I never list presume to Parnass hill,
But piping low, in shade of lowly grove2,
I play to please myself, albeit3 ill.
Spencer Shep. Cal. June.
Manuscript in folio. Circa_ 1696.
There is no other book in my library to which I feel that I possess so clear a presumptive right as to this manuscript. Other rare volumes would more fitly adorn4 the collections of bibliophiles more learned, more ingenious, more elegant, than I. But if there is any person in the two hemispheres who has so fair a claim upon the ghost of Ardelia, let that man stand forth5. Ardelia was uncultivated and unsung when I constituted myself, years ago, her champion. With the exception of a noble fragment of laudation from Wordsworth, no discriminating6 praise from any modern critic had stirred the ashes of her name. I made it my business to insist in many places on the talent of Ardelia. I gave her, for the first time, a chance of challenging public taste, by presenting to readers of Mr. Ward's English Poets many pages of extracts from her writings; and I hope it is not indiscreet to say that, when the third volume of that compilation7 appeared, Mr. Matthew Arnold told me that its greatest revelation to himself had been the singular merit of this lady. Such being my claim on the consideration of Ardelia, no one will, I think, grudge9 me the possession of this unknown volume of her works in manuscript. It came into my hands by a strange coincidence. In his brief life of Anne Finch10, Countess of Winchilsea—for that was Ardelia's real name—Theophilus Gibber says, "A great number of our authoress' poems still continue unpublished, in the hands of the Rev8. Mr. Creake." In 1884 I saw advertised, in an obscure book-list, a folio volume of old manuscript poetry. Something excited my curiosity, and I sent for it. It proved to be a vast collection of the poems of my beloved Anne Finch. I immediately communicated with the bookseller, and asked him whence it came. He replied that it had been sold, with furniture, pictures and books, at the dispersing11 of the effects of a family of the name of Creake. Thank you, divine Ardelia! It was well done; it was worthy12 of you.
Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea, is not a commanding figure in history, but she is an isolated13 and a well-defined one. She is what one of the precursors14 of Shakespeare calls "a diminutive15 excelsitude." She was entirely16 out of sympathy with her age, and her talent was hampered17 and suppressed by her conditions. She was the solitary18 writer of actively19 developed romantic tastes between Marvell and Gray, and she was not strong enough to create an atmosphere for herself within the vacuum in which she languished20. The facts of her life are extremely scanty21, although they may now be considerably22 augmented23 by the help of my folio. She was born about 1660, the daughter of a Hampshire baronet. She was maid of honour to Mary of Modena, Duchess of York, and at Court she met Heneage Finch, who was gentleman of the bed-chamber to the Duke. They married in 1685, probably on the occasion of the enthronement of their master and mistress, and when the crash came in 1688, they fled together to the retirement24 of Eastwell Park. They inhabited this mansion25 for the rest of their lives, although it was not until the death of his nephew, in 1712, that Heneage Finch became fourth Earl of Winchilsea. In 1713 Anne was at last persuaded to publish a selection of her poems, and in 1720 she died. The Earl survived her until 1726.
My manuscript was written, I think, in or about the year 1696—that is to say, when Mrs. Finch was in retirement from the Court. She has adopted the habit of writing,
Betrayed by solitude26 to try Amusements, which the prosperous fly.
But her exile from the world gives her no disquietude. It seems almost an answer to her prayer. Years before, when she was at the centre of fashion in the Court of James II., she had written in an epistle to the Countess of Thanet:
Give me, O indulgent Fate,
Give me yet, before I die,
A sweet, but absolute retreat,
'Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high,
That the world may ne'er invade,
Through such windings27 and such shade,
My unshaken liberty.
This was a sentiment rarely expressed and still more rarely felt by English ladies at the close of the seventeenth century. What their real opinion usually was is clothed in crude and ready language by the heroines of Wycherley and Shadwell. Like Lucia, in the comedy of Epsom Wells, to live out of London was to live in a wilderness28, with bears and wolves as one's companions. Alone in that age Anne Finch truly loved the country, for its own sake, and had an eye to observe its features.
She had one trouble, constitutional low spirits: she was a terrible sufferer from what was then known as "The Spleen." She wrote a long pindaric Ode on the Spleen, which was printed in a miscellany in 1701, and was her first introduction to the public. She talks much about her melancholy30 in her verses, but, with singular good sense, she recognised that it was physical, and she tried various nostrums31. Neither tea, nor coffee, nor ratafia did her the least service:
In vain to chase thee every art I try,
In vain all remedies apply,
In vain the Indian leaf infuse,
Or the parched32 eastern berry bruise33,
Or pass, in vain, those bounds, and nobler liquors use.
Her neurasthenia threw a cloud over her waking hours, and took sleep from her eyelids34 at night:
How shall I woo thee, gentle Rest,
To a sad mind, with cares oppress'd?
By what soft means shall I invite
Thy powers into my soul to-night?
Yet, gentle Sleep, if thou wilt35 come,
Such darkness shall prepare the room
As thy own palace overspreads,—
Thy palace stored with peaceful beds,—
And Silence, too, shall on thee wait
Deep, as in the Turkish State;
Whilst, still as death, I will be found,
My arms by one another bound,
And my dull limbs so clos'd shall be
As if already seal'd by thee.
She tried a course of the waters at Tunbridge Wells, but without avail. When the abhorred36 fit came on, the world was darkened to her. Only two things could relieve her—the soothing37 influence of solitude with nature and the Muses38, or the sympathetic presence of her husband. She disdained39 the little feminine arts of her age:
Nor will in fading silks compose
Faintly the inimitable rose,
Fill up an ill-drawn bird, or paint on glass
The Sovereign's blurr'd and indistinguished face,
The threatening angel and the speaking ass1.
But she will wander at sundown through the exquisite40 woods of Eastwell, and will watch the owlets in their downy nest or the nightingale silhouetted41 against the fading sky. Then her constitutional depression passes, and she is able once more to be happy:
Our sighs are then but vernal air, But April-drops our tears,
as she says in delicious numbers that might be Wordsworth's own. In these delightful42 moments, released from the burden of her tyrant43 malady44, her eyes seem to have been touched with the herb euphrasy, and she has the gift, denied to the rest of her generation, of seeing nature and describing what she sees. In these moods, this contemporary of Dryden and Congreve gives us such accurate transcripts45 of country life as the following:
When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads,
Whose stealing face and lengthened46 shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage47 in his teeth we hear;
When nibbling48 sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud:
When curlews cry beneath the village-walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls.
In Eastwell Park there was a hill, called Parnassus, to which she was particularly partial, and to this she commonly turned her footsteps.
Melancholy as she was, however, and devoted49 to reverie, she could be gay enough upon occasion, and her sprightly50 poems have a genuine sparkle. Here is an anacreontic—written "for my brother Leslie Finch"—which has never before been printed:
_From the Park, and the Play,
And Whitehall, come away
To the Punch-bowl by far more inviting51;
To the fops and 'the beaux
Leave those dull empty shows,
And see here what is truly delighting.
The half globe 'tis in figure,
And would it were bigger,
Yet here's the whole universe floating;
Here's titles and places,
Rich lands, and fair faces,
And all that is worthy our doting52.
'Twas a world like to this
The hot Grecian did miss,
Of whom histories keep such a pother;
To the bottom he sunk,
And when he had drunk,
Grew maudlin53, and wept for another_.
At another point, Anne Finch bore very little likeness54 to her noisy sisterhood of fashion. In an age when it was the height of ill-breeding for a wife to admit a partiality for her husband, Ardelia was not ashamed to confess that Daphnis—for so she styled the excellent Heneage Finch—absorbed every corner of her mind that was not occupied by the Muses. It is a real pleasure to transcribe55, for the first time since they were written on the 2nd of April, 1685, these honest couplets:
This, to the crown and blessing56 of my life,
The much-loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart;
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err29 who say that husbands can't be lovers.
With such return of passion as is due,
Daphnis I love, Daphnis my thoughts pursue,
Daphnis, my hopes, my joys are bounded all in you!
Nearly thirty years later the same accent is audible, thinned a little by advancing years, and subdued57 from passion to tenderness, yet as genuine as at first. When at length the Earl began to suffer from the gout, his faithful family songster recorded that also in her amiable58 verse, and prayed that "the bad disease"
May you but brief unfrequent visits find
To prove you patient, your Ardelia kind.
No one can read her sensitive verses, and not be sure that she was the sweetest and most soothing of bed-side visitants.
It was a quiet life which Daphnis and Ardelia spent in the recesses59 of Eastwell Park. They saw little company and paid few visits. There was a stately excursion now and then, to the hospitable60 Thynnes at Longleat, and Anne Finch seldom omitted to leave behind her a metrical tribute to the beauties of that mansion. They seem to have kept up little connection with the Court or with London. There is no trace of literary society in this volume. Nicholas Rowe twice sent down for their perusal61 translations which he had made; and from another source we learn that Lady Winchilsea had a brisk passage of compliments with Pope. But these were rare incidents. We have rather to think of the long years spent in the seclusion62 of Eastwell, by these gentle impoverished63 people of quality, the husband occupied with his mathematical studies, his painting, the care of his garden; the wife studying further afield in her romantic reverie, watching the birds in wild corners of her park, carrying her Tasso, hidden in a fold of her dress, to a dell so remote that she forgets the way back, and has to be carried home "in a Water-cart driven by one of the Underkeepers in his green Coat, with a Hazle-bough for a Whip." It is a little oasis64 of delicate and pensive65 refinement66 in that hot close of the seventeenth century, when so many unseemly monsters were bellowing67 in the social wilderness.
AMASIA
AMASIA: or, The Works of the Muses. A Collection of Poems. In three volumes. By Mr. John Hopkins. London: Printed by Tho. Warren, for Bennet Banbury, at the Blue-Anchor, in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange, 1700.
It has often been remarked that if the author of the poorest collection of minor68 verse would accurately69 relate in his quavering numbers what his personal observations and adventures have been, his book would not be entirely without value. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, this is precisely70 what he cannot do. His rhymes carry him whither he would not, and he is lost in a fog of imitated phrases and spurious sensations. The very odd and very rare set of three little volumes, which now come before us, offer a curious exception to this rule. The author of Amasia was no poet, but he possessed71 the faculty72 of writing with exactitude about himself. He prattled73 on in heroic couplets from hour to hour, recording74 the tiny incidents of his life. At first sight, his voluble miscellany seems a mere75 wilderness of tame verses, but when we examine it closely a story gradually evolves. We come to know John Hopkins, and live in the intimacy76 of his circle. His poems contain a novelette in solution. So far as I can discover, nothing whatever is known of him save what he reveals of himself, and no one, I think, has ever searched his three uninviting volumes. In the following paragraphs I have put together his story as it is to be found in the pages of Amasia.
By a single allusion77 to the Epistolary Poems of Charles Hopkins, "very well perform'd by my Brother," in 1694, we are able to identify the author of Amasia with certainty. He was the second son of the Right Rev. Ezekiel Hopkins, Lord Bishop78 of Derry. The elder brother whom we have mentioned, Charles, was considerably his senior; for six years the latter occupied a tolerably prominent place in London literary society, was the intimate friend of Dryden and Congreve, published three or four plays not without success, and possessed a name which is pretty frequently met with in books of the time. But to John Hopkins I have discovered scarcely an allusion. He does not seem to have moved in his brother's circle, and his society was probably more courtly than literary. If we may trust his own account the author of Amasia was born, doubtless at Londonderry, on the 1st of January, 1675. He was, therefore, only twenty-five when his poems were published, and the exquisitely79 affected80 portrait which adorns81 the first volume must represent him as younger still, since it was executed by the Dutch engraver82, F.H. van Hove, who was found murdered in October, 1698.
Pause a moment, dear reader, and observe Mr. John Hopkins, alias83 Sylvius, set out with all the artillery84 of ornament85 to storm the heart of Amasia. Notice his embroidered86 silken coat, his splendid lace cravat87, the languishment88 of his large foolish eyes, the indubitable touch of Spanish red on those smooth cheeks. But, above all contemplate89 the wonders of his vast peruke. He has a name, be sure, for every portion of that killing90 structure. Those sausage-shaped curls, close to the ears, are confidants; those that dangle91 round the temples, favorites; the sparkling lock that descends92 alone over the right eyebrow93 is the passagère; and, above all, the gorgeous knot that unites the curls and descends on the left breast, is aptly named the meurtrière. If he would but turn his head, we should see his crèves-coeur, the two delicate curled locks at the nape of his neck. The escutcheon below his portrait bears, very suitably, three loaded muskets94 rampant95. Such was Sylvius, conquering but, alas96! not to conquer.
The youth of John Hopkins was passed in the best Irish society. His father, the Bishop, married—apparently in second nuptials97, for John speaks not of her as a man speaks of his mother—the daughter of the Earl of Radnor. Lady Araminta Hopkins seems to have been a friend of Isabella, Duchess of Grafton, the exquisite girl who, at the age of five, had married a bridegroom of nine, and at twenty-three was left a widow, to be the first toast in English society. The poems of John Hopkins are dedicated98 to this Dowager-duchess, who, when they were published, had already for two years been the wife of Sir Thomas Hanmer. At the age of twelve, and probably in Dublin, Hopkins met the mysterious lady who animates99 these volumes under the name of Amasia. Who was Amasia? That, alas! even the volubility of her lover does not reveal. But she was Irish, the daughter of a wealthy and perhaps titled personage, and the intimate companion for many years of the beautiful Duchess of Grafton.
Love did not begin at first sight. Sylvius played with Amasia when they both were children, and neither thought of love. Later on, in early youth, the poet was devoted only to a male friend, one Martin. To him ecstatic verses are inscribed100:
O Martin! Martin! let the grateful sound Reach to that Heav'n which has our Friendship crown'd, And, like our endless Friendship, meet no bound.
But alas! one day Martin came back, after a long absence, and, although he still
With generous, kind, continu'd Friendship burn'd,
he found Sylvius entirely absorbed by Amasia. Martin knew better than to show temper; he accepted the situation, and
the lov'd Amasia's Health flew round,
Amasia's Health the Golden Goblets101 crown'd.
Now began the first and happiest portion of the story. Amasia had no suspicion of the feelings of the poet, and he was only too happy to be permitted to watch her movements. He records, in successive copies of verses, the various things she did. He seems to have been on terms of delightful intimacy with the lady, and he calls all sorts of people of the highest position to witness how he suffered. To Lady Sandwich are dedicated poems on "Amasia, drawing her own Picture," on "Amasia, playing with a Clouded Fan," on "Amasia, singing, and sticking pins in a Red Silk Pincushion." We are told how Amasia "looked at me through a Multiplying-Glass," how she was troubled with a redness in her eyes, how she danced before a looking-glass, how her flowered muslin nightgown (or "night-rail," as he calls it) took fire, and how, though she promised to sing, yet she never performed. We have a poem on the circumstance that Amasia, "having prick'd me with a Pin, accidentally scratched herself with it;" and another on her "asking me if I slept well after so tempestuous102 a night." But perhaps the most intimate of all is a poem "To Amasia, tickling103 a Gentleman." It was no perfunctory tickling that Amasia administered:
While round his sides your nimble Fingers played,
With pleasing softness did they swiftly rove,
While, at each touch, they made his Heart-strings move.
As round his Breast, his ravish'd Breast they crowd,
We hear their Musick when he laughs aloud.
This is probably the only instance in literature in which a gentleman has complacently104 celebrated105 in verse the fact that his lady-love has tickled106 some other gentleman.
But this generous simplicity107 was not long to last. In 1690 Hopkins's father, the Bishop, had died. We may conjecture108 that Lady Araminta took charge of the boy, and that his home, in vacation time, was with her in Dublin or London. He writes like a youth who has always been petted; the frou-frou of fine ladies' petticoats is heard in all his verses. But he had no fortune and no prospects109; he was utterly110, he confesses, without ambition. The stern papa of Amasia had no notion of bestowing111 her on the penniless Sylvius, and when the latter began to court her in earnest, she rebuffed him. She tore up his love-letters, she teased him by sending her black page to the window when he was ogling112 for her in the street below, she told him he was too young for her, and although she had no objection to his addressing verses to her, she gave him no serious encouragement. She was to be married, he hints, to some one of her own rank—some rich "country booby."
At last, early in 1698, in company with the Duchess of Grafton, and possibly on the occasion of the second marriage of the latter, Amasia was taken off to France, and Hopkins never saw her again. A year later he received news of her death, and his little romance was over. He became ill, and Dr. Gibbons, the great fashionable physician of the day, was called in to attend him. The third volume closes by his summoning the faithful and unupbraiding Martin back to his heart:
Love lives in Sun-Shine, or that Storm, Despair, But gentler Friendship Breathes a Mod'rate Air.
And so Sylvius, with all his galaxy113 of lovely Irish ladies, his fashionable Muses, and his trite114 and tortured fancy, disappears into thin air.
The only literary man whom he mentions as a friend is George Farquhar, himself a native of Londonderry, and about the same age as Hopkins. This playwright115 seems to be sometimes alluded116 to as Daphnis, sometimes under his own name. Before the performance of Love and a Bottle, Hopkins prophesied117 for the author a place where
Congreve, Vanbrook, and Wicherley must sit, The great Triumvirate of Comick Wit,
and later on he thought that even Collier himself ought to commend the Constant Couple, or A Trip to the Jubilee118. At the first performance of this play, towards the close of 1699, Hopkins was greatly perturbed119 by the presence of a lady who reminded him of Amasia, and when he visited the theatre next he was less pleased with the play. He had a vague and infelicitous120 scheme for turning Paradise Lost into rhyme. These are the only traces of literary bias121. In other respects Hopkins is interested in nothing more serious than a lock of Amasia's hair; the china cup she had, "round the sides of which were painted Trees, and at the bottom a Naked Woman Weeping;" her box of patches, in which she finds a silver penny; or the needlework embroidered on her gown. When Amasia died there was no reason why Sylvius should continue to exist, and he fades out of our vision like a ghost.
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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forth
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discriminating
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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rev
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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finch
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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isolated
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precursors
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diminutive
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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actively
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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scanty
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considerably
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Augmented
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retirement
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mansion
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solitude
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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wilderness
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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melancholy
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nostrums
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parched
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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wilt
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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soothing
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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45
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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46
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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48
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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49
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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50
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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51
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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52
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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53
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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54
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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55
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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56
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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57
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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59
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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60
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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61
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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62
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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63
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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64
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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66
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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67
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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68
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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69
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
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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73
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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78
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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81
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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83
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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84
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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85
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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86
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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87
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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88
languishment
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| 衰弱，无力，呆滞 | |
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89
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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90
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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91
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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92
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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93
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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94
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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96
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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97
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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98
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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99
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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100
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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101
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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102
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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103
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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104
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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105
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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106
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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107
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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108
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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109
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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110
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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111
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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112
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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113
galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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114
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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115
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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116
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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119
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
infelicitous
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| adj.不适当的 | |
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121
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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