September 16, 1849
Have you read Dickens? Oh, it is charming! Brave Dickens! "David Copperfield" has some of his prettiest touches, and the reading of the book has done another author a great deal of good.
—W.M.T.
There are certain good old ladies in every community who wear perennial1 mourning. They attend every funeral, carrying black-bordered handkerchiefs, and weep gently at the right time. I have made it a point to hunt out these ancient dames2 at their homes, and, over the teacups, I have discovered that invariably they enjoy a sweet peace—a happiness with contentment—that is a great gain. They seem to be civilization's rudimentary relic3 of the Irish keeners and the paid mourners of the Orient.
And there is just a little of this tendency to mourn with those who mourn in all mankind. It is not difficult to bear another's woe—and then there is always a grain of mitigation, even in the sorrow of the afflicted4, that makes their tribulation5 bearable.
Burke affirms, in "On the Sublime," that all men take a certain satisfaction in the disasters of others. Just as Frenchmen lift their hats when a funeral passes and thank God that they are not in the hearse, so do we in the presence of calamity6 thank Heaven that it is not ours.
Perhaps this is why I get a strange delight from walking through a graveyard7 by night. All about are the white monuments that glisten8 in the ghostly starlight, the night-wind sighs softly among the grassy9 mounds—all else is silent—still.
This is the city of the dead, and of all the hundreds or thousands who have traveled to this spot over long and weary miles, I, only I, have the power to leave at will. Their ears are stopped, their eyes are closed, their hands are folded—but I am alive.
One of the first places I visited on reaching London was Kensal Green Cemetery10. I quickly made the acquaintance of the First Gravedigger, a rare wit, over whose gray head have passed full seventy pleasant summers. I presented him a copy of "The Shroud11," the organ of the American Undertakers' Association, published at Syracuse, New York. I subscribe12 for "The Shroud" because it has a bright wit-and-humor column, and also for the sweet satisfaction of knowing that there is still virtue13 left in Syracuse.
The First Gravedigger greeted me courteously14, and when I explained briefly16 my posthumous17 predilections18 we grasped hands across an open grave (that he had just digged) and were fast friends.
"Do you believe in cremation19, sir?" he asked.
"No, never; it's pagan."
"Aye, you are a gentleman—and about burying folks in churches?"
"Never! A grave should be out under the open sky, where the sun by day and the moon and stars——"
"Right you are. How Shakespeare can ever stand it to have his grave walked over by a boy choir20 is more than I can understand. If I had him here I could look after him right. Come, I'll show you the company I keep!"
Not twenty feet from where we stood was a fine but plain granite21 block to the memory of the second wife of James Russell Lowell.
"Just Mr. Lowell and one friend stood by the grave when we lowered the coffin—just two men and no one else but the young clergyman who belongs here. Mr. Lowell shook hands with me when he went away. He gave me a guinea and wrote me two letters afterward22 from America; the last was sent only a week before he died. I'll show 'em to you when we go to the office. Say, did you know him?"
He pointed23 to a slab24, on which I read the name of Sydney Smith. Then we went to the graves of Mulready, the painter; Kemble, the actor; Sir Charles Eastlake, the artist. Next came the resting-place of Buckle—immortal for writing a preface—dead at thirty-seven, with his history unwrit; Leigh Hunt sleeps near, and above his dust a column that explains how it was erected25 by friends. In life he asked for bread; when dead they gave him a costly26 pile of stone.
Here are also the graves of Madame Tietjens; of Charles Mathews, the actor; and of Admiral Sir John Ross, the Arctic explorer.
"And just down the hill aways another big man is buried. I knew him well; he used to come and visit us often. The last time I saw him I said as he was going away, 'Come again, sir; you are always welcome!'
"'Thank you, Mr. First Gravedigger,' says he; 'I will come again before long, and make you an extended visit.' In less than a year the hearse brought him. That's his grave—push that ivy27 away and you can read the inscription28. Did you ever hear of him?"
It was a plain, heavy slab placed horizontally, and the ivy had so run over it that the white of the marble was nearly obscured. But I made out this inscription:
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY Born July 18, 1811 Died Dec. 24, 1863 ANNE CARMICHAEL SMYTH Died Dec. 18, 1864, aged29 72—his mother by her first marriage
The unpoetic exactness of that pedigree gave me a slight chill. But here they sleep—mother and son in one grave. She who gave him his first caress30 also gave him his last; and when he was found dead in his bed, his mother, who lived under the same roof, was the first one called. He was the child of her girlhood—she was scarcely twenty when she bore him. In life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided. It is as both desired.
Thackeray was born in India, and was brought to England on the death of his father, when he was six years of age. On the way from Calcutta the ship touched at the Island of Saint Helena. A servant took the lad ashore31 and they walked up the rocky heights to Longwood, and there, pacing back and forth32 in a garden, they saw a short, stout33 man.
"Lookee, lad, lookee quick—that's him! He eats three sheep every day and all the children he can get!"
"And that's all I had to do with the Battle of Waterloo," said "Old Thack," forty years after. But you will never believe it after reading those masterly touches concerning the battle, in "Vanity Fair."
Young Thackeray was sent to the Charterhouse School, where he was considered rather a dull boy. He was big and good-natured, and read novels when he should have studied arithmetic. This tendency to "play off" stuck to him at Cambridge—where he did not remain long enough to get a degree, but to the relief of his tutors went off on a tour through Europe.
Travel as a means of education is a very seductive bit of sophistry34. Invalids36 whom the doctors can not cure, and scholars whom teachers can not teach, are often advised to take "a change." Still there is reason in it.
In England Thackeray was intent on law; at Paris he received a strong bent37 toward art; but when he reached Weimar and was introduced at the Court of Letters and came into the living presence of Goethe, he caught the infection and made a plan for translating Schiller.
Schiller dead was considered in Germany a greater man than Goethe living, as if it were an offense38 to live and a virtue to die. And young William Makepeace wrote home to his mother that Schiller was the greatest man that ever lived and that he was going to translate his books and give them to England.
No doubt there are certain people born with a tendency to infectiousness in regard to certain diseases; so there are those who catch the literary mania39 on slight exposure.
"I've got it," said Thackeray, and so he had.
He went back to England and made groggy40 efforts at Blackstone, and Somebody's Digest, and What's-His-Name's Compendium41, but all the time he scribbled42 and sketched43.
The young man had come into possession of a goodly fortune from his father's estate—enough to yield him an income of over two thousand dollars a year. But bad investments and signing security for friends took the money the way that money usually goes when held by a man who has not earned it.
"Talk about riches having wings," said Thackeray; "my fortune had pinions45 like a condor46, and flew like a carrier-pigeon."
When Thackeray was thirty he was eking47 out a meager48 income writing poems, reviews, criticisms and editorials. His wife was a confirmed invalid35, a victim of mental darkness, and his sorrows and anxieties were many.
He was known as a bright writer, yet London is full of clever, unsuccessful men. But in Thackeray's thirty-eighth year "Vanity Fair" came out, and it was a success from the first.
In "Yesterdays With Authors," Mr. Fields says: "I once made a pilgrimage with Thackeray to the various houses where his books had been written; and I remember when we came to Young Street, Kensington, he said, with mock gravity, 'Down on your knees, you rogue49, for here "Vanity Fair" was penned; and I will go down with you, for I have a high opinion of that little production myself.'"
Young Street is only a block from the Kensington Metropolitan50 Railway-Station. It is a little street running off Kensington Road. At Number Sixteen (formerly Number Thirteen), I saw a card in the window, "Rooms to Rent to Single Gentlemen."
I rang the bell, and was shown a room that the landlady51 offered me for twelve shillings a week if I paid in advance; or if I would take another room one flight up with a "gent who was studying hart" it would be only eight and six. I suggested that we go up and see the "gent." We did so, and I found the young man very courteous15 and polite.
He told me that he had never heard Thackeray's name in connection with the house. The landlady protested that "no man by the name o' Thack'ry has had rooms here since I rented the place; leastwise, if he has been here he called hisself by sumpthink else, which was like o'nuff the case, as most ev'rybody is crooked53 now'days—but surely no decent person can blame me for that!"
I assured her that she was in no wise to blame.
From this house in Young Street the author of "Vanity Fair" moved to Number Thirty-six Onslow Square, where he wrote "The Virginians." On the south side of the Square there is a row of three-storied brick houses. Thackeray lived in one of these houses for nine years. They were the years when honors and wealth were being heaped upon him; and he was worldling enough to let his wants keep pace with his ability to gratify them. He was made of the same sort of clay as other men, for his standard of life conformed to his pocketbook and he always felt poor.
From this fine house on Onslow Square he moved to a veritable palace, which he built to suit his own taste, at Number Two Palace Green, Kensington. But mansions54 on earth are seldom for long—he died here on Christmas Eve, Eighteen Hundred Sixty-three. And Charles Dickens, Mark Lemon, Millais, Trollope, Robert Browning, Cruikshank, Tom Taylor, Louis Blanc, Charles Mathews and Shirley Brooks55 were among the friends who carried him to his rest.
To take one's self too seriously is a great mistake. Complacency is the unpardonable sin, and the man who says, "Now I'm sure of it," has at that moment lost it.
Villagers who have lived in one little place until they think themselves great, having lost the sense of proportion through lack of comparison, are generally "in dead earnest."
Surely they are often intellectually dead, and I do not dispute the fact that they are in earnest. All those excellent gentlemen in the days gone by who could not contemplate56 a celestial57 bliss58 that did not involve the damnation of those who disagreed with them were in dead earnest.
Cotton Mather once saw a black cat perched on the shoulder of an innocent, chattering59 old gran'ma. The next day a neighbor had a convulsion; and Cotton Mather went forth and exorcised Tabby with a hymn-book, and hanged gran'ma by the neck, high on Gallows60 Hill, until she was dead.
Had the Reverend Mr. Mather possessed61 but a mere62 modicum63 of humor he might have exorcised the cat, but I am sure he would never have troubled old gran'ma. But alas64, Cotton Mather's conversation was limited to yea, yea, and nay65, nay—generally, nay, nay—and he was in dead earnest.
In the Boston Public Library is a book written in Sixteen Hundred Eighty-five by Cotton Mather, entitled, "Wonders of the Invisible World." This book received the endorsement66 of the Governor of the Province and also of the President of Harvard College. The author cites many cases of persons who were bewitched; and also makes the interesting statement that the Devil knows Greek, Latin and Hebrew, but speaks English with an accent. These facts were long used at Harvard as an argument in favor of the Classics. And when Greek was at last made optional, the Devil was supposed to have filed a protest with the Dean of the Faculty67.
The Reverend Francis Gastrell, who razed68 New Place, and cut down the poet's mulberry-tree to escape the importunities of visitors, was in dead earnest. Attila, and Herod, and John Calvin were in dead earnest. And were it not for the fact that Luther had lucid69 intervals70 when he went about with his tongue in his cheek he surely would have worked grievous wrong.
Recent discoveries in Egyptian archeology show that in his lifetime Moses was esteemed71 more as a wit than as a lawmaker. His jokes were posted upon the walls and explained to the populace, who it seems were a bit slow.
Job was a humorist of a high order, and when he said to the wise men, "No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you," he struck twelve. When the sons of Jacob went down into Egypt and Joseph put up the price of corn, took their money, and then secretly replaced the coin in the sacks, he showed his artless love of a quiet joke.
Shakespeare's fools were the wisest and kindliest men at court. When the master decked a character in cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for the man's humanity. Touchstone followed his master into exile; and when all seemed to have forsaken72 King Lear the fool bared himself to the storm and covered the shaking old man with his own cloak. And if Costard, Trinculo, Touchstone, Jaques and Mercutio had lived in Salem in Sixteen Hundred Ninety-two, there would have been not only a flashing of merry jests, but a flashing of rapiers as well, and every gray hair of every old dame's head would have been safe so long as there was a striped leg on which to stand.
Lincoln, liberator73 of men, loved the motley. In fact, the individual who is incapable74 of viewing the world from a jocular basis is unsafe, and can be trusted only when the opposition75 is strong enough to laugh him into line.
In the realm of English letters, Thackeray is prince of humorists. He could see right through a brick wall, and never mistook a hawk76 for a hernshaw. He had a just estimate of values, and the temperament77 that can laugh at all trivial misfits. And he had, too, that dread78 capacity for pain which every true humorist possesses, for the true essence of humor is sensibility.
In all literature that lives there is mingled79 like pollen80 an indefinable element of the author's personality. In Thackeray's "Lectures on English Humorists" this subtle quality is particularly apparent. Elusive81, delicate, alluring—it is the actinic ray that imparts vitality82.
When wit plays skittles with dulness, dulness gets revenge by taking wit at his word. Vast numbers of people taking Thackeray at his word consider him a bitter pessimist83.
He even disconcerted bright little Charlotte Bronte, who went down to London to see him, and then wrote back to Haworth that "the great man talked steadily84 with never a smile. I could not tell when to laugh and when to cry, for I did not know what was fun and what fact."
But finally the author of "Jane Eyre" found the combination, and she saw that beneath the brusk exterior85 of that bulky form there was a woman's tender sympathy.
Thackeray has told us what he thought of the author of "Jane Eyre," and the author of "Jane Eyre" has told us what she thought of the author of "Vanity Fair." One was big and whimsical, the other was little and sincere, but both were alike in this: their hearts were wrung86 at the sight of suffering, and both had tears for the erring87, the groping, and the oppressed.
A Frenchman can not comprehend a joke that is not accompanied by grimace88 and gesticulation; and so M. Taine chases Thackeray through sixty solid pages, berating89 him for what he is pleased to term "bottled hate."
Taine is a cynic who charges Thackeray with cynicism, all in the choicest of biting phrase. It is a beautiful example of sinners calling the righteous to repentance—a thing that is often done, but seldom with artistic90 finish.
The fun is too deep for Monsieur, or mayhap the brand is not the yellow label to which his palate is accustomed, so he spews it all. Yet Taine's criticism is charming reading, although he is only hot after an aniseed trail of his own dragging. But the chase is a deal more exciting than most men would lead, were there real live game to capture.
If pushed, I might suggest several points in this man's make-up where God could have bettered His work. But accepting Thackeray as we find him, we see a singer whose cage Fate had overhung with black until he had caught the tune44. The "Ballad91 of Boullabaisse" shows a tender side of his spirit that he often sought to conceal92. His heart vibrated to all finer thrills of mercy; and his love for all created things was so delicately strung that he would, in childish shame, sometimes issue a growl93 to drown its rising, tearful tones.
In the character of Becky Sharp, he has marshaled some of his own weak points and then lashed94 them with scorn. He looked into the mirror and seeing a potential snob95 he straightway inveighed96 against snobbery97. The punishment does not always fit the crime—it is excess. But I still contest that where his ridicule98 is most severe, it is Thackeray's own back that is bared to the knout.
The primal99 recipe for roguery in art is, "Know Thyself." When a writer portrays100 a villain101 and does it well—make no mistake, he poses for the character himself. Said gentle Ralph Waldo Emerson, "I have capacity in me for every crime."
The man of imagination knows those mystic spores102 of possibility that lie dormant103, and like the magicians of the East who grow mango-trees in an hour, he develops the "inward potential" at will. The mere artisan in letters goes forth and finds a villain and then describes him, but the artist knows a better way: "I am that man."
One of the very sweetest, gentlest characters in literature is Colonel Newcome. The stepfather of Thackeray, Major Carmichael Smyth, was made to stand for the portrait of the lovable Colonel; and when that all-round athlete, F. Hopkinson Smith, gave us that other lovable old Colonel he paid high tribute to "The Newcomes."
Thackeray was a poet, and as such was often caught in the toils104 of doubt—the crux105 of the inquiring spirit. He aspired106 for better things, and at times his imperfections stood out before him in monstrous107 shape, and he sought to hiss52 them down.
In the heart of the artist-poet there is an Inmost Self that sits over against the acting108, breathing man and passes judgment109 on his every deed. To satisfy the world is little; to please the populace is naught110; fame is vapor111; gold is dross112; and every love that has not the sanction of that Inmost Self is a viper's sting. To satisfy the demands of the God within is the poet's prayer.
What doubts beset113, what taunting114 fears surround, what crouching115 sorrows lie in wait, what dead hopes drag, what hot desires pursue, and what kindly116 lights do beckon117 on—ah! "'tis we musicians know."
Thackeray came to America to get a pot of money, and was in a fair way of securing it, when he chanced to pick up a paper in which a steamer was announced to sail that evening for England. A wave of homesickness swept over the big boy—he could not stand it. He hastily packed up his effects and without saying good-by to any one, and forgetting all his engagements, he hastened to the dock, leaving this note for the kindest of kind friends: "Good-by, Fields; good-by, Mrs. Fields—God bless everybody, says W.M.T."
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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cremation
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| n.火葬，火化 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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ashore
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forth
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sophistry
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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compendium
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| n.简要，概略 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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condor
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| n.秃鹰；秃鹰金币 | |
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eking
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的现在分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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54
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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56
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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58
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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59
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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60
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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61
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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64
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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65
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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67
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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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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71
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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73
liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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76
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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81
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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86
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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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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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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spores
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| n.（细菌、苔藓、蕨类植物）孢子( spore的名词复数 )v.（细菌、苔藓、蕨类植物）孢子( spore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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104
toils
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| 网 | |
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105
crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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106
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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108
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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109
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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110
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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111
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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112
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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113
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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114
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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115
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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116
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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117
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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