Marryat had profited amply by the opening. With great adaptability10 he had thrown himself into the literary fight of his time. As has been already said, he soon showed himself at home in the regular business of literature—in writing for the press and in editing. To take the satisfactory though vulgar test of money, he was able to make his market, and put his price up. Nor[75] was he at all reluctant to insist on the value of his goods. “I do not,” he said in 1837, “write for sixteen guineas a sheet now. I let them off for twenty guineas, as I do not wish to run them hard; and I now have commenced with the New Monthly at that rate for one year certain, and the copyright secured to me. Times are hard, and I do not wish to break the backs of the publishers, although I ride over them roughshod. I have also made very much better terms for my books. ‘Snarley Yow,’ comes out on the 1st of June. I have parted very amicably11 with Saunders and Otley, who would not stand an advance. I will make hay when the sun shines; for every dog has his day, and I presume my time will come as that of others.” Twenty guineas a sheet was the exceptional price which Fraser was paying Carlyle in those very years, and was five guineas above the usual rate. Obviously here was a gentleman who knew that business was business. With this determination to make the last penny there was to make, he naturally contributed his chapter to the history of the quarrels of authors with their publishers.
“Although Captain Marryat,” says his daughter, “and his publishers mutually benefited by their transactions with each other, one would have imagined from the letters exchanged between them that they had been natural enemies.” It is a mistake which is not uncommon12 in these transactions, and particularly likely to arise when, as in this case, a publisher frankly13 tells the author that he thinks him “eccentric,” and an “odd creature,” and adds that he is himself “somewhat warm-tempered.” Who the particular publisher was who sent these pieces[76] of criticism and self-criticism to Marryat we are not told. The answer he received might supply a clue to the Marryatist who was prepared to follow it up with the proper devotion.
“There was no occasion for you to make the admission that you were somewhat warm-tempered. Your letter establishes the fact. Considering your age, you are a little volcano, and if the insurance were aware of your frequent visits to the Royal Exchange, they would demand double premium14 for the building. Indeed, I have my surmises15 now as to the last conflagration16.
…
“Your remark as to the money I have received may sound very well, mentioned as an isolated17 fact; but how does it sound when it is put into juxtaposition18 with the sums you have received? I, who have found everything, receiving a pittance19; while you, who have found nothing but the shop to sell in, receiving such a lion’s share. I assert again, it is slavery. I am Sinbad the Sailor, and you are the Old Man of the Mountain (sic) clinging on my back, and you must not be surprised at my wishing to throw you off the first convenient opportunity.
“The fact is, you have the vice20 of old age very strong upon you, and you are blinded by it; but put the question to your sons, and ask them if they consider the present agreement fair. Let them arrange with me, and do you go and read your Bible. We all have our own ideas of Paradise, and if other authors think like me, the more pleasurable portion of anticipated bliss21 is that[77] there will be no publishers there. That idea often supports me after an interview with one of your fraternity.”
Author and publisher told one another “their fact” plainly enough in this case, and one rather wonders what lies hid under the asterisks22. In the absence of information as to the proportion in which they respectively shared the profits of the stories written before 1837, one cannot undertake to say whether the unnamed publisher of fiery23 temper, advanced age, and small stature24, received a lion’s share or not. If so, it must have represented a handsome sum, for Marryat was by no means one of the worst treated of authors. Colburn gave him ￡400 for “Frank Mildmay.” For “Mr. Midshipman Easy” he received ￡1,400, apparently25 in a lump sum. “The Pirate” and “The Three Cutters,” published together, brought him in ￡750. His other books were paid on the same scale, and he certainly did not edit the Metropolitan26 for nothing. His code of signals, which was not literature (and perhaps on that account only the more lucrative), was an appreciable27 income to him throughout his life. On the whole, Marryat seems to have found the profession of author sufficiently28 remunerative29. His indignation with his publishers may be safely taken to be mainly a proof that, in common with most writing-men of his generation, he was a firm believer in the creed30 that authors are an ill-used body. This is no longer quite so orthodox as it was. The wind is rather blowing the other way, and it is becoming the right thing to say that authors have themselves to thank for their ill-luck if they do not earn as much as they ought, and must bear[78] the burden like their fellow-men if they spend more than they earn. This good sense may corrupt31 into a cant32 as others have done, but it is good sense. Marryat—who would appear to have made three thousand pounds or so in 1835, for taking “Mr. Midshipman Easy” and the other two stories, with his copyrights and editorship, he can hardly have made less—was in any case not an example of an ill-paid author. If he had to complain of want of money it must have been because he was a gentleman of extravagant33 habits, with a fatal weakness for bad investments. To be sure, if an author were to be paid according to the pleasure he has given others, and if “the shop” which makes a profit on selling his work had to render some royalty34 on it for ever and ever, then indeed was Marryat, together with all those whose work is of the widely-read and lasting35 order, ill rewarded. But insuperable difficulties bar the road to that ideal. Since paper, printing, and advertisements must be provided, the provider of these necessary things must share; since the novelist cannot hawk36 his own goods in a barrow, he must pay somebody to do it for him; since the world’s copyright laws put a limit on the duration of proprietary37 right in books, there must come a time when they are at any man’s disposal to reprint. In the long run the balance of profit must needs be in favour of the shop. To be sure, the nation of authors may console itself by reflecting that it has its revenge. There is much on which the shop makes no gain, first or last.
The first of Marryat’s books is one which, for reasons very neatly38 stated by himself, may stand apart from the others. When he had given it three successors, he[79] thought fit to publish a proclamation on the subject of his work in the Metropolitan, and in that document he described “Frank Mildmay” as fairly as any honest critic could do for him.
“‘The Naval39 Officer’ was our first attempt, and it having been our first attempt must be offered in extenuation40 of its many imperfections; it was written hastily, and before it was complete we were appointed to a ship. We cared much about our ship and little about our book. The first was diligently42 taken charge of by ourselves; the second was left in the hands of others, to get on how it could. Like most bantlings put out to nurse, it did not get on very well. As we happen to be in the communicative vein43, it may be as well to remark that being written in the autobiographical style, it was asserted by good-natured friends, and believed in general, that it was a history of the author’s own life. Now, without pretending to have been better than we should have been in our earlier days, we do most solemnly assure the public that, had we run the career of vice of the hero of ‘The Naval Officer,’ at all events, we should have had sufficient sense of shame not to have avowed44 it. Except the hero and the heroine, and those parts of the work which supply the slight plot of it as a novel, the work in itself is materially true, especially in the narrative45 of sea adventure, most of which did (to the best of our recollection) occur to the author.… The ‘confounded licking’ we received for our first attempt in the critical notices is probably well known to the reader—at all events we have not forgotten it. Now, with some, this[80] severe castigation47 of their first offence would have had the effect of their never offending again; but we felt that our punishment was rather too severe; it produced indignation instead of contrition48, and we determined49 to write again in spite of all the critics in the universe: and in the due course of nine months we produced ‘The King’s Own.’ In ‘The Naval Officer’ we had sowed all our wild oats, we had paid off those who had ill-treated us, and we had no further personality to indulge in.”
From which, even if internal evidence were not enough to prove it, we learn that, between the paying off of the Tees and the commissioning of the Ariadne, Marryat decided50 to have a general jail delivery of his old naval enemies, and that the result was “Frank Mildmay; or, The Naval Officer.” It cannot be said that the book is better than its origin. If Marryat had kept the promise he made in this proclamation of his to the readers of the Metropolitan—if he had re-written this so-called novel, he might, had he taken the right course, have made it one of the best of his works. He had only to make it an autobiography51 without disguise, to put in the good as well as the evil of his experience, to take care to explain everything to his readers, as he could well have done, and he would have given English literature a thing altogether unique—a naval memoir52. We are not rich in memoirs53, at least, not in good ones. The English hand is unhappy at that work. A man has only to turn to Ludlow, or Sir Philip Warwick, to see how lamentably54 little Englishmen of parts who lived through the most wonderful things could contrive55 to[81] bring away with them—how little at least of the life, the colour, the dramatic swing of it all. Of the few we can show, which are not unfit to stand with the Frenchmen, Clarendon, Pepys, Colley Cibber, Evelyn (and four or five others), none were of the sea. “Cochrane’s Autobiography” maybe quoted against me, but even this, good as it is in places, is drowned in angry denunciations of human wickedness, and demonstrations56 that this or the other thing ought to have been done by official backsliders, so that what Cochrane did himself is almost crowded out. Besides, it is only a fragment, and then reste à savoir s’il n’est pas mort. It has not lived. One may, and must, use it for the history of the man and the time, but who reads it for its intrinsic literary merit? The French seamen57 have the better of us there. The memoirs of Forbin, of Duguay-Trouin, and even the recently published journal of a much less famous man, Jean Doublet, are capital reading. Marryat might, if he had so pleased, have done a book which would have been to the memoirs of Forbin what the memoirs of Clarendon are to the memoirs of Sully, to adopt the formula dear to Lord Macaulay. He might have done what Sir Walter Scott praised Basil Hall for attempting—have given in autobiographical form a picture of sea life, which would have been interesting, not only to those who already love the subject, but to all who love good reading. He did not so choose. He carried out his mission in another form, and “Frank Mildmay” remained as it first appeared.
That the book was so much of an autobiography was a misfortune for Marryat. He might protest as much as he pleased that he was not Frank Mildmay, and had not[82] run a career of vice, but the impression left by the book was and is disagreeable. Why should a man attribute his own adventures to a tiger? Now, Frank Mildmay is a tiger—a very insolent58, callous59, young cub60. It shows Marryat to have been very inexperienced indeed that he should have made such a mistake. He must have known that the adventures would be recognized. The naval world is a small one, and an exclusive. Naval officers live together by choice on shore as they do by necessity at sea. Everything written about the profession is talked over, and interpreted, when interpretation61 is needed. Every incident in “Frank Mildmay” was no doubt recognized at once; and when it was found that the things that had happened to the hero of the story were the adventures of the author, it is not to be wondered at that the two were thought to be also identical in character. Marryat, in fact, committed with himself the very error of judgment62 into which Dickens was led with Leigh Hunt, when he made Harold Skimpole a rascal63, in order to prove that he was not a caricature of his friend. But there is something more than inexperience and error of judgment about “The Naval Officer.” Marryat can hardly have seen what a bad fellow he had drawn64. Frank Mildmay has not only those “sins of the devil,” which may be worse, but are more dignified65, than the sins of men—he errs66 not only by “pride and rebellion,” but he is a mean scamp; and I am afraid that Marryat did not see it. He was as blind to the faults of his bantling as Smollett was to the ruffianism of Roderick Random67, or Fielding to the very vulgar inferiority of Tom Jones. Criticism seems to have opened his eyes,[83] and little as he liked the lesson, he took the warning; but it was only for a time. Unfortunately he fell back on it. Percival Keene is just such another—a very low fellow, with a kind of wild boar courage. It would appear that Marryat did not see some things as plainly as one could wish he had done. It is unnecessary to insist on the faults of construction in a book which belonged to an altogether bastard68 genre69. What merits it had—and they were sufficient to give promise of a brilliant novelist—were to be repeated in other books much more pleasant, and much more capable of repaying examination.
The other nine books which Marryat published in these seven years were “wholly fictitious70 in characters, in plot, and in events,” to quote his own words. In fact, they were stories, and what truth there is in them was not crudely taken from memory, but adapted and fitted into its place. The essential accuracy of the picture they give of sea life has never been questioned, at least it has never been challenged on serious grounds. It is undoubtedly the case that critics of a certain well-known stamp have been known to complain that no such series of adventures as these stories contain were ever known to occur, and that the daily life of a midshipman is not so amusing as Mr. Easy’s, nor so varied71 as Peter Simple’s. A criticism which only amounts to this—that the stories are stories, and not log-books, need hardly be seriously answered. Sailors read them, and always have read them. They are as popular in the American Naval School as they have been among English boys. To the skill with which the stories were built, less justice[84] has been done. It has always, as it were, been taken for granted that Marryat owed everything to his experience as a seaman72, and that, except in so far as he had seen things which other men had not seen, he was not of the race of novelists whose work lives. Now this is heresy73. In truth, the sea life owes more to Marryat than he to the sea. No one meets Mr. Easy, or Terence O’Brien, or Mr. Chucks, or Mr. Vanslyperken in this commonplace world. He meets something out of which they may be made. Unquestionably his experience was of inestimable value to Marryat—as all exceptional experience is to all novelists. At the very beginning of his career he was complimented by Washington Irving on his good luck. “You have a glorious field before you, and one in which you cannot have many competitors, as so very few unite the author to the sailor.” No doubt it was Marryat’s happiness that he had so good a Sparta to cultivate—but, after all, the result was primarily due to the skill of the cultivator. Speaking as one who has a full share of the good English taste for reading about the things of the sea, I am inclined to maintain that few kinds of books are more tedious than sea stories which ask to be read and enjoyed simply because they are sea stories. Battle, and storm, and shipwreck74 may be poured out on you, and yet leave you cold. These things by themselves in fiction are capable of being as tiresome76 as the once prevalent detective, or now popular religious disputations. To compare the stock sea story with the great books of travel—with Dampier, or with Anson’s Voyage, or with Basil Ringrose—would be unfair. We do not need to compare the best of one kind with the worst of another.[85] But they will not stand reading even with Captain Hacke’s dingy77 little compilation78, or with the long winded journal of Woodes Rogers. The reality of the latter is some compensation for their undoubted dulness. At least in reading them one knows that one is looking at a strange old life told by the men who lived it. When taken by a workman and badly used, the adventures these actual adventurers passed through and recorded become merely badly used material. A painter was once shown the scrawlings of a youthful prodigy80 who had been covering paper with pictures of ships and sailors. He was asked whether these works did not show a genius for art. “No,” said the judicious81 artist, “the boy has been reading sea stories, and his head is full of them. He draws because he likes the things, not because he loves drawing.” The verdict stated a great critical truth—and, however unpleasant it may be to prodigies82 to learn that taste and faculty83 are not identical, and that they must rely on their power of interpreting their subject, and not on the subject itself, it is the case, nevertheless.
Now with Marryat the faculty was always equal to the fusing and managing of the materials. In “Japhet,” where he does not touch the sea at all, he has yet contrived84 to impart life and interest to his puppets and their doings. It may stand by “Con Cregan” in the long list of stories which began with “Guzman de Alfarache,” and includes “Moll Flanders” and “Peregrine Pickle85.” In this case Marryat’s best knowledge was not available and he had to rely on his power of re-using well-worn materials. Where his experience and his ability combined, he attained86 to a very considerable degree of narrative skill.[86] Whether he had trained himself by early reading or not (and indeed there is nothing to show that he was a reader), he had early command of a very admirable narrative style. It might be plausibly87 maintained that this was a heritage among seamen. There is nothing in English literature at once more simple, more manly88, more perfectly89 adequate to its purpose than the language of Dampier. In Marryat’s own time this power had not been lost by English seamen. The navy may have been a rough school, but there was nothing in its training which made men unable to use the pen, and use it well. As an example of flowing, and also perfectly unaffected, description, the account of the battle of the Nile, given by Captain Miller90, of the Theseus, is without fault. It deserves a place of honour in every collection of English letters. The beauty of Collingwood’s letters is acknowledged even by those who have thought fit to carp at his character. Marryat brought this style to his literary work, and kept it unchanged to the end. It is a style in which there is no straining. Marryat never had recourse, as his contemporary, Michael Scott, was wont91, to capital letters, italics, and broken lines when he wished to impress his readers. He never appears even to have been particularly anxious to impress. When a wreck75 or a battle comes in his way, it is told as Captain Miller might have told it. Therefore it has its effect, and convinces you, as the narrative of the battle of the Nile does, that the thing described had been seen, had been lived through. The most famous of his passages—the club-hauling of the Diomede, the fight with the Russian frigate92 in “Mr. Midshipman Easy”—the[87] destruction of the French liner at the end of “The King’s Own”—are too long for quotation93; but in “Peter Simple” there is one which is of not unmanageable length, and which shows the qualities of his writing at their best. It is the account of the hurricane which threw Peter on the coast of St. Pierre:—
“In half an hour I shoved off with the boats. It was now quite dark, and I pulled towards the harbour of St. Pierre. The heat was excessive and unaccountable; not the slightest breath of wind moved in the heavens, or below; no clouds to be seen, and the stars were obscured by a sort of mist: there appeared a total stagnation94 in the elements. The men in the boats pulled off their jackets, for after a few moments’ pulling, they could bear them no longer. As we pulled in, the atmosphere became more opaque95, and the darkness more intense. We supposed ourselves to be at the mouth of the harbour, but could see nothing, not three yards ahead of the boat. Swinburne, who always went with me, was steering96 the boat, and I observed to him the unusual appearance of the night.
“‘I’ve been watching it, sir,’ replied Swinburne, ‘and I tell you, Mr. Simple, that if we only knew how to find the brig, I would advise you to get on board of her immediately. She’ll want all her hands this night, or I’m much mistaken.’
“‘Why do you say so?’ replied I.
“‘Because I think, nay97, I may say that I’m sartain, we’ll have a hurricane afore morning. It’s not the first time I’ve cruised in these latitudes98. I recollect46 in ’94——’
[88]
“But I interrupted him. ‘Swinburne, I believe that you are right. At all events I’ll turn back; perhaps we may reach the brig before it comes on. She carries a light, and we can find her out.’ I then turned the boat round, and steered99, as near as I could guess, for where the brig was lying. But we had not pulled out more than two minutes, before a low moaning was heard in the atmosphere—now here, now there—and we appeared to be pulling through solid darkness, if I may use the expression. Swinburne looked around him, and pointed41 out on the starboard bow.
“‘It’s a coming, Mr. Simple, sure enough; many’s the living being that will not rise on its legs to-morrow. See, sir.’
“I looked, and dark as it was, it appeared as if a sort of black wall was sweeping100 along the water right towards us. The moaning gradually increased to a stunning101 roar, and then at once it broke upon us with a noise to which no thunder can bear a comparison. The sea was perfectly level, but boiling, and covered with a white foam102, so that we appeared in the night to be floating on milk. The oars103 were caught by the wind with such force, that the men were dashed forward under the thwarts104, many of them severely105 hurt. Fortunately, we pulled with tholes and pins; or the gunwales and planks106 of the boat would have been wrenched107 off, and we should have foundered108. The wind soon caught the boat on her broadside, and, had there been the least sea, would have inevitably109 thrown her over; but Swinburne put the helm down, and she fell off before the hurricane, darting110 through the boiling water at the rate of ten miles an[89] hour. All hands were aghast; they had recovered their seats, but were obliged to relinquish111 them, and sit down at the bottom, holding on by the thwarts. The terrific roaring of the hurricane prevented any communication except by gesture. The other boats had disappeared; lighter112 than ours, they had flown away faster before the sweeping element; but we had not been a minute before the wind, before the sea rose in a most unaccountable manner—it appeared to be by magic.
“Of all the horrors that ever I witnessed, nothing could be compared to the scene of this night. We could see nothing, and heard only the wind, before which we were darting like an arrow, to where we knew not, unless it were to certain death. Swinburne steered the boat, every now and then looking back as the waves increased. In a few minutes we were in a heavy swell113, that at one minute bore us all aloft, and at the next almost sheltered us from the hurricane; and now the atmosphere was charged with showers of spray, the wind cutting off the summits of the waves, as if with a knife, and carrying it along with it, as it were, in its arms.
“The boat was filling with water, and appeared to settle down fast. The men baled with their hats in silence, when a large wave culminated114 over the stern, filling us up to our thwarts. The next moment we all received a shock so violent, that we were jerked from our seats. Swinburne was thrown over my head. Every timber of the boat separated at once, and she appeared to crumble115 from under us, leaving us floating on the raging waters. We all struck out for our lives, but with little hope of preserving them; but the next wave washed[90] us on the rocks, against which the boat had already been hurled116. That wave gave life to some, and death to others. Me, in Heaven’s mercy, it preserved: I was thrown so high up, that I merely scraped against the top of the rock, breaking two of my ribs117. Swinburne, and eight more, escaped with me, but not unhurt; two had their legs broken, three had broken arms, and the others were more or less contused. Swinburne miraculously118 received no injury. We had been eighteen in the boat, of which ten escaped: the others were hurled up at our feet; and the next morning we found them dreadfully mangled119. One or two had their heads literally120 shattered to pieces against the rocks. I felt that I was saved, and was grateful; but still the hurricane howled—still the waves were washing over us. I crawled further up upon the beach, and found Swinburne sitting down with his eyes directed seaward. He knew me, took my hand, squeezed it, and then held it in his. For some moments we remained in this position, when the waves, which every moment increased in volume, washed up to us, and obliged us to crawl further up. I then looked around me: the hurricane continued in its fury, but the atmosphere was not so dark. I could trace for some distance the line of the harbour, from the ridge121 of foam upon the shore: and for the first time I thought of O’Brien and the brig. I put my mouth close to Swinburne’s ear, and cried out, ‘O’Brien!’ Swinburne shook his head, and looked up again at the offing. I thought whether there was any chance of the brig’s escape. She was certainly six, if not seven miles off, and the hurricane was not direct on the shore. She[91] might have a drift of ten miles, perhaps; but what was that against such tremendous power?”
Now this might have come straight from another Dampier. There is no attempt to convince you of the force of the hurricane by laborious122 descriptions of what it looked like. It is shown to be awful by the effect it produces. The sentences go rapidly on. Their very simplicity123 helps to convey the impression of the suddenness and overwhelming fury of the storm. The effect would have been lost if the writer had stopped to talk. The style seems to me to be the perfection of prose, for a tale of adventure—the straightforward124, almost colloquial125 report of one who has gone through it all, carried to its very best—made into literature without being obtrusively126 literary.
As the style is, so are the stories. A natural tact127 seems to have told Marryat when he had gone far enough in search of the strange. His heroes lead lives that are possible. He might, if he had chosen, have rivalled Michael Scott’s wondrous128 pirates. Once, indeed, in “Percival Keene,” he actually did it, but, as a rule, his pirate is a conceivable good-for-nothing rather cowardly blackguard, such as came in the natural course of things to swing at Kingston or at Execution Dock. Even Cain himself, “The Pirate,” is within the bounds of probability as compared with the wondrous Spanish Americans, or astounding129 Scotch130 gentlemen of superhuman wickedness, who flourish in “Tom Cringle’s Log,” and the “Cruise of the Midge.” Neither do incidents of the wilder and more horrific kind appear in Marryat’s books. There[92] is nothing in him, for instance, like that scene of the “Midge in the Hornets’ nest,” which may, by the way, be commended to the attention of critics who think that blood and horror have been recently imported into romance by a generation which is supposed to have been corrupted131 by the French taste of the decadence132. The adventures of Marryat’s heroes might possibly and even probably have befallen an officer of his time.
Of construction, except such as was imposed by an instinctive133 desire to make the incidents follow one another in some sort of natural sequence, there is little or no sign. When, as in “Peter Simple,” he tries to fit one on to his story, it is no addition to the merits of the book. Who cares a straw for Peter’s wicked uncle, for the changing of the children, or for the unravelling134 of the very transparent135 mystery? It is too obvious that Marryat took these things at random from the common fund of the Minerva Press. What he took from nobody was his fun.
After all, it is this fun which is the living element in Marryat’s work. Wit, or humour of the highest class, he cannot be said to have possessed136, though he was by no means destitute137 of the sympathy which is inseparable from all true humour. The sketch138 of the mate, Martin, in “Midshipman Easy,” is a sufficient defence against the charge of want of feeling, if, indeed, it had ever been made. Many who have had a more visible anxiety to be pathetic than Marryat have failed to draw so touching139 a figure as this slight outline of the melancholy140 officer, in whom the disappointments of years have crushed all hope, without hardening or souring him.[93] “No, no,” said the mate, when his acting141 order as lieutenant142 was brought him as he lay wounded in his hammock, “I knew very well that I never should be made. If it is not confirmed, I may live; but if it is, I am sure to die.” And die he does, because hope deferred143 has dried up the spring of life within him. In the character of Mr. Chucks kindness and fun are mingled144. He is respectable in spite of his absurdities145, and lovable because of them. In the Dominie in “Jacob Faithful” there is an effort to produce a second Mr. Chucks, but it is not successful. He is too plainly a reminiscence of another Dominie—a fairly well-done copy, but only a copy. For the most part the fun of Marryat belongs to the grotesque146 order. This, unquestionably, is not the highest. But what is not the highest may yet be genuine, and that Marryat’s fun, as the world has now recognized for half a century, undoubtedly is. His gallery of “figures of fun” is a long one. Peter Simple in the days before Terence O’Brien made a man of him; Jack Easy before he had been converted from a belief in the equality of all men; in a rougher way his father; Mr. Muddle147; and, above all, Mr. Chucks, have an intrinsic comic vis. The fun which they make, or which goes on about them, is never mere79 horse-play. They are not mannikins of the stamp of Smollett’s Pallet, created only to be knocked about, and to make grimaces148, but possible, and even probable, human beings—a little distorted, a little exaggerated, put frequently into such positions as are more fit for farce149 than comedy, but not on that account ceasing to be real.
[94]
“Mr. Smallsole’s violence made Mr. Biggs violent, which made the boatswain’s mate violent—and the captain of the forecastle violent also; all which is practically exemplified by philosophy in the laws of motion, communicated from one body to another; and as Mr. Smallsole swore, so did the boatswain swear. Also the boatswain’s mate, the captain of the forecastle, and all the men—showing the force of example.
“Mr. Smallsole came forward.
“‘Damnation, Mr. Biggs, what the devil are you about? Can’t you move here?’
“‘As much as we can, sir,’ replied the boatswain, ‘lumbered as the forecastle is with idlers.’ And here Mr. Biggs looked at our hero and Mesty, who were standing150 against the bulwark151.
“‘What are you doing here, sir?’ cried Mr. Smallsole to our hero.
“‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Jack.
“‘Then I’ll give you something to do, sir. Go up to the mast-head, and wait there till I call you down. Come, sir, I’ll show you the way,’ continued the master, walking aft. Jack followed till they were on the quarter-deck.
“‘Now, sir, up to the maintop gallant152 mast-head; perch153 yourself upon the cross-trees—up with you.’
“‘What am I to go up there for, sir?’ inquired Jack.
“‘For punishment, sir,’ replied the master.
“‘What have I done, sir?’
“‘No reply, sir—up with you.’
“‘If you please, sir,’ replied Jack, ‘I should wish to argue this point a little.’
[95]
“‘Argue the point!’ roared Mr. Smallsole—‘by Jove, I’ll teach you to argue the point—away with you, sir.’
“‘If you please, sir,’ continued Jack, ‘the captain told me that the articles of war were the rules and regulations by which every one in the service was to be guided. Now, sir,’ said Jack, ‘I have read them over till I know them by heart, and there is not one word of mast-heading in the whole of them.’ Here Jack took the articles out of his pocket and unfolded them.
“‘Will you go to the mast-head, sir, or will you not?’ said Mr. Smallsole.
“‘Will you show me the mast-head in the articles of war, sir?’ replied Jack; ‘here they are.’
“‘I tell you, sir, to go to the mast-head: if not, I’ll be d——d if I don’t hoist154 you up in a bread-bag.’
“‘There’s nothing about bread-bags in the articles of war, sir,’ replied Jack; ‘but I’ll tell you what there is, sir;’ and Jack commenced reading,—
“‘All flag-officers, and all persons in or belonging to his majesty’s ships or vessels155 of war, being guilty of profane156 oaths, execrations, drunkenness, uncleanness, or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God’s honour, and corruption157 of good manners, shall incur158 such punishment as——’
“‘Damnation!’ cried the master, who was mad with rage, hearing that the whole ship’s company were laughing.
“‘No, sir, not damnation,’ replied Jack; that’s when he’s tried above; but according to the nature and degree of the offence.’
“‘Will you go to the mast-head, sir, or will you not?’
[96]
“‘If you please,’ replied Jack, ‘I’d rather not.’
“‘Then, sir, consider yourself under an arrest. I’ll try you by a court-martial, by God. Go down below, sir.’
“‘With the greatest pleasure, sir,’ replied Jack; ‘that’s all right and according to the articles of war, which are to guide us all.’ Jack folded up his articles of war, put them into his pocket, and went down into the berth159.”
Here is farce, but farce which almost borders on comedy. Given Jack Easy with his natural pluck and his absurd training, suddenly put into a man-of-war, and set to reconcile the practice of the service with the ideal picture of it presented by the articles of war, and this is precisely160 what might be expected to happen. The absurdity161 always arises from the clash of the characters; and though it be farce, it is farce of the highest order. Rarely does the grotesque lean to the horrible. The death of Mr. Vanslyperken is a case in which it does; but Marryat was, for the most part, content to amuse, and to amuse only.
How well he succeeded we all know. Which of us has not laughed with him ever since we were boys? Mr. Chucks stands between Commodore Trunnion and Mr. Micawber. The scene I have quoted above, and a dozen others, live by the side of Pipe’s journey to the garrison162 with the nymph of the road. The adventures in battle and wreck are very good, but they are not the best. Romance of the brilliant order Marryat did not often try, and when he did, he was at best but moderately successful. He was more of the race of Defoe[97] than of Dumas. But from Defoe, over whom no man ever laughed, he was divided by his love of laughter, and power of drawing it forth163. His fun may be often mere animal spirits, but at least it was spontaneous, and was by natural instinct literary. He did not toil164 and labour to be funny. Even in his most hasty work he would hit off a scene with neat pen-strokes, marking just enough and no more. Take, for instance, the revenue officers in “The Three Cutters.” Lieutenant Appleboy and his companions are introduced simply because he had seen them, and as much for his own amusement as his readers. Marryat had seen the types when he was doing preventive work himself in the Rosario, and drew them out of his memory when he needed them. Some of his figures were doubtless portraits—all of them had possibly some touch of portraiture165. But on his paper they have an interest altogether independent of their originals. There are, as Mr. Saintsbury, speaking of the personalities166 of Daudet, has said, two ways of drawing portraits in literature. The first is to adapt your sitter into somebody else whom we love for his own sake. The second is to give us an image for which we should care but little if it was not meant for A or B. Of these two methods Marryat took the first. If there was an original to Terence O’Brien we should like to have known him; but, whether or not, we like Terence for his own sake. Was there a boatswain in His Majesty’s Service who stood for Mr. Chucks? Possibly; but what then? In Marryat’s stories are types as well as individuals. They and their doings have an independent universal truth.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
profusely
|
|
| ad.abundantly | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
originality
|
|
| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
undoubtedly
|
|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
playwright
|
|
| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
economists
|
|
| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
adaptability
|
|
| n.适应性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
amicably
|
|
| adv.友善地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
premium
|
|
| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
surmises
|
|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
conflagration
|
|
| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
isolated
|
|
| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
juxtaposition
|
|
| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
pittance
|
|
| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
asterisks
|
|
| n.星号，星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
fiery
|
|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
stature
|
|
| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
metropolitan
|
|
| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
appreciable
|
|
| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
remunerative
|
|
| adj.有报酬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
corrupt
|
|
| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
cant
|
|
| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
extravagant
|
|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
royalty
|
|
| n.皇家，皇族 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
hawk
|
|
| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
proprietary
|
|
| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
neatly
|
|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
naval
|
|
| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
extenuation
|
|
| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
diligently
|
|
| ad.industriously;carefully | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
vein
|
|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
avowed
|
|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
castigation
|
|
| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
contrition
|
|
| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
autobiography
|
|
| n.自传 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
memoir
|
|
| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
memoirs
|
|
| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
lamentably
|
|
| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
demonstrations
|
|
| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
seamen
|
|
| n.海员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
insolent
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
callous
|
|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
cub
|
|
| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
interpretation
|
|
| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
rascal
|
|
| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
errs
|
|
| 犯错误，做错事( err的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
random
|
|
| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
bastard
|
|
| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
genre
|
|
| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
fictitious
|
|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
seaman
|
|
| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
heresy
|
|
| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
shipwreck
|
|
| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
wreck
|
|
| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
compilation
|
|
| n.编译，编辑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
prodigy
|
|
| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
judicious
|
|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
prodigies
|
|
| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
pickle
|
|
| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
plausibly
|
|
| 似真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
miller
|
|
| n.磨坊主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
frigate
|
|
| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
quotation
|
|
| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
stagnation
|
|
| n. 停滞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
opaque
|
|
| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
steering
|
|
| n.操舵装置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
latitudes
|
|
| 纬度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
steered
|
|
| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
sweeping
|
|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
stunning
|
|
| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
foam
|
|
| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
oars
|
|
| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
thwarts
|
|
| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
severely
|
|
| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
planks
|
|
| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
wrenched
|
|
| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
foundered
|
|
| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
inevitably
|
|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
darting
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
relinquish
|
|
| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
lighter
|
|
| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
culminated
|
|
| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
crumble
|
|
| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
hurled
|
|
| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
ribs
|
|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
miraculously
|
|
| ad.奇迹般地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
mangled
|
|
| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
ridge
|
|
| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
laborious
|
|
| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
colloquial
|
|
| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
obtrusively
|
|
| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
wondrous
|
|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
corrupted
|
|
| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
decadence
|
|
| n.衰落，颓废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
unravelling
|
|
| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
destitute
|
|
| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
lieutenant
|
|
| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
deferred
|
|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
absurdities
|
|
| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
grotesque
|
|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
muddle
|
|
| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
grimaces
|
|
| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
farce
|
|
| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
bulwark
|
|
| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
perch
|
|
| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
hoist
|
|
| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
vessels
|
|
| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
profane
|
|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
corruption
|
|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
incur
|
|
| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
berth
|
|
| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
garrison
|
|
| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
portraiture
|
|
| n.肖像画法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
personalities
|
|
| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |