—Tale of a Tub
Birrell, the great English essayist, remarks that, "Of writing books about Dean Swift there is no end." The reason is plain: of no other prominent writer who has lived during the past two hundred years do we know so much. His life lies open to us in many books. Boswell did not write his biography, but Johnson did. Then followed whole schools of little fishes, some of whom wrote like whales. But among the works of genuine worth and merit, with Swift for a subject, we have Sir Walter Scott's nineteen volumes, and lives by Craik, Mitford, Forster, Collins and Leslie Stephen.
The positive elements in Swift's character make him a most interesting subject to men and women who are yet on earth, for he was essentially1 of the earth, earthy. And until we are shown that the earth is wholly bad, we shall find much to amuse, much to instruct, much to admire—aye, much to pity—in the life of Jonathan Swift.
His father married at twenty. His income matched his years—it was just twenty pounds per annum. His wife was a young girl, bright, animated2, intelligent.
In a few short months this girl carried in her arms a baby. This baby was wrapped in a tattered4 shawl and cried piteously from hunger, for the mother had not enough to eat. She was cold, and sick, and in disgrace. Her husband, too, was ill, and sorely in debt. It was Midwinter.
When Spring came, and the flowers blossomed, and the birds mated, and warm breezes came whispering softly from the South, and all the earth was glad, the husband of this child-wife was in his grave, and she was alone. Alone? No; she carried in her tired arms the hungry babe, and beneath her heart she felt the faint flutter of another life.
But to be in trouble and in Ireland is not so bad after all, for the Irish people have great and tender hearts; and even if they have not much to bestow5 in a material way, they can give sympathy, and they do.
So the girl was cared for by kind kindred, and on November Thirtieth, Sixteen Hundred Sixty-seven, at Number Seven, Hoey's Court, Dublin, the second baby was born.
Only a little way from Hoey's Court is Saint Patrick's Cathedral. On that November day, as the tones from the clanging chimes fell on the weary senses of the young mother, there in her darkened room, little did she think that the puny6 bantling she held to her breast would yet be the Dean of the great church whose bells she heard; and how could she anticipate a whisper coming to her from the far-off future: "Of writing books about your babe there is no end!"
The man-child was given to an old woman to care for, and he had the ability, even then, it seems, to win affection. The foster-mother loved him and she stole him away, carrying him off to England.
Charity ministered to his needs; charity gave him his education. When Swift was twenty-one years old he went to see his mother. Her means were scanty7 to the point of hardship, but so buoyant was her mind that she used to declare that she was both rich and happy—and being happy she was certainly rich. She was a rare woman. Her spirit was independent, her mind cultivated, her manner gentle and refined, and she was endowed with a keen sense of humor.
From her, the son derived8 those qualities which have made him famous. No man is greater than his mother; but the sons of brave women do not always make brave men. In one quality Swift was lamentably9 inferior to his mother—he did not have her capacity for happiness. He had wit; she had humor.
We have seen how Swift's father sickened and died. The world was too severe for him, its buffets10 too abrupt11, its burden too heavy, and he gave up the fight before the battle had really begun. This lack of courage and extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. But so peculiar12, complex and wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and mistakes are woven in and make the fabric13 stronger. If Swift had possessed14 only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have heard of him.
In her lowliness and simplicity15 the mother of Swift was content. She did her work in her own little way. She smiled at folly16, and each day she thanked Heaven that her lot was no worse. Not so her son. He brooded in sullen17 silence; he cursed Fate for making him a dependent, and even in his youth he scorned those who benefited him. This was a very human proceeding18.
Many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. Their hate is so vehement19 that when hurled20 it falls short. Swift's scorn was a beautifully winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. Some who were struck did not at the time know it.
His misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted21 his ambition, ruined his aims, and—made his name illustrious.
Swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to wait. He imagined that others were standing22 in his way, and of course they were; for under the calm exterior23 of things ecclesiastic24, there is often a strife25, a jealousy26 and a competition more rabid than in commerce. To succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that required to become a Senator of Massachusetts or the Governor of New York. The man bides27 his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates, lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place.
Swift lacked diplomacy28. When matters did not seem to progress he grew wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. But as he wrote, the ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of cursing plain curses, he held his adversary29 up to ridicule30! And this ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts31 so finely feathered with truth, that it is the admiration32 of mankind. Vitriol mixed with ink is volatile33. Then what? We just run Swift through a coarse sieve34 to take out the lumps of Seventeenth Century refuse, and then we give him to children to make them laugh. Surely no better use can be made of pessimists35. Verily, the author of Gulliver wrote for one purpose, and we use his work for another. He wished for office, he got contempt; he tried to subdue36 his enemies, they subdued37 him; he worked for the present, and he won immortality38.
Said Heinrich Heine, prone39 on his bed in Paris: "The wittiest40 sarcasms41 of mortals are only an attempt at jesting when compared with those of the great Author of the Universe—the Aristophanes of Heaven!"
Wise men over and over have wasted good ink and paper in bewailing Swift's malice42 and coarseness. But without these very elements which the wise men bemoan43, Swift would be for us a cipher44. Yet love is life and hate is death, so how can spite benefit? The answer is that, in certain forms of germination45, frost is as necessary as sunshine: so some men have qualities that lie dormant46 until the coldness of hate bursts the coarse husk of indifference47.
But while hate may animate3, only love inspires. Swift might have stood at the head of the Church of England; but even so, he would be only a unit in a long list of names, and as it is, there is only one Swift. Mr. Talmage averred48 that not ten men in America knew the name of the Archbishop of Canterbury until his son wrote a certain book entitled "Dodo." In putting out this volume, young Benson not only gave us the strongest possible argument favoring the celibacy49 of the clergy50, but at the same time, if Talmage's statement is correct, he made known his father's name.
In all Swift's work, save "The Journal to Stella," the animating51 motive52 seems to have been to confound his enemies; and according to the well-known line in that hymn53 sung wherever the union Jack54 flies, we must believe this to be a perfectly55 justifiable56 ambition. But occasionally on his pages we find gentle words of wisdom that were meant evidently for love's eyes alone. There is much that is pure boyish frolic, and again and again there are clever strokes directed at folly. He has shot certain superstitions57 through with doubt, and in his manner of dealing58 with error he has proved to us a thing it were well not to forget: that pleasantry is more efficacious than vehemence59.
Let me name one incident by way of proof—the well-known one of Partridge, the almanac-maker. This worthy60 cobbler was an astrologer of no mean repute. He foretold61 events with much discretion62. The ignorant bought his almanacs, and many believed in them as a Bible—in fact, astrology was enjoying a "boom."
Swift came to London and found that Partridge's predictions were the theme at the coffeehouses. He saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in the face as they talked loud and long about nothing—just nothing. The whole thing struck Swift as being very funny; and he wrote an announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. He explained that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while Partridge was an impostor and a cheat; in fact, Partridge foretold only things which every one knew would come true. As for himself, he could discern the future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he would now make a prophecy. In substance, it was as follows: "My first prediction is but a trifle; it relates to Partridge, the almanac-maker. I have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the Twenty-ninth day of March, next." This was signed, "Isaac Bickerstaff," and duly issued in pamphlet form. It had such an air of sincerity63 that both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest.
The Thirtieth of March came, and another pamphlet from "Isaac Bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. It related how toward the end of March Partridge began to languish64; how he grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting65 him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue66, that all his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away.
Partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto67 declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on March Twenty-ninth.
To this "Bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than ever, reaffirming that Partridge was dead, and closing with the statement that, "If an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself Partridge, I do not in any way consider myself responsible for that."
The joke set all London on a grin. Wherever Partridge went he was met with smiles and jeers68, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number of people who had formerly69 believed in it seriously.
When Benjamin Franklin started his "Poor Richard's Almanac," twenty-five years later, in the first issue he prophesied70 the death of one Dart71 who set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in America. The man was to expire on the afternoon of October Seventeenth, Seventeen Hundred Thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock.
Dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement that he, too, had consulted the oracle72, and found he would live until October Twenty-sixth, and possibly longer.
On October Eighteenth, Franklin announced Dart's death, and explained that it occurred promptly73 on time, all as prophesied.
Yet Dart lived to publish many almanacs; but Poor Richard got his advertisement, and many staid, broad-brimmed Philadelphians smiled who had never smiled before—not only smiled but subscribed74.
Benjamin Franklin was a great and good man, as any man must be who fathers another's jokes, introducing these orphaned75 children to the world as his own.
Perhaps no one who has written of Swift knew him so well as Delany. And this writer, who seems to have possessed a judicial76 quality far beyond most men, has told us that Swift was moral in conduct to the point of asceticism77. His deportment was grave and dignified78, and his duties as a priest were always performed with exemplary diligence. He visited the sick, regularly administered the sacraments, and was never known to absent himself from morning prayers.
When Harley was Lord Treasurer79, Swift seems to have been on the topmost crest80 of the wave of popularity. Invitations from nobility flowed in upon him, beautiful women deigned81 to go in search of his society, royalty82 recognized him. And yet all this time he was only a country priest with a liking83 for literature.
Collins tells us that the reason for his popularity is plain: "Swift was one of the kings of the earth. Like Pope Innocent the Third, like Chatham, he was one to whom the world involuntarily pays tribute."
His will was a will of adamant84; his intellect so keen that it impressed every one who approached him; his temper singularly stern, dauntless and haughty85. But his wit was never filled with gaiety: he was never known to laugh. Amid the wildest uproar86 that his sallies caused, he would sit with face austere—unmoved.
Personally, Swift was a gentleman. When he was scurrilous87, abusive, ribald, malicious88, it was anonymously89. Is this to his credit? I should not say so, but if a man is indecent and he hides behind a "nom de plume," it is at least presumptive proof that he is not dead to shame.
Leslie Stephen tells us that Swift was a Churchman to the backbone90. No man who is a "Churchman to the backbone" is ever very pious91: the spirit maketh alive, but the letter killeth. One looks in vain for traces of spirituality in the Dean. His sermons are models of churchly commonplace and full of the stock phrases of a formal religion. He never bursts into flame. Yet he most thoroughly92 and sincerely believed in religion. "I believe in religion, it keeps the masses in check. And then I uphold Christianity because if it is abolished the stability of the Church might be endangered," he said.
Philip asked the eunuch a needless question when he inquired, "Understandest thou what thou readest?" No one so poorly sexed as Swift can comprehend spiritual truth: spirituality and sexuality are elements that are never separated. Swift was as incapable93 of spirituality as he was of the "grand passion."
The Dean had affection; he was a warm friend; he was capable even of a degree of love, but his sexual and spiritual nature was so cold and calculating that he did not hesitate to sacrifice love to churchly ambition.
He argued that the celibacy of the Catholic clergy is a wise expediency94. The bachelor physician and the unmarried priest have an influence among gentle womankind, young or old, married or single, that a benedict can never hope for. Why this is so might be difficult to explain, but discerning men know the fact. In truth, when a priest marries he should at once take a new charge, for if he remains95 with his old flock a goodly number of his "lady parishioners," in ages varying from seventeen to seventy, will with fierce indignation rend96 his reputation.
Swift was as wise as a serpent, but not always as harmless as a dove. He was making every effort to secure his miter and crosier: he had many women friends in London and elsewhere who had influence. Rather than run the risk of losing this influence he never acknowledged Stella as his wife. Choosing fame rather than love, he withered97 at the heart, then died at the top.
The life of every man is a seamless garment—its woof his thoughts, its warp98 his deeds. When for him the roaring loom99 of time stops and the thread is broken, foolish people sometimes point to certain spots in the robe and say, "Oh, why did he not leave that out!" not knowing that every action of man is a sequence from off Fate's spindle.
Let us accept the work of genius as we find it; not bemoaning100 because it is not better, but giving thanks because it is so good.
Well-fed, rollicking priest is Father O'Toole of Dublin, with a big, round face, a double chin, and a brogue that you can cut with a knife.
My letter of introduction from Monseigneur Satolli caused him at once to bring in a large, suspicious, black bottle and two glasses. Then we talked—talked of Ireland's wrongs and woman's rights, and of all the Irishmen in America whom I was supposed to know. We spoke101 of the illustrious Irishmen who had passed on, and I mentioned a name that caused the holy father to spring from his chair in indignation.
"Shwift is it! Shwift! No, me lad, don't go near him! He was the divil's own, the very worsht that ever followed the swish of a petticoat. No, no; if ye go to his grave it'll bring ye bad luck for a year. It's Tom Moore ye want—Tom was the bye. Arrah! now, and it's meself phat'll go wid ye."
And so the reverend father put on a long, black coat and his Saint Patrick's Day hat, and we started. We were met at the gate by a delegation102 of "shpalpeens" that had located me on the inside of the house and were lying in wait.
All American travelers in Ireland are supposed to be millionaires, and this may possibly explain the lavish103 attention that is often tendered them. At any rate, various members of the delegation wished "long life to the iligant 'merican gintleman," and hinted in terms unmistakable that pence would be acceptable. The holy father applied104 his cane105 vigorously to the ragged106 rears of the more presumptuous107, and bade them begone, but still they followed and pressed close about.
"Here, I'll show you how to get rid of the dirty gang," said his holiness. "Have ye a penny, I don't know?"
I produced a handful of small change, which the father immediately took and tossed into the street. Instantly there was a heterogeneous108 mass of young Hibernians piled up in the dirt in a grand struggle for spoils. It reminded me of football incidents I had seen at fair Harvard. In the meantime, we escaped down a convenient alley109 and crossed the River Liffey to Old Dublin; inside the walls of the old city, through crooked110 lanes and winding111 streets that here and there showed signs of departed gentility, where now was only squalor, want and vice112, until we came to Number Twelve Angier Street, a quaint113, three-story brick building now used as a "public." In the wall above the door is a marble slab114 with this inscription115: "Here was born Thomas Moore, on the Twenty-eighth day of May, Seventeen Hundred Seventy-eight." Above this in a niche116 is a bust117 of the poet.
Tom's father was a worthy greengrocer who, according to the author of "Lalla Rookh," always gave good measure and full count. It was ever a cause of regret to the elder Moore that his son did not show sufficient capacity to be trusted safely with the business.
The upper rooms of the house were shown to us by an obliging landlady118. Father O'Toole had been here before, and led the way to a snug119 little chamber120 and explained that in this room the future poet of Ireland was found under one of his father's cabbage-leaves.
We descended121 to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and polished glassware and shining brass122. The holy father ordered 'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of Moore's ballads123. The landlady then gave us Byron's "Here's a Health to Thee, Tom Moore." A neighbor came in. Then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a selection from "Lalla Rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life, which possibly would be hard to verify.
And as the tumult124 raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip away. I crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered Saint Patrick's Cathedral.
Great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, where the rumble126 of city traffic is deadened to a faint hum:
"Without, the world's unceasing noises rise, Turmoil127, disquietude and busy fears; Within, there are the sounds of other years, Thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies Which imitate on earth the peaceful skies."
Other worshipers were there. Standing beside a great stone pillar I could make them out kneeling on the tiled floor. Gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, and right at my feet I saw a large brass plate set in the floor and on it only this:
Swift Died Oct. 19, 1745 Aged125 78
On the wall near is a bronze tablet, the inscription of which, in Latin, was dictated128 by Swift himself:
"Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral, where fierce indignation can no longer rend his heart. Go! wayfarer129, and imitate, if thou canst, one who, as far as in him lay, was an earnest champion of liberty——"
Above this is a fine bust of the Dean, and to the right is another tablet:
"Underneath130 lie interred131 the mortal remains of Mrs. Hester Johnson, better known to the world as 'Stella,' under which she is celebrated132 in the writings of Doctor Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Cathedral. She was a person of extraordinary endowments and accomplishments133, in body, mind and behavior; justly admired and respected by all who knew her, on account of her eminent134 virtues135 as well as for her great natural and acquired perfections."
These were suffering souls and great. Would they have been so great had they not suffered? Who can tell? Were the waters troubled in order that they might heal the people?
Did Swift misuse136 this excellent woman, is a question that has been asked and answered again and again.
A great author has written:
"A woman, a tender, noble, excellent woman, has a dog's heart. She licks the hand that strikes her. And wrong nor cruelty nor injustice137 nor disloyalty can cause her to turn."
Death in pity took Stella first; took her in the loyalty138 of love and the fulness of faith from a world which for love has little recompense, and for faith small fulfilment.
Stella was buried by torchlight, at midnight, on the Thirtieth day of January, Seventeen Hundred Twenty-eight. Swift was sick at the time, and wrote in his journal: "This is the night of her funeral, and I am removed to another apartment that I may not see the light in the church which is just over against my window." But in his imagination he saw the gleaming torches as their dull light shone through the colored windows, and he said, "They will soon do as much for me."
But seventeen years came crawling by before the torches flared139, smoked and gleamed as the mourners chanted a requiem140, and the clods fell on the coffin141, and their echoes intermingled with the solemn voice of the priest as he said, "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes."
In Eighteen Hundred Thirty-five, the graves were opened and casts taken of the skulls142. The top of Swift's skull143 had been sawed off at the autopsy144, and a bottle in which was a parchment setting forth145 the facts was inserted in the head that had conceived "Gulliver's Travels."
I examined the casts. The woman's head is square and shapely. Swift's head is a refutation of phrenology, being small, sloping and ordinary.
The bones of Swift and Stella were placed in one coffin, and now rest under three feet of concrete, beneath the floor of Saint Patrick's.
So sleep the lovers joined in death.
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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peculiar
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fabric
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possessed
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simplicity
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folly
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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proceeding
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vehement
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hurled
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thwarted
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standing
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exterior
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ecclesiastic
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strife
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jealousy
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bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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diplomacy
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adversary
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ridicule
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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admiration
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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sieve
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pessimists
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subdue
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subdued
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immortality
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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41
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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42
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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43
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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44
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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45
germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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46
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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47
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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48
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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49
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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50
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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51
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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52
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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53
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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54
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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55
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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56
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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57
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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58
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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59
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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60
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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61
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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63
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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64
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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65
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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66
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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67
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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68
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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70
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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72
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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73
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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74
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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75
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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76
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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77
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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78
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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79
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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80
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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81
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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83
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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84
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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85
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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86
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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87
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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88
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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89
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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90
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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91
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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92
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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93
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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94
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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97
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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98
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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99
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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100
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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101
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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102
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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103
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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104
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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105
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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106
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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107
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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108
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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109
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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110
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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111
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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112
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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113
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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114
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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115
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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116
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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117
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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118
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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119
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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120
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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121
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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122
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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123
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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124
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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125
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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126
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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127
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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128
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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129
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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130
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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131
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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133
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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134
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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135
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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136
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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137
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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138
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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139
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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140
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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141
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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142
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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143
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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144
autopsy
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| n.尸体解剖；尸检 | |
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145
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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