberty with their ritual; but Max saves the period with his whimsical irony. His is not the fearful, mordant103 irony of Octave Mirbeau, but a dainty butterfly fancy playing lightly over the113 pleasures of a pleasant life. To be essentially civilised is to be like a god. This is the pose of such a mentality104. It is a winsome pose with no sharp edges to it, just as the poseur105 himself must be wilfully106 blind to all the seaminess of life. In front of his window (if a temperament107 be a window looking out on life) there is a pleasant garden. Beyond is the noise and dust of the highway. He is the dandy in his choice of life as in his choice of literature, and in more than one sense he has written the happiest essays of the period.
It has been said his caricatures are essays. May we not equally say his essays are caricatures? The essay, indeed, is the work of the feline108 male, the man who sits beside the fire like Charles Lamb. The out-of-doors man writes the episode. But Max is essentially an indoors man, who has a perfect little dressing-room like a lady’s boudoir, but much neater, where he concocts109 his essays we read so easily by infinite labour, with a jewelled pen. It is as though he had said: ‘Literature must either be amusing or dull; mine shall be the former.’ He is very much the young man about town who has consented gracefully110 to come and charm us. What he wrote of Whistler in The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, we may say of him:114 ‘His style never falters111. The silhouette112 of no sentence is ever blurred113. Every sentence is ringing with a clear, vocal114 cadence115.’ And the refrain is Max himself all the time, and his personality is so likeable we stomach it all the time. It is the note that vibrates through all his amiable116 satiric117 irony, whether it be on the House of Commons Manner or in defence of the use of Cosmetics, or in describing the period of 1880. Everything, from first to last, is done with such good taste. Even in his wildest flights of raillery he is utterly118 purposed not to offend. In his charming paper, 1880, he has given us a vigorous vignette of the previous decade to The Yellow Book age. One can hardly help quoting a small passage here from this admirably worked up prose: ‘In fact Beauty had existed long before 1880. It was Mr. Oscar Wilde who managed her début. To study the period is to admit that to him was due no small part of the social vogue119 that Beauty began to enjoy. Fired by his fervid120 words, men and women hurled121 their mahogany into the streets and ransacked122 the curio-shops for the furniture of Annish days. Dadoes arose upon every wall, sunflowers and the feathers of peacocks curved in every corner, tea grew quite cold while the guests were115 praising the Willow123 Pattern of its cup. A few fashionable women even dressed themselves in sinuous124 draperies and unheard-of greens. Into whatsoever125 ball-room you went, you would surely find, among the women in tiaras, and the fops and the distinguished126 foreigners, half a score of comely127 ragamuffins in velveteen, murmuring sonnets128, posturing129, waving their hands. Beauty was sought in the most unlikely places. Young painters found her mobbled in the fogs, and bank-clerks versed130 in the writings of Mr. Hamerton, were heard to declare, as they sped home from the city, that the Underground Railway was beautiful from London Bridge to Westminster, but not from Sloane Square to Notting Hill Gate.’
It is thus that Max can play with a chord of almost tender irony on his subject, and such a style, so full of the writer’s personality, has the cachet of the veritable essayist. How charmingly, for example, he records his reminiscences of Beardsley. It is a delightful little picture of the artist, interesting enough to place beside Arthur Symons’s portrait: ‘He loved dining out, and, in fact, gaiety of any kind. His restlessness was, I suppose, one of the symptoms of his malady131. He was always most content116 where there was the greatest noise and bustle132, the largest number of people, and the most brilliant light. The “domino-room” at the Café Royal had always a great fascination133 for him: he liked the mirrors and the florid gilding134, the little parties of foreigners, and the smoke and the clatter135 of the dominoes being shuffled136 on the marble tables.... I remember, also, very clearly, a supper at which Beardsley was present. After the supper we sat up rather late. He was the life and soul of the party, till, quite suddenly almost in the middle of a sentence, he fell fast asleep in his chair. He had overstrained his vitality137, and it had all left him. I can see him now as he sat there with his head sunk on his breast; the thin face, white as the gardenia138 in his coat, and the prominent, harshly-cut features; the hair, that always covered his whole forehead in a fringe and was of so curious a colour—a kind of tortoise-shell; the narrow, angular figure, and the long hands that were so full of power.’18
18 The Idler, May, 1898.
Outside this medium of the essay, with the exception of the caricatures, Max is no longer the incomparable, for his short story, The Happy Hypocrite, is not a short story at all,117 but a spoilt essay;19 while his novel is not merely a failure, but a veritable disaster. With his first paper in The Yellow Book he fell in with the step of the men of the nineties, and he too became a part of their efflorescence. Sufficient unto that time is his work, and with a final quotation139 from this early paper so redolent of the movement that there is no mistaking it, we must leave him and his future on the knees of the gods: ‘Was it not at Capua that they had a whole street where nothing was sold but dyes and unguents? We must have such a street, and, to fill our new Seplosia, our Arcade140 of Unguents, all herbs and minerals and live creatures shall give of their substance. The white cliffs of Albion shall be ground to powder for Loveliness, and perfumed by the ghost of many a little violet. The fluffy141 eider-ducks, that are swimming round the pond, shall lose their feathers, that the powder-puff may be moonlike as it passes over Loveliness’ lovely face.’
19 His Children’s Tale, The Small Boy and the Barley142 Sugar (The Parade, 1897), should also be mentioned as another case of shipwrecked ingenuity143.
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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mire
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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adorner
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| 装饰器（电脑工具软件名称） | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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laden
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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plangent
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| adj.悲哀的，轰鸣的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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allusive
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| adj.暗示的；引用典故的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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59
exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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60
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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61
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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62
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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63
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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64
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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65
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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66
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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67
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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68
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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69
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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70
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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71
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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72
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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73
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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74
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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75
obituaries
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| 讣告，讣闻( obituary的名词复数 ) | |
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76
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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77
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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78
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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79
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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80
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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81
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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82
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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83
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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84
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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85
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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86
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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87
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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88
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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89
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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90
titillates
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| n.使觉得痒( titillate的名词复数 )；逗引；激发；使高兴v.使觉得痒( titillate的第三人称单数 )；逗引；激发；使高兴 | |
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91
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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92
cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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93
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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94
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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96
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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98
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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99
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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101
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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102
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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103
mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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104
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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105
poseur
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| n.装模作样的人 | |
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106
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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107
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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108
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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109
concocts
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的第三人称单数 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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110
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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111
falters
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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112
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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113
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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114
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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115
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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116
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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117
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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118
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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119
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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120
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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121
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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122
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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123
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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124
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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125
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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126
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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127
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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128
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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129
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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130
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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131
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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132
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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133
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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134
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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135
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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136
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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137
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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138
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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139
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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140
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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141
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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142
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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143
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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