All this restlessness speaks for itself. Men who possess the faculty12 of managing their affairs with judgment13, or who wish to apply themselves to steady work, do not run in this way from pillar to post. Once again I have to remark that much in Marryat’s life is left to be guessed at. It is as well that it should be so. The indications we possess tell the world all that it is entitled to learn. There is—though the contrary proposition is frequently maintained in these days—no inherent right in the public to be made acquainted with the private affairs of a gentleman simply because he has done it the inestimable service of supplying it with readable books. That Marryat, who has just been found expressing a wish to retire from the “fraternity of authors,” was writing himself blind in these years, is a fact which tells its own tale. Add to this a few indications which Mrs. Ross Church has thought it right to supply—a brief reference to some family misfortune of which the details are not given; a complaint in one of Marryat’s letters that[116] somebody, apparently14 a relation, had suspected him of a wish to borrow money; and an increasing tone of grief and trouble in all his letters—and we have enough to form a general estimate of his position with. More we probably could not learn, and would have no right to hunt up if we could. That Marryat had a difficulty in making both ends meet; that his expedients15 did not always succeed; that some of them were, too probably, undignified; that the need for them was, at least partly, due to his own mismanagement, are acknowledged facts. We may, and must, be satisfied with them.
It is also easily to be believed that Marryat would enjoy the hard living, and even hard drinking—artistic17, literary, and semi-literary—life of his time. Clarkson Stanfield was an intimate friend. Rogers, who was acquainted with everybody, was an acquaintance. With Dickens and Forster his friendship was of long standing18, and seems to have remained unbroken. One of the few, and too generally insignificant19, letters to her father printed by Mrs. Ross Church, is an invitation to dinner from Dickens, ending with a pleasing promise to give him some hock which would do him good. He was a guest at those merry children’s parties which Mr. Forster has described. In his quarters in his various London lodgings20 we are given to understand that there was much and gay hospitality. Friends were profusely21 entertained in rooms adorned22 with furs, trophies23, Burmese idols24, and weapons—all the miscellaneous curios collected by a sailor and traveller during many wandering hours. In Burmah, Marryat had even made a collection of jewels cut from out of the bodies of slain25 enemies. The[117] Burman who has a gem16 makes an incision26 in his leg and hides it there, as our sailors discovered more or less to their profit. Unfortunately the curios and the talk are all scattered27 and irrecoverable. “It has all vanished like ‘air, thin air’”—as Marryat wrote himself of certain common reminiscences to “a lady for whom, to the time of his death, he retained the highest sentiments of friendship and esteem28.” Marryat’s friendships were not all of this enduring kind. “Like most warm-hearted people,” as his daughter puts it, “he was quick to take offence, and no one could have decided29, after an absence of six months, with whom he was friends and with whom he was not.” Eager restlessness is the quality which seems to have been most noticed in him by all his friends. It kept him on the move, not only from house to house, but on excursions to Langham or other parts of England.
The toil30 which circumstances forced upon Marryat must have greatly aided his natural restlessness in wearing out his life. Steady work and hard work are not necessarily synonymous, and Marryat worked very hard by fits and starts. While in America, and amid all the racket of his tour, he had written “The Phantom31 Ship” which appeared in 1839. The six volumes of his “Diary in America” followed in the same year. That was not off his hands before he was at work on “Poor Jack,” “Masterman Ready,” “The Poacher,” and “Percival Keene,” followed before the end of 1842. Here was an amount of work (six books within five years) which might not be found excessive by the orderly business-like novelist of to-day, but which must have put a severe strain on a man who wrote at irregular times, but when[118] actually at it, wrote furiously. It was a distinct aggravation32 of the burden that his handwriting was very minute. A man who, having to write a great deal, writes very small, must either be very sure of his eyesight and his nerves, or prepared through ignorance or recklessness to ruin them both. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that Marryat’s letters between 1839 and 1840 contain references to the state of his health of a constantly more melancholy33 nature. “I shall,” he wrote to the same lady friend in the first of these years, “be at leisure, I really believe, about the first week in December; but the second portion of ‘America’ has been a very tough job. I am now correcting press (sic) of the third volume, and half of it is done. I hope to be quite finished by the end of the month, and also to have the other work ready for publication on the 1st of January; but what with printers, engravers, stationers, and publishers, I have been much overworked. I have written and read till my eyes have been no bigger than a mole’s, and my sight about as perfect. I have remained sedentary till I have had un accés de bile, and have been under the hands of the doctor, and for some days obliged to keep my bed; all owing to want of air and exercise. Now I am quite well again.” Some two years later the news is much worse, and there is no mention of complete recovery. “That you may not think me unkind,” he writes again to the same correspondent, “in refusing your invitation, I must tell you that I am much worse than I have made myself out in my former letters. I fell down as if I had been shot a few days ago, and have been ever since obliged to be very quiet, and am not permitted to drink anything but water, or undergo the[119] least excitement, and you would offer me every description in the shape of beauty, mirth, revelry, and feasting, putting yourself out of the question! No; for my sins—sins in the shape of three volumes chiefly—and heavy sins, too, I must now submit to mortification34 and penance35. I am positively36 forbidden to write a line, but you may tell William and Dunny that the little book is finished, and will be out at Easter, when they will be able to read it.” Obviously work, and forms of relaxation37 as wearing as any work, had begun already to ruin a constitution not really robust38. Marryat’s tendency to break blood vessels39 had already crippled him when a lieutenant40 in the navy, and should have warned him that though he might be muscularly powerful, he had no great reserve of constitutional strength to draw on.
The visit to America makes a break in the character as well as in the continuity of Marryat’s work. He had said all he had to say about the sea life of his own time, and had to turn elsewhere. The “Diary in America” is perhaps a sign that he thought for a moment of rivalling Captain Basil Hall. If he was indeed tempted41 to do so, the temptation ceased to be difficult to resist after his return to Europe. The toil of travel, and then of writing out his impressions of travel, had been greater than he had expected, and had produced no equivalent result—either in money or reputation. Mrs. Ross Church states that he received for the “Diary,” “on first publishing the manuscript,” ￡1,600. But, according to the same authority, he had received nearly as much for several of his other books in a lump sum, and they continued to bring him in a yearly harvest, whereas the[120] “Diary” sank at once into the position of a mere42 book about America. In truth, this kind of writing had been overdone43. There was no longer a market for books of the Trollope or even the Martineau order. Everything had been said about the United States which the public wanted to hear for the time. The publishers of the “Diary” must have discovered that, in taking the “Diary,” they had made the mistake not uncommonly44 committed by the trade, and by theatrical45 managers, the mistake of overestimating46 the length of time during which the public will continue to care for the same thing. They, doubtless, told Marryat that the taste for stories was more enduring than the liking47 for descriptions, abusive, laudatory48, or philosophical49, of our American cousins. With or without advice of this kind, he returned to stories, and remained steadily50 faithful to them.
“The Phantom Ship,” written during the American tour, differs materially from all the tales which had preceded it, except “Snarley Yow.” It is a romance with a strong element of diablerie. Possibly because it was not written in a hurry for the press, it shows more signs of care in construction than most of the earlier books. Also, it is an historical romance, and proves that Marryat had worked at the history of the sea-life—not, doubtless, very hard, but still to some purpose. The result makes one regret that he did not find, or seek for, the leisure to dig further, and to avail himself of his discoveries. No great amount of research can have been required to collect the materials for “The Phantom Ship.” Admiral Burney’s “Discoveries in the South Seas” would alone[121] have given Marryat all he wanted for this picture of the old Dutch seamanship. Still he brought with him so much knowledge acquired by actual experience that a little was enough. Had he so pleased he might, with the help of Hakluyt, of Monson, and of Sir Richard Hawkins’ “Voyage,” have given us a picture of the Elizabethan seamen51. He might have drawn52 the “chivalry of the sea,” as Washington Irving asked him to do. A “Westward Ho” he would not have written. We should not have had from him (nor have expected) anything equivalent to the dream of Amyas Leigh, or the exquisite53 speech at the grave of Salvation54 Yeo. But what he could have done was what Kingsley could not do, and, with the tact55 of an artist, did not try to do too much. He might have realized the actual sea life of the time—the ships, the seamen, and the seamanship of the past. It was a work in which only a sailor could have succeeded. The pictorial56 imagination of Kingsley and the conscientious57 workmanship of Charles Reade alike fail to give reality to their sea scenes. The first was a great artist, and the second an exceedingly clever man with no contemptible58 share of the imagination of the historian and biographer—the power of seeing the value of materials, of deducing from the report of a thing done the manner of the doing and the nature of the doer. They both worked hard to realize the sea, and yet, if we compare the cruises of the Rose and the Vengeance59, or the fight with the pirates in “Hard Cash,” with the “club-hauling” of the Diomede, there is a perceptible difference. I am not unaware60 that one may be unconsciously influenced by the knowledge that Marryat was a seaman,[122] to expect, and see more truth in his pictures than in theirs. Remembering that, however, I still think that his sea scenes differ from Kingsley’s, or Reade’s, as the thing seen differs from the thing “got up”—with imagination, with insight, with conscientious industry, no doubt,—but still “got up.”
In this, and in other ways, Marryat did not do all he might have done. “The Phantom Ship,” with “Snarley Yow” which preceded, and the “Privateersman” which followed it, must be taken for what they are worth in place of the possible better. Even so, however, the value of the first of them is considerable. Marryat made a good use of what Leigh Hunt has somewhat hastily decided is the only sea legend. There is no great originality61 in the incidents. Vanderdecken was made to his hand, and he had German enough—or failing that had translations enough—to supply him with the diablerie. But the materials are well used. The story swings along. Philip Vanderdecken, the Pilot Schriften, the greedy Portuguese62 governor, and the priests have a distinct vitality63. Amine is by far his nearest approach to an acceptable heroine; for indeed it must be confessed that this sailor had an altogether maritime64 ignorance of women, except bumboat women and the ladies of the Hard. The scenes in which his heroines are on the stage are skip. Amine’s appearances, however, are not skip. She is a very acceptable heroine of melodrama65, good of her kind, with a decided character of her own. The Inquisition scenes in which she is the central figure are the highest point Marryat reached in romance. Very good too are the successive appearances of the Phantom[123] Ship, done as was commonly the case with Marryat, simply, without straining, without obvious desire to make you shiver. If the last scene of all trenches66 on the namby pamby, as I am afraid it does, it is preceded by a very good one indeed. Marryat has indicated the loneliness, the weary waiting, the heart-broken striving of Vanderdecken’s doomed67 crew, very sufficiently68 by the futile69 effort of the poor mate, who would fain persuade the Portuguese to carry the Flying Dutchman’s fatal letters home. That Marryat was content to indicate is not the least of his claims to be considered an artist. He knew by instinct, or deduction70, the advantage of coming suddenly on his reader. Too many other story-tellers prepare, and accumulate, and pour forth71, the materials of the shower (too commonly of adjectives) which is to cause us the frisson. We see them doing it, and know what is meant, and, human nature being perverse72, hold ourselves steady and refuse to shiver. The princess whose husband could not shiver gave him the emotion by turning the cold water and tittlebats down his back when he was expecting no such shock. If he had seen her filling the tub, putting in the little fishes, and coming to tilt73 it all over him, there would have been no surprise, and, too probably, he would never have known that delightful74 sensation.
“Poor Jack,” the immediate8 successor of “The Phantom Ship,” is somewhat closer to “Mr. Midshipman Easy,” but it, too, is something of an historical study, whether it was deliberately75 designed to be so or not. Greenwich Hospital has become something very different from the retreat for wounded seamen which[124] Marryat knew, and his picture of it, somewhat sketchy76 as it is, will always have the value of a document. The story one need not stop to analyse at any length. Incidents and characters are of the kind familiar with Marryat—not inferior to the average of the others, but not distinguished77 from them by any very marked characteristics. One piece of fun it does contain not inferior to his best, the immortal78 apology of the midshipman who had told the master that he was not fit to carry guts79 to a bear. The palpable absurdity80 of the incident is on a par9 with Mr. Easy’s amazing use of the Articles of War. “The Poacher” and “Percival Keene,” which also belong to these years, both have a flavour of work done only because the author was “rather in want of money.” The first is another venture in the same line as “Japhet.” The second is the least pleasant, take it for all in all, of the books which bear Marryat’s name. It is the only one which had better not be re-read in maturer years by him who has read it as a boy. The fun is forced—of the horse-play practical joking kind—and the serious parts are somewhat spoilt by fustian81. The negro pirate captain and his crew are good enough for boyish tragedy, but that is not what we expect from Marryat. Finally, too, there is a disagreeable flavour in the book. The hero is a low fellow—not in a healthy human way even, but in a very mean intriguing82 fashion, and he plays his part in the meanest possible manner.
The one story of these days which could least be spared from Marryat’s work is “Masterman Ready.” This, the first of his children’s books, is also one of the best, perhaps the very best, thing of its kind in English.[125] It is a child’s story in which there is not one word above the intelligence of the readers it was designed for, one situation or one character they could not grasp, and yet it is distinctly literature. It is didactic, and yet there is no preachment. It is pathetic, and yet it is not mawkish83. It ends with a death bed scene which is not an offence. In point of mere cleverness of workmanship it ranks, in my opinion, first among Marryat’s works, and yet it is perfectly84 simple and unstrained. Marryat was indeed well qualified85 to write for children. He had loved their company at all times, and had served a long apprenticeship86 in telling stories to his own. The practice had taught him to avoid the fatal mistake of condescension87. An intelligent child, as even so weighty a writer as Guizot has remarked, can understand a great deal more than the duller kind of adult is disposed to allow. It does not like to be effusively88 addressed as “my little friend,” and made to see that the kind gentleman or lady who speaks is intent on improving its mind. “I can’t be always good,” said Tommy; “I’m very hungry; I want my dinner.” The unsophisticated youthful mind is apt to be equally direct about its literature. It can’t be always imbibing89 preachment; it becomes languid, and wants to be amused: but it also likes precision of detail, and is eager to learn the why and how of everything. With these two rules to guide him—not to be too obtrusively90 instructive, and yet to explain every incident as it came, Marryat wrote a model child’s story. Forster was certainly in the right in declaring it to be the most read, and the most willingly re-read, of its class. For its mere cleverness the book can be enjoyed by the oldest of[126] readers who is not too dreadfully in earnest. It was no small feat91 to have taken so well worn a situation as the shipwreck92 and the desert island, and to have made out of it a book which may stand next to Defoe’s. The desertion of the Pacific and her passengers by the crew, her wreck93, the life on the island, the fight with the savages94, and the rescue, are as probable, they follow one another as naturally, as the events in the life of Robinson Crusoe. Marryat had too much tact and knowledge to fall into the extravagances of the “Swiss Family Robinson.” The beasts and plants of the island are not an impossible collection of the flora95 and fauna96 of three continents. Then, too, the book contains two of Marryat’s very best characters. Masterman Ready is an ideal old sailor, brave, modest, kind, helpful, able to turn his hand to anything, and to do it well, yet, withal, no mere bundle of abstract virtues97, but a most credible98 human being—such a man as might have been formed by such a life. Very different, but equally good, is Master Tommy Seagrave, the ideal of greedy, naughty boys. Tommy’s ever vigorous appetite and irrepressible passion for making a noise, for meddling99 with everything, for trying everything, for spoiling everything, are as perfect in their way as the meek100 heroism101 of Masterman Ready. At the end, the collision of the two produces very genuine tragedy. Master Tommy was just the boy who would have emptied the water-butt, under pretext102 of bringing water from the well, and would have accepted the very undeserved praise bestowed103 on his zeal104 without the faintest scruple105. The consequences of his bad behaviour are absolutely natural and inevitable106. That Masterman Ready should have met[127] his death through Master Tommy was an artistic stroke of the highest merit. And Marryat tells it all with a calm detachment which might reduce the average Russian novelist to despair. He is not wroth with Tommy. He accepts him as inevitable, and only describes him with a calm artistic precision, simply as the type of “The Boy.” Then, too, consider the final no-repentance and escape of Tommy. He howled for water and got it, and Masterman Ready died that he might have it. The little wretch107 never knew what mischief108 he had done. He sailed away to Sydney with an excellent appetite, and as long as he had enough to eat, and things to break, was no doubt perfectly happy. There is a something colossal109 in the truth, and the artistic calmness of the whole story.
While Marryat was at work on “The Poacher,” he had a slight literary skirmish—not unworthy of notice as a proof that certain things are unchanging in the literary world. The story appeared in The Era in weekly numbers. One of those remarkable110 persons, who, in every successive generation, find it necessary to make a protest in favour of the dignity of literature, and whose idea of dignity commonly is that literature can only be good when it appears in a certain way and at a certain price, fell foul111 of Marryat for choosing this low method of publication. This egregious112 person wrote in Fraser, and very gratuitously113 attacked Marryat, in the course of some remarks on Harrison Ainsworth, in the following “slashing” style: “If writing monthly fragments threatened to deteriorate114 Mr. Ainsworth’s productions, what must be the result of this hebdomadal habit? Captain Marryat,[128] we are sorry to see, has taken to the same line. Both these popular authors may rely on our warning, that they will live to see their laurels115 fade unless they more carefully cultivate a spirit of self-respect. That which was venial116 in a miserable117 starveling of Grub Street is perfectly disgusting in the extravagantly118 paid novelists of these days—the caressed119 of generous booksellers. Mr. Ainsworth and Captain Marryat ought to disdain120 such pitiful peddling121. Let them eschew122 it without delay.”
These were very bitter words, but the only influence they had on Marryat was to provoke him to show that he could do the single-stick style as well as the Fraser men themselves. With less wit, but more good humour than Thackeray, he, too, wrote his Essay on Thunder and Small Beer. He pointed123 out that there is no necessary connection between the manner of publication and the method of composition of a book, and even made quite respectable fun of Fraser’s pedantry124. “In the paragraph,” he says, “which I have quoted there is an implication on your part which I cannot pass over without comment. You appear to set up a standard of precedency and rank in literature, founded upon the rarity or frequency of an author’s appearing before the public, the scale descending125 from the ‘caressed of generous publishers’ to the ‘starveling of Grub Street’—the former, by your implication, constituting the aristocracy and the latter the profanum vulgus of the quill126. Now although it is a fact that the larger and nobler animals of creation produce but slowly, while the lesser127, such as rabbits, rats, and mice, are remarkable for their fecundity128; I do not think that the comparison will hold good as to the breeding of[129] brains; and to prove it, let us examine—if this argument by implication of yours is good—at what grades upon the scale it would place the writers of the present day.” By applying “this argument by implication” in a rigid129 fashion, Marryat has no difficulty in showing that “my Lady —— anybody,” who produces one novel a year, is necessarily twice as great a writer as Hook or James who produces two, and twelve times as great as the Fraser man himself, whose production is monthly. The reasoning is burlesquely fallacious, but it was meant to be so. Marryat spoke130 with more gravity, and more point too, when he urged that he was doing a good work by spreading his story “among the lower classes, who, until lately (and the chief credit of the alteration131 is due to Mr. Dickens), had hardly an idea of such recreation.”
“In a moral point of view I hold that I am right. We are educating the lower classes; generations have sprung up who can read and write; and may I inquire what it is they have to read, in the way of amusement?—for I speak not of the Bible, which is for private examination. They have scarcely anything but the weekly newspapers, and as they cannot command amusement, they prefer those which create the most excitement; and this I believe to be the cause of the great circulation of The Weekly Despatch132, which has but too well succeeded in demoralizing the public, in creating disaffection and ill-will towards the Government, and assisting the nefarious133 views of demagogues, and chartists. It is certain that men would rather laugh than cry—would rather be amused than rendered gloomy and discontented—would sooner dwell upon the joys and sorrows of others, in a[130] tale of fiction, than brood over their supposed wrongs. If I put good and wholesome134 food (and, as I trust, sound moral) before the lower classes, they will eventually eschew that which is coarse and disgusting, which is only resorted to because no better is supplied. Our weekly newspapers are at present little better than records of immorality135 and crime, and the effect which arises from having no other matter to read and comment on, is of serious injury to the morality of the country.… I consider, therefore, that in writing for the amusement and instruction of the poor man, I am doing that which has been but too much neglected—that I am serving my country, and you surely will agree with me that to do so is not infra dig. in the proudest Englishman: and, as a Conservative, you should commend, rather than stigmatise my endeavours in the manner which you have so hastily done.”
The intention and the argument here are better than the style. Marryat was better at narrative136 than exposition, and could at times be as free with the relative pronouns as that distinguished officer, Captain Rawdon Crawley. The confidence Marryat, in common with most of his contemporaries, reposed137 in the influence of wholesome amusement was doubtless excessive. It has not been found that when the “poor man” [or other reader for that matter], has a choice of Hercules given him between good literature and bad, he will cleave138 to the first and reject the last. Also, there is a candid139 confession140 of the faith “that there is nothing like leather” in Marryat’s confidence that good weekly stories would soothe141 the discontent which was seething142 in England[131] before 1848. But in spite of slips of grammar, optimism, and over-confidence, Marryat’s answer to the priggery in Fraser is a creditable manifesto143. To desire to kill the trash of The Weekly Despatch was at least a respectable ambition, and a man has a good right to believe in his causes, and his weapons.
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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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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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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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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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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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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31
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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32
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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33
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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34
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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35
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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36
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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37
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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38
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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39
vessels
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| 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 | |
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40
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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41
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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42
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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43
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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44
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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45
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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46
overestimating
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的现在分词 ) | |
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47
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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48
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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49
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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50
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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51
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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52
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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53
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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54
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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55
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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56
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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57
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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58
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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59
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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60
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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61
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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62
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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63
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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64
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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65
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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66
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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67
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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68
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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69
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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70
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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73
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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74
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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75
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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76
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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77
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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78
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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79
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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80
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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81
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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82
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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83
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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84
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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86
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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87
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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88
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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89
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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90
obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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91
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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92
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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93
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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94
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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95
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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96
fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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97
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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98
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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99
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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100
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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101
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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102
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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103
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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105
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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106
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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107
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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108
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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109
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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110
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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111
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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112
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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113
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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114
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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115
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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116
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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117
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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118
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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119
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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121
peddling
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| 忙于琐事的，无关紧要的 | |
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122
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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123
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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124
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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125
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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126
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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127
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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128
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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129
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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130
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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131
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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132
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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133
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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134
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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135
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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136
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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137
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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139
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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140
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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141
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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142
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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143
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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