—As You Like It
I have on several occasions been to the Shakespeare country, approaching it from different directions, but each time I am set down at Leamington. Perhaps this is by some Act of Parliament—I really do not know; anyway, I have ceased to kick against the pricks4 and now meekly5 accept my fate.
Leamington seems largely under subjection to that triumvirate of despots—the Butler, the Coachman and the Gardener. You hear the jingle6 of keys, the flick7 of the whip and the rattle8 of the lawnmower; and a cold, secret fear takes possession of you—a sort of half-frenzied impulse to flee, before smug modernity takes you captive and whisks you off to play tiddledywinks or to dance the racquet.
But the tram is at the door—the outside fare is a penny, inside it's two—and we are soon safe, for we have reached the point where the Leam and the Avon meet.
Warwick is worth our while. For here we see scenes such as Shakespeare saw, and our delight is in the things that his eyes beheld9.
At the foot of Mill Street are the ruins of the old Gothic bridge that leads off to Banbury. Oft have I ridden to Banbury Cross on my mother's foot, and when I saw that sign and pointing finger I felt like leaving all and flying thence. Just beyond the bridge, settled snugly10 in a forest of waving branches, we see storied old Warwick Castle, with C?sar's Tower lifting itself from the mass of green.
All about are quaint11 old houses and shops, with red-tiled roofs, and little windows, with diamond panes12, hung on hinges, where maidens13 fair have looked down on brave men in coats of mail. These narrow, stony14 streets have rung with the clang and echo of hurrying hoofs15; the tramp of Royalist and Parliamentarian, horse and foot, drum and banner; the stir of princely visits, of mail-coach, market, assize and kingly court. Colbrand, armed with giant club; Sir Guy; Richard Neville, kingmaker, and his barbaric train, all trod these streets, watered their horses in this river, camped on yonder bank, or huddled16 in this castle yard. And again they came back when Will Shakespeare, a youth from Stratford, eight miles away, came here and waved his magic wand.
Warwick Castle is probably in better condition now than it was in the Sixteenth Century. But practically it is the same. It is the only castle in England where the portcullis is lowered at ten o'clock every night and raised in the morning (if the coast happens to be clear) to tap of drum.
It costs a shilling to visit the castle. A fine old soldier in spotless uniform, with waxed white moustache and dangling17 sword, conducts the visitors. He imparts full two shillings' worth of facts as we go, all with a fierce roll of r's, as becomes a man of war.
The long line of battlements, the massive buttresses18, the angular entrance cut through solid rock, crooked20, abrupt21, with places where fighting men can lie in ambush22, all is as Shakespeare knew it.
There are the cedars23 of Lebanon, brought by Crusaders from the East, and the screaming peacocks in the paved courtway: and in the Great Hall are to be seen the sword and accouterments of the fabled25 Guy, the mace26 of the "Kingmaker," the helmet of Cromwell, and the armor of Lord Brooke, killed at Litchfield.
And that Shakespeare saw these things there is no doubt. But he saw them as a countryman who came on certain fete-days, and stared with open mouth. We know this, because he has covered all with the glamour27 of his rich, boyish imagination that failed to perceive the cruel mockery of such selfish pageantry. Had his view been from the inside he would not have made his kings noble nor his princes generous; for the stress of strife28 would have stilled his laughter, and from his brain the dazzling pictures would have fled. Yet his fancies serve us better than the facts.
Shakespeare shows us many castles, but they are always different views of Warwick or Kenilworth. When he pictures Macbeth's castle he has Warwick in his inward eye:
"This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. This guest of Summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze30, Buttress19, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle; Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate."
Five miles from Warwick (ten, if you believe the cab-drivers) are the ruins of Kenilworth Castle.
In Fifteen Hundred Seventy-five, when Shakespeare was eleven years of age, Queen Elizabeth came to Kenilworth. Whether her ticket was by way of Leamington I do not know. But she remained from July Ninth to July Twenty-seventh, and there were great doings 'most every day, to which the yeomanry were oft invited. John Shakespeare was a worthy31 citizen of Warwickshire, and it is very probable that he received an invitation, and that he drove over with Mary Arden, his wife, sitting on the front seat holding the baby, and all the other seven children sitting on the straw behind. And we may be sure that the eldest32 boy in that brood never forgot the day. In fact, in "Midsummer Night's Dream" he has called on his memory for certain features of the show. Elizabeth was forty-one years old then, but apparently33 very attractive and glib34 of tongue. No doubt Kenilworth was stupendous in its magnificence, and it will pay you to take down from its shelf Sir Walter's novel and read about it. But today it is all a crumbling35 heap; ivy36, rooks and daws hold the place in fee, each pushing hard for sole possession.
It is eight miles from Warwick to Stratford by the direct road, but ten by the river. I have walked both routes and consider the latter the shorter.
Two miles down the river is Barford, and a mile farther is Wasperton, with its quaint old stone church. It is a good place to rest: for nothing is so soothing38 as a cool church where the dim light streams through colored windows, and out of sight somewhere an organ softly plays. Soon after leaving the church a rustic39 swain hailed me and asked for a match. The pipe and the Virginia weed—they mean amity40 the world over. If I had questions to ask, now was the time! So I asked, and Rusticus informed me that Hampton Lucy was only a mile beyond and that Shakespeare never stole deer at all; so I hope we shall hear no more of that libelous41 accusation42.
"But did Shakespeare run away?" I demanded.
"Ave coorse he deed, sir; 'most all good men 'ave roon away sometime!"
And come to think of it Rusticus is right.
Most great men have at some time departed hastily without leaving orders where to forward their mail. Indeed, it seems necessary that a man should have "run away" at least once, in order afterward43 to attain44 eminence45. Moses, Lot, Tarquin, Pericles, Demosthenes, Saint Paul, Shakespeare, Rousseau, Voltaire, Goldsmith, Hugo—but the list is too long to give.
But just suppose that Shakespeare had not run away! And to whom do we owe it that he did leave—Justice Shallow or Ann Hathaway, or both? I should say to Ann first and His Honor second. I think if Shakespeare could write an article for "The Ladies' Home Journal" on "Women Who Have Helped Me," and tell the whole truth (as no man ever will in print), he would put Ann Hathaway first.
He signed a bond when eighteen years old agreeing to marry her; she was twenty-six. No record is found of the marriage. But we should think of her gratefully, for no doubt it was she who started the lad off for London.
That's the way I expressed it to my new-found friend, and he agreed with me, so we shook hands and parted.
Charlcote is as fair as a dream of Paradise. The winding46 Avon, full to its banks, strays lazily through rich fields and across green meadows, past the bright red-brick pile of Charlcote Mansion29. The river-bank is lined with rushes, and in one place I saw the prongs of antlers shaking the elders. I sent a shrill47 whistle and a stick that way, and out ran four fine deer that loped gracefully48 across the turf. The sight brought my poacher instincts to the surface, but I bottled them, and trudged49 on until I came to the little church that stands at the entrance to the park.
All mansions50, castles and prisons in England have chapels51 or churches attached. And this is well, for in the good old days it seemed wise to keep in close communication with the other world. For often, on short notice, the proud scion52 of royalty53 was compelled hastily to pack a ghostly valise and his him hence with his battered54 soul; or if he did not go himself he compelled others to do so, and who but a brute55 would kill a man without benefit of the clergy56! So each estate hired its priests by the year, just as men with a taste for litigation hold attorneys in constant retainer.
In Charlcote Church is a memorial to Sir Thomas Lucy; and there is a glowing epitaph that quite upsets any of those taunting57 and defaming allusions58 in "The Merry Wives." At the foot of the monument is a line to the effect that the inscription59 thereon was written by the only one in possession of the facts, Sir Thomas himself.
Several epitaphs in the churchyard are worthy of space in your commonplace book, but the lines on the slab60 to John Gibbs and wife struck me as having the true ring:
"Farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous61 world, We have seen enough of thee: We value not what thou canst say of we."
When the Charlcote Mansion was built, there was a housewarming, and Good Queen Bess (who was not so awful good) came in great state; so we see that she had various calling acquaintances in these parts. But we have no proof that she ever knew that any such person as W. Shakespeare lived. However, she came to Charlcote and dined on venison, and what a pity it is that she and Shakespeare did not meet in London afterward and talk it over!
Some hasty individual has put forth62 a statement to the effect that poets can only be bred in a mountainous country, where they could lift up their eyes to the hills. Rock and ravine, beetling63 crag, singing cascade64, and the heights where the lightning plays and the mists hover65 are certainly good timber for poetry—after you have caught your poet—but Nature eludes66 all formula. Again, it is the human interest that adds vitality67 to art—they reckon ill to leave man out.
Drayton before Shakespeare's time called Warwick "the heart of England," and the heart of England it is today—rich, luxuriant, slow. The great colonies of rabbits that I saw at Charlcote seemed too fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick or two on the hounds that blinked in the sun. Down toward Stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn68, and places where "Green Grow the Rushes, O." Then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals69 on the vagrant70 winds. Meadowsweet, forget-me-nots and wild geranium snuggle themselves below the boughs71 of the sturdy yews72.
The first glimpse we get of Stratford is the spire73 of Holy Trinity; then comes the tower of the new Memorial Theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at Dead Horse, Colorado.
Stratford is just another village of Niagara Falls. The same shops, the same guides, the same hackmen—all are there, save poor Lo, with his beadwork and sassafras. In fact, a "cabby" just outside of New Place offered to take me to the Whirlpool and the Canada side for a dollar. At least, this is what I thought he said. Of course, it is barely possible that I was daydreaming74, but I think the facts are that it was he who dozed75, and waking suddenly as I passed gave me the wrong cue.
There is a Macbeth livery-stable, a Falstaff bakery, and all the shops and stores keep Othello this and Hamlet that. I saw briarwood pipes with Shakespeare's face carved on the bowl, all for one-and-six; feather fans with advice to the players printed across the folds; the "Seven Ages" on handkerchiefs; and souvenir-spoons galore, all warranted Gorham's best.
The visitor at the birthplace is given a cheerful little lecture on the various relics76 and curiosities as they are shown. The young ladies who perform this office are clever women with pleasant voices and big, starched77, white aprons79. I was at Stratford four days and went just four times to the old curiosity-shop. Each day the same bright British damsel conducted me through, and told her tale, but it was always with animation80, and a certain sweet satisfaction in her mission and starched apron78 that was very charming.
No man can tell the same story over and over without soon reaching a point where he betrays his weariness, and then he flavors the whole with a dash of contempt; but a good woman, heaven bless her! is ever eager to please. Each time when we came to that document certified81 to by
Her "Judith X Shakespeare," Mark
I was told that it was very probable that Judith could write, but that she affixed82 her name thus in merry jest.
John Shakespeare could not write, we have no reason to suppose that Ann Hathaway could, and this little explanation about the daughter is so very good that it deserves to rank with that other pleasant subterfuge83, "The age of miracles is past"; or that bit of jolly claptrap concerning the sacred baboons84 that are seen about certain temples in India: "They can talk," explain the priests, "but being wise they never do."
Judith married Thomas Quiney. The only letter addressed to Shakespeare that can be found is one from the happy father of Thomas, Mr. Richard Quiney, wherein he asks for a loan of thirty pounds. Whether he was accommodated we can not say; and if he was, did he pay it back, is a question that has caused much hot debate. But it is worthy of note that, although considerable doubt as to authenticity85 has smooched the other Shakespearian relics, yet the fact of the poet having been "struck" for a loan by Richard Quiney stands out in a solemn way as the one undisputed thing in the master's career. Little did Mr. Quiney think, when he wrote that letter, that he was writing for the ages. Philanthropists have won all by giving money, but who save Quiney has reaped immortality86 by asking for it!
The inscription over Shakespeare's grave is an offer of reward if you do, and a threat of punishment if you don't, all in choice doggerel87. Why did he not learn at the feet of Sir Thomas Lucy and write his own epitaph?
But I rather guess I know why his grave was not marked with his name. He was a play-actor, and the church people would have been outraged88 at the thought of burying a "strolling player" in that sacred chancel. But his son-in-law, Doctor John Hall, honored the great man and was bound he should have a worthy resting-place; so at midnight, with the help of a few trusted friends, he dug the grave and lowered the dust of England's greatest son.
Then they hastily replaced the stones, and over the grave they placed the slab that they had brought:
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, To dig the dust enclosed here, Blest be the man who spares these stones, And cursed be he who moves my bones."
A threat from a ghost! Ah, no one dare molest89 that grave—besides they didn't know who was buried there—neither are we quite sure. Long years after the interment, some one set a bust90 of the poet, and a tablet, on the wall over against the grave.
Under certain circumstances, if occasion demands, I might muster91 a sublime92 conceit93; but considering the fact that ten thousand Americans visit Stratford every year, and all write descriptions of the place, I dare not in the face of Baedeker do it. Further than that, in every library there are Washington Irving, Hawthorne, and William Winter's three lacrimose but charming volumes.
And I am glad to remember that the Columbus who discovered Stratford and gave it to the people was an American: I am proud to think that Americans have written so charmingly of Shakespeare: I am proud to know that at Stratford no man besides the master is as honored as Irving, and while I can not restrain a blush for our English cousins, I am proud that over half the visitors at the birthplace are Americans, and prouder still am I to remember that they all write letters to the newspapers at home about Stratford-on-Avon.
In England poets are relegated94 to a "Corner." The earth and the fulness thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have the English State and Church been built.
As the tourist approaches the city of London for the first time, there are four monuments that probably will attract his attention. They lift themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot37, and seem to struggle toward the blue.
One of these monuments is to commemorate95 a calamity—the conflagration96 of Sixteen Hundred Sixty-six—and the others are in honor of deeds of war.
The finest memorial in Saint Paul's is to a certain eminent97 Irishman, Arthur Wellesley. The mines and quarries98 of earth have been called on for their richest contributions; and talent and skill have given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty, that tells posterity99 of the mighty100 acts of this mighty man. The rare richness and lavish101 beauty of the Wellington mausoleum are only surpassed by a certain tomb in France.
As an exploiter, the Corsican overdid102 the thing a bit—so the world arose and put him down; but safely dead, his shade can boast a grave so sumptuous103 that Englishmen in Paris refuse to look upon it.
But England need not be ashamed. Her land is spiked104 with glistening105 monuments to greatness gone. And on these monuments one often gets the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below.
On the carved marble to Lord Cornwallis I read that, "He defeated the Americans with great slaughter106." And so, wherever in England I see a beautiful monument, I know that probably the inscription will tell how "he defeated" somebody. And one grows to the belief that, while woman's glory is her hair, man's glory is to defeat some one. And if he can "defeat with great slaughter" his monument is twice as high as if he had only visited on his brother man a plain undoing107.
In truth, I am told by a friend who has a bias108 for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet high in England are to the honor of men who have defeated other men "with great slaughter." The only exceptions to this rule are the Albert Memorial—which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so therefore need not be considered here—and a monument to a worthy brewer109 who died and left three hundred thousand pounds to charity. I mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that modesty110 forbade carving111 truth on monuments, yet it was a fact that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like Saul, slaughtered112 his thousands.
When I visited the site of the Globe Theater and found thereon a brewery113, whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the dream of avarice114, I was depressed115. In my boyhood I had supposed that if ever I should reach this spot where Shakespeare's plays were first produced, I should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while some white-haired old patriarch would greet me, and give a little lecture to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made sacred the soil beneath our feet.
But there is no park, and no monument, and no white-haired old poet to give you welcome—only a brewery.
"Ay, mon, but ain't ut a big un?" protested an Englishman who heard my murmurs116.
Yes, yes, I must be truthful—it is a big brewery, and there are four big bulldogs in the courtway; and there are big vats117, and big workmen in big aprons. And each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of beer each day, without charge, which proves that kindliness118 is not dead. Then there are big horses that draw the big wagons119, and on the corner there is a big taproom where the thirsty are served with big glasses. The founder120 of this brewery became rich; and if my statistical121 friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind with "great slaughter."
We have seen that, although Napoleon, the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb than Wellington, who defeated him, yet there is consolation122 in the thought that although England has no monument to Shakespeare he now has the freedom of Elysium; while the present address of the British worthies123 who have battened and fattened124 on poor humanity's thirst for strong drink, since Samuel Johnson was executor of Thrale's estate, is unknown.
We have this on the authority of a solid Englishman, who says: "The virtues125 essential and peculiar126 to the exalted127 station of British Worthy debar the unfortunate possessor from entering Paradise. There is not a Lord Chancellor128, or Lord Mayor, or Lord of the Chamber129, or Master of the Hounds, or Beefeater in Ordinary, or any sort of British bigwig, out of the whole of British Beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in Elysium. This is the only dignity beyond their reach."
The writer quoted is an honorable man, and I am sure he would not make this assertion if he did not have proof of the fact. So, for the present, I will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will adduce his documents at the proper time.
But still, should not England have a fitting monument to Shakespeare? He is her one universal citizen. His name is honored in every school or college of earth where books are prized. There is no scholar in any clime who is not his debtor130.
He was born in England; he never was out of England; his ashes rest in England. But England's Budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to help preserve inviolate131 the memory of her one son to whom the world uncovers.
Victor Hugo has said something on this subject which runs about like this:
Why a monument to Shakespeare?
He is his own monument and England is its pedestal. Shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his work.
What can bronze or marble do for him? Malachite and alabaster132 are of no avail; jasper, serpentine133, basalt, porphyry, granite134: stones from Paros and marble from Carrara—they are all a waste of pains: genius can do without them.
What is as indestructible as these: "The Tempest," "The Winter's Tale," "Julius C?sar," "Coriolanus"? What monument sublimer135 than "Lear," sterner than "The Merchant of Venice," more dazzling than "Romeo and Juliet," more amazing than "Richard III"?
What moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of "A Midsummer Night's Dream"? What capital, were it even in London, could rumble136 around it as tumultuously as Macbeth's perturbed137 soul? What framework of cedar24 or oak will last as long as "Othello"? What bronze can equal the bronze of "Hamlet"?
No construction of lime, or rock, of iron and of cement is worth the deep breath of genius, which is the respiration138 of God through man. What edifice139 can equal thought? Babel is less lofty than Isaiah; Cheops is smaller than Homer; the Colosseum is inferior to Juvenal; the Giralda of Seville is dwarfish140 by the side of Cervantes; Saint Peter's of Rome does not reach to the ankle of Dante.
What architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of Shakespeare? Add anything if you can to mind! Then why a monument to Shakespeare?
I answer, not for the glory of Shakespeare, but for the honor of England!
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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rumination
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| n.反刍，沉思 | |
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pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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buttresses
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buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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39
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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40
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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41
libelous
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| adj.败坏名誉的，诽谤性的 | |
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42
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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43
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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44
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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45
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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46
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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47
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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48
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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49
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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51
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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52
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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53
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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54
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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55
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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56
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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57
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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58
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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59
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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60
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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61
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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64
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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65
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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66
eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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67
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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68
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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69
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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70
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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71
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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72
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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73
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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74
daydreaming
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| v.想入非非，空想( daydream的现在分词 ) | |
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75
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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77
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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79
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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80
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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81
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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82
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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83
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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84
baboons
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| n.狒狒( baboon的名词复数 ) | |
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85
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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86
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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87
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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88
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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89
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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90
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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91
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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92
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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93
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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94
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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95
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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96
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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97
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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98
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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99
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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100
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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101
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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102
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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103
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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104
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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105
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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106
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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107
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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108
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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109
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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110
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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111
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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112
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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114
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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115
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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116
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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117
vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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118
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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119
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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120
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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121
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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122
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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123
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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124
fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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125
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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126
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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127
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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128
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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129
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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130
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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131
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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132
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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133
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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134
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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135
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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136
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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137
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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138
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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139
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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140
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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