But I must not forget that a new generation of readers has come into being since I have been writing for the public, and that a new generation of aspiring5 and brilliant authors has grown into general recognition. The dome6 of Boston State House, which is the centre of my little universe, was glittering in its fresh golden pellicle before I had reached the scriptural boundary of life. It has lost its lustre7 now, and the years which have dulled its surface have whitened the dome of that fragile structure in which my consciousness holds the session of its faculties8. Time is not to be cheated. It is easy to talk of perennial9 youth, and to toy with the flattering fictions which every ancient personage accepts as true so far as he himself is concerned, and laughs at as foolish talk when he hears them applied10 to others. When, in my exulting11 immaturity12, I wrote the lines not unknown to the reading public under the name of "The Last Leaf", I spoke14 of the possibility that I myself might linger on the old bough15 until the buds and blossoms of a new spring were opening and spreading all around me. I am not as yet the solitary16 survivor17 of my literary contemporaries, and, remembering who my few coevals are, it may well be hoped that I shall not be. But I feel lonely, very lonely, in the pages through which I wander. These are new names in the midst of which I find my own. In another sense I am very far from alone. I have daily assurances that I have a constituency of known and unknown personal friends, whose indulgence I have no need of asking. I know there are readers enough who will be pleased to follow me in my brief excursion, because I am myself, and will demand no better reason. If I choose to write for them, I do no injury to those for whom my personality is an object of indifference19. They will find on every shelf some publications which are not intended for them, and which they prefer to let alone. No person is expected to help himself to everything set before him at a public table. I will not, therefore, hesitate to go on with the simple story of our Old World experiences.
Thanks to my Indian blanket,--my shawl, I mean,--I found myself nothing the worse for my manifold adventures of the 27th of May. The cold wind sweeping20 over Epsom downs reminded me of our own chilling easterly breezes; especially the northeasterly ones, which are to me less disagreeable than the southeasterly. But the poetical21 illusion about an English May,--
"Zephyr22 with Aurora23 playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,"--
and all that, received a shrewd thrust. Zephyr ought to have come in an ulster, and offered Aurora a warm petticoat. However, in spite of all difficulties, I brought off my recollections of the Derby of 1886 in triumph, and am now waiting for the colored portrait of Ormonde with Archer25 on his back,--Archer, the winner of five Derby races, one of which was won by the American horse Iroquois. When that picture, which I am daily expecting, arrives, I shall have it framed and hung by the side of Herring's picture of Plenipotentiary, the horse I saw win the Derby in 1834. These two, with an old portrait of the great Eclipse, who, as my engraving26 of 1780 (Stubbs's) says, "was never beat, or ever had occation for Whip or Spur," will constitute my entire sporting gallery. I have not that vicious and demoralizing love of horse-flesh which makes it next to impossible to find a perfectly27 honest hippophile. But a racer is the realization28 of an ideal quadruped,--
"A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift;"
so ethereal, so bird-like, that it is no wonder that the horse about whom those old story-tellers lied so stoutly,--telling of his running a mile in a minute,--was called Flying Childers.
The roses in Mrs. Pfeiffer's garden were hardly out of flower when I lunched with her at her pretty villa29 at Putney. There I met Mr. Browning, Mr. Holman Hunt, Mrs. Ritchie, Miss Anna Swanwick, the translator of ?schylus, and other good company, besides that of my entertainer.
One of my very agreeable experiences was a call from a gentleman with whom I had corresponded, but whom I had never met. This was Mr. John Bellows30, of Gloucester, publisher, printer, man of letters, or rather of words; for he is the author of that truly remarkable31 little manual, "The Bona Fide Pocket Dictionary of the French and English Languages." To the review of this little book, which is dedicated32 to Prince Lucien Bonaparte, the "London Times" devoted33 a full column. I never heard any one who had used it speak of it except with admiration34. The modest Friend may be surprised to find himself at full length in my pages, but those who know the little miracle of typography, its conciseness35, completeness, arrangement, will not wonder that I was gratified to see the author, who sent it to me, and who has written me most interesting letters on the local antiquities36 of Gloucester and its neighborhood.
We lunched that day at Lady Camperdown's, where we were happy to meet Miss Frances Power Cobbe. In the afternoon we went by invitation to a "tea and talk" at the Reverend Mr. Haweis's, at Chelsea. We found the house close packed, but managed to get through the rooms, shaking innumerable hands of the reverend gentleman's parishioners and other visitors. It was very well arranged, so as not to be too fatiguing38, and we left the cordial gathering39 in good condition. We drove home with Bishop40 and Mrs. Ellicott.
After this Sir James Paget called, and took me to a small and early dinner-party; and A---- went with my secretary, the young lady of whom I have spoken, to see "Human Nature," at Drury Lane Theatre.
On the following day, after dining with Lady Holland (wife of Sir Henry, niece of Macaulay), we went across the street to our neighbor's, Lady Stanley's. There was to be a great meeting of schoolmistresses, in whose work her son, the Honorable Lyulph Stanley, is deeply interested. Alas41! The schoolma'ams were just leaving as we entered the door, and all we saw of them was the trail of their descending42 robes. I was very sorry for this, for I have a good many friends among our own schoolmistresses, --friends whom I never saw, but know through the kind words they have addressed to me.
No place in London looks more reserved and exclusive than Devonshire House, standing43 back behind its high wall, extending along Piccadilly. There is certainly nothing in its exterior44 which invites intrusion. We had the pleasure of taking tea in the great house, accompanying our American friend, Lady Harcourt, and were graciously received and entertained by Lady Edward Cavendish. Like the other great houses, it is a museum of paintings, statues, objects of interest of all sorts. It must be confessed that it is pleasanter to go through the rooms with one of the ladies of the household than under the lead of a liveried servant. Lord Hartington came in while we were there. All the men who are distinguished46 in political life become so familiar to the readers of "Punch" in their caricatures, that we know them at sight. Even those who can claim no such public distinction are occasionally the subjects of the caricaturist, as some of us have found out for ourselves. A good caricature, which seizes the prominent features and gives them the character Nature hinted, but did not fully47 carry out, is a work of genius. Nature herself is a remorseless caricaturist, as our daily intercourse48 with our fellow men and women makes evident to us, and as is curiously49 illustrated50 in the figures of Charles Lebrun, showing the relations between certain human faces and those of various animals. Hardly an English statesman in bodily presence could be mistaken by any of "Punch's" readers.
On the same day that we made this quiet visit we attended a great and ceremonious assembly. There were two parts in the programme, in the first of which I was on the stage solus,--that is, without my companion; in the second we were together. This day, Saturday, the 29th of May, was observed as the Queen's birthday, although she was born on the 24th. Sir William Harcourt gave a great dinner to the officials of his department, and later in the evening Lady Rosebery held a reception at the Foreign Office. On both these occasions everybody is expected to be in court dress, but my host told me I might present myself in ordinary evening dress. I thought that I might feel awkwardly among so many guests, all in the wedding garments, knee-breeches and the rest, without which I ventured among them. I never passed an easier evening in any company than among these official personages. Sir William took me under the shield of his ample presence, and answered all my questions about the various notable personages at his table in a way to have made my fortune if I had been a reporter. From the dinner I went to Mrs. Gladstone's, at 10 Downing Street, where A---- called for me. She had found a very small and distinguished company there, Prince Albert Victor among the rest. At half past eleven we walked over to the Foreign Office to Lady Rosebery's reception.
Here Mr. Gladstone was of course the centre of a group, to which I was glad to add myself. His features are almost as familiar to me as my own, for a photograph of him in his library has long stood on my revolving51 bookcase, with a large lens before it. He is one of a small circle of individuals in whom I have had and still have a special personal interest. The year 1809, which introduced me to atmospheric52 existence, was the birth-year of Gladstone, Tennyson, Lord Houghton, and Darwin. It seems like an honor to have come into the world in such company, but it is more likely to promote humility53 than vanity in a common mortal to find himself coeval18 with such illustrious personages. Men born in the same year watch each other, especially as the sands of life begin to run low, as we can imagine so many damaged hour-glasses to keep an eye on each other. Women, of course, never know who are their contemporaries.
Familiar to me as were the features of Mr. Gladstone, I looked upon him with astonishment54. For he stood before me with epaulets on his shoulders and a rapier at his side, as military in his aspect as if he had been Lord Wolseley, to whom I was introduced a short time afterwards. I was fortunate enough to see and hear Mr. Gladstone on a still more memorable55 occasion, and can afford to leave saying what were my impressions of the very eminent56 statesman until I speak of that occasion.
A great number of invitations had been given out for the reception at Lady Rosebery's,--over two thousand, my companion heard it said. Whatever the number was, the crowd was very great,--so great that one might well feel alarmed for the safety of any delicate person who was in the pack which formed itself at one place in the course of the evening. Some obstruction57 must have existed a fronte, and the vis a tergo became fearful in its pressure on those who were caught in the jam. I began thinking of the crushes in which I had been caught, or which I had read and heard of: the terrible time at the execution of Holloway and Haggerty, where some forty persons were squeezed or trampled58 to death; the Brooklyn Theatre and other similar tragedies; the crowd I was in at the unveiling of the statue on the column of the Place Vendome, where I felt as one may suppose Giles Corey did when, in his misery59, he called for "more weight" to finish him. But there was always a deus ex machina for us when we were in trouble. Looming60 up above the crowd was the smiling and encouraging countenance61 of the ever active, always present, always helpful Mr. Smalley. He cleared a breathing space before us. For a short time it was really a formidable wedging together of people, and if a lady had fainted in the press, she might have run a serious risk before she could have been extricated62. No more "marble halls" for us, if we had to undergo the peine forte63 et dure as the condition of our presence! We were both glad to escape from this threatened asphyxia, and move freely about the noble apartments. Lady Rosebery, who was kindness itself, would have had us stay and sit down in comfort at the supper-table, after the crowd had thinned, but we were tired with all we had been through, and ordered our carriage. Ordered our carriage!
"I can call spirits from the vasty deep." ...
But will they come when you do call for them?"
The most formidable thing about a London party is getting away from it. "C'est le dernier pas qui coute." A crowd of anxious persons in retreat is hanging about the windy door, and the breezy stairway, and the airy hall.
A stentorian64 voice, hard as that of Rhadamanthus, exclaims,--
"Lady Vere de Vere's carriage stops the way!"
If my Lady Vere de Vere is not on hand, and that pretty quickly, off goes her carriage, and the stern voice bawls65 again,--
"Mrs. Smith's carriage stops the way!"
Mrs. Smith's particular Smith may be worth his millions and live in his marble palace; but if Mrs. Smith thinks her coachman is going to stand with his horses at that door until she appears, she is mistaken, for she is a minute late, and now the coach moves on, and Rhadamanthus calls aloud,--
"Mrs. Brown's carriage stops the way!"
Half the lung fevers that carry off the great people are got waiting for their carriages.
I know full well that many readers would be disappointed if I did not mention some of the grand places and bring in some of the great names that lend their lustre to London society. We were to go to a fine musical party at Lady Rothschild's on the evening of the 30th of May. It happened that the day was Sunday, and if we had been as punctilious67 as some New England Sabbatarians, we might have felt compelled to decline the tempting68 invitation. But the party was given by a daughter of Abraham, and in every Hebrew household the true Sabbath was over. We were content for that evening to shelter ourselves under the old dispensation.
The party, or concert, was a very brilliant affair. Patti sang to us, and a tenor69, and a violinist played for us. How we two Americans came to be in so favored a position I do not know; all I do know is that we were shown to our places, and found them very agreeable ones. In the same row of seats was the Prince of Wales, two chairs off from A----'s seat. Directly in front of A---- was the Princess of Wales, "in ruby70 velvet71, with six rows of pearls encircling her throat, and two more strings72 falling quite low;" and next her, in front of me, the startling presence of Lady de Grey, formerly73 Lady Lonsdale, and before that Gladys Herbert. On the other side of the Princess sat the Grand Duke Michael of Russia.
As we are among the grandest of the grandees74, I must enliven my sober account with an extract from my companion's diary:--
"There were several great beauties there, Lady Claude Hamilton, a queenly blonde, being one. Minnie Stevens Paget had with her the pretty Miss Langdon, of New York. Royalty75 had one room for supper, with its attendant lords and ladies. Lord Rothschild took me down to a long table for a sit-down supper,--there were some thirty of us. The most superb pink orchids76 were on the table. The [Thane] of ---- sat next me, and how he stared before he was introduced! ... This has been the finest party we have been to, sitting comfortably in such a beautiful ball-room, gazing at royalty in the flesh, and at the shades of departed beauties on the wall, by Sir Joshua and Gainsborough. It was a new experience to find that the royal lions fed upstairs, and mixed animals below!"
A visit to Windsor had been planned, under the guidance of a friend whose kindness had already shown itself in various forms, and who, before we left England, did for us more than we could have thought of owing to any one person. This gentleman, Mr. Willett, of Brighton, called with Mrs. Willett to take us on the visit which had been arranged between us.
Windsor Castle, which everybody knows, or can easily learn, all about, is one of the largest of those huge caverns77 in which the descendants of the original cave men, when they have reached the height of human grandeur78, delight to shelter themselves. It seems as if such a great hollow quarry79 of rock would strike a chill through every tenant80, but modern improvements reach even the palaces of kings and queens, and the regulation temperature of the castle, or of its inhabited portions, is fixed81 at sixty-five degrees of Fahrenheit82. The royal standard was not floating from the tower of the castle, and everything was quiet and lonely. We saw all we wanted to,--pictures, furniture, and the rest. My namesake, the Queen's librarian, was not there to greet us, or I should have had a pleasant half-hour in the library with that very polite gentleman, whom I had afterwards the pleasure of meeting in London.
After going through all the apartments in the castle that we cared to see, or our conductress cared to show us, we drove in the park, along the "three-mile walk," and in the by-roads leading from it. The beautiful avenue, the open spaces with scattered83 trees here and there, made this a most delightful84 excursion. I saw many fine oaks, one about sixteen feet of honest girth, but no one which was very remarkable. I wished I could have compared the handsomest of them with one in Beverly, which I never look at without taking my hat off. This is a young tree, with a future before it, if barbarians85 do not meddle86 with it, more conspicuous87 for its spread than its circumference88, stretching not very far from a hundred feet from bough-end to bough-end. I do not think I saw a specimen89 of the British Quercus robur of such consummate90 beauty. But I know from Evelyn and Strutt what England has to boast of, and I will not challenge the British oak.
Two sensations I had in Windsor park, or forest, for I am not quite sure of the boundary which separates them. The first was the lovely sight of the hawthorn91 in full bloom. I had always thought of the hawthorn as a pretty shrub92, growing in hedges; as big as a currant bush or a barberry bush, or some humble93 plant of that character. I was surprised to see it as a tree, standing by itself, and making the most delicious roof a pair of young lovers could imagine to sit under. It looked at a little distance like a young apple-tree covered with new-fallen snow. I shall never see the word hawthorn in poetry again without the image of the snowy but far from chilling canopy94 rising before me. It is the very bower95 of young love, and must have done more than any growth of the forest to soften96 the doom97 brought upon man by the fruit of the forbidden tree. No wonder that
"In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of
love,"
with the object of his affections awaiting him in this boudoir of nature. What a pity that Zekle, who courted Huldy over the apples she was peeling, could not have made love as the bucolic98 youth does, when
"Every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale!"
(I will have it love-tale, in spite of Warton's comment.) But I suppose it does not make so much difference, for love transmutes99 the fruit in Huldy's lap into the apples of the Hesperides.
In this way it is that the associations with the poetry we remember come up when we find ourselves surrounded by English scenery. The great poets build temples of song, and fill them with images and symbols which move us almost to adoration100; the lesser minstrels fill a panel or gild101 a cornice here and there, and make our hearts glad with glimpses of beauty. I felt all this as I looked around and saw the hawthorns102 in full bloom, in the openings among the oaks and other trees of the forest. Presently I heard a sound to which I had never listened before, and which I have never heard since:--
Coooo--coooo!
Nature had sent one cuckoo from her aviary103 to sing his double note for me, that I might not pass away from her pleasing show without once hearing the call so dear to the poets. It was the last day of spring. A few more days, and the solitary voice might have been often heard; for the bird becomes so common as to furnish Shakespeare an image to fit "the skipping king:"--
"He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded."
For the lyric104 poets the cuckoo is "companion of the spring," "darling of the spring;" coming with the daisy, and the primrose105, and the blossoming sweet-pea. Where the sound came from I could not tell; it puzzled Wordsworth, with younger eyes than mine, to find whence issued
"that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky."
Only one hint of the prosaic106 troubled my emotional delight: I could not help thinking how capitally the little rogue107 imitated the cuckoo clock, with the sound of which I was pretty well acquainted.
On our return from Windsor we had to get ready for another great dinner with our Minister, Mr. Phelps. As we are in the habit of considering our great officials as public property, and as some of my readers want as many glimpses of high life as a decent regard to republican sensibilities will permit, I will borrow a few words from the diary to which I have often referred:--
"The Princess Louise was there with the Marquis, and I had the best opportunity of seeing how they receive royalty at private houses. Mr. and Mrs. Phelps went down to the door to meet her the moment she came, and then Mr. Phelps entered the drawing-room with the Princess on his arm, and made the tour of the room with her, she bowing and speaking to each one of us. Mr. Goschen took me in to dinner, and Lord Lorne was on my other side. All of the flowers were of the royal color, red. It was a grand dinner.... The Austrian Ambassador, Count Karoli, took Mrs. Phelps in [to dinner], his position being higher than that of even the Duke [of Argyll], who sat upon her right."
It was a very rich experience for a single day: the stately abode108 of royalty, with all its manifold historical recollections, the magnificent avenue of forest trees, the old oaks, the hawthorn in full bloom, and the one cry of the cuckoo, calling me back to Nature in her spring-time freshness and glory; then, after that, a great London dinner-party at a house where the kind host and the gracious hostess made us feel at home, and where we could meet the highest people in the land,--the people whom we who live in a simpler way at home are naturally pleased to be with under such auspices109. What of all this shall I remember longest? Let me not seem ungrateful to my friends who planned the excursion for us, or to those who asked us to the brilliant evening entertainment, but I feel as Wordsworth felt about the cuckoo,--he will survive all the other memories.
"And I can listen to thee yet,
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget110
That golden time again."
Nothing is more hackneyed than an American's description of his feelings in the midst of the scenes and objects he has read of all his days, and is looking upon for the first time. To each of us it appears in some respects in the same way, but with a difference for every individual. We may smile at Irving's emotions at the first sight of a distinguished Englishman on his own soil,--the ingenious Mr. Roscoe, as an earlier generation would have called him. Our tourists, who are constantly going forward and back between England and America, lose all sense of the special distinctions between the two countries which do not bear on their personal convenience. Happy are those who go with unworn, unsatiated sensibilities from the New World to the Old; as happy, it may be, those who come from the Old World to the New, but of that I cannot form a judgment111.
On the first day of June we called by appointment upon Mr. Peel, the Speaker of the House of Commons, and went through the Houses of Parliament. We began with the train-bearer, then met the housekeeper112, and presently were joined by Mr. Palgrave. The "Golden Treasury113" stands on my drawing-room table at home, and the name on its title-page had a familiar sound. This gentleman is, I believe, a near relative of Professor Francis Turner Palgrave, its editor.
Among other things to which Mr. Palgrave called our attention was the death-warrant of Charles the First. One name in the list of signers naturally fixed our eyes upon it. It was that of John Dixwell. A lineal descendant of the old regicide is very near to me by family connection, Colonel Dixwell having come to this country, married, and left a posterity114, which has resumed the name, dropped for the sake of safety at the time when he, Goffe, and Whalley, were in concealment115 in various parts of New England.
We lunched with the Speaker, and had the pleasure of the company of Archdeacon Farrar. In the afternoon we went to a tea at a very grand house, where, as my companion says in her diary, "it took full six men in red satin knee-breeches to let us in." Another grand personage asked us to dine with her at her country place, but we were too full of engagements. In the evening we went to a large reception at Mr. Gosse's. It was pleasant to meet artists and scholars,--the kind of company to which we are much used in our aesthetic116 city. I found our host as agreeable at home as he was when in Boston, where he became a favorite, both as a lecturer and as a visitor.
Another day we visited Stafford House, where Lord Ronald Gower, himself an artist, did the honors of the house, showing us the pictures and sculptures, his own included, in a very obliging and agreeable way. I have often taken note of the resemblances of living persons to the portraits and statues of their remote ancestors. In showing us the portrait of one of his own far-back progenitors117, Lord Ronald placed a photograph of himself in the corner of the frame. The likeness118 was so close that the photograph might seem to have been copied from the painting, the dress only being changed. The Duke of Sutherland, who had just come back from America, complained that the dinners and lunches had used him up. I was fast learning how to sympathize with him.
Then to Grosvenor House to see the pictures. I best remember Gainsborough's beautiful Blue Boy, commonly so called, from the color of his dress, and Sir Joshua's Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic119 Muse45, which everybody knows in engravings. We lunched in clerical company that day, at the Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol's, with the Archbishop of York, the Reverend Mr. Haweis, and others as guests. I told A---- that she was not sufficiently120 impressed with her position at the side of an archbishop; she was not crumbling121 bread in her nervous excitement. The company did not seem to remember Sydney Smith's remark to the young lady next him at a dinner-party: "My dear, I see you are nervous, by your crumbling your bread as you do. I always crumble122 bread when I sit by a bishop, and when I sit by an archbishop I crumble bread with both hands." That evening I had the pleasure of dining with the distinguished Mr. Bryce, whose acquaintance I made in our own country, through my son, who has introduced me to many agreeable persons of his own generation, with whose companionship I am glad to mend the broken and merely fragmentary circle of old friendships.
The 3d of June was a memorable day for us, for on the evening of that day we were to hold our reception. If Dean Bradley had proposed our meeting our guests in the Jerusalem Chamber123, I should hardly have been more astonished. But these kind friends meant what they said, and put the offer in such a shape that it was impossible to resist it. So we sent out our cards to a few hundreds of persons,--those who we thought might like invitations. I was particularly desirous that many members of the medical profession whom I had not met, but who felt well disposed towards me, should be at this gathering. The meeting was in every respect a success. I wrote a prescription124 for as many baskets of champagne125 as would be consistent with the well-being126 of our guests, and such light accompaniments as a London company is wont127 to expect under similar circumstances. My own recollections of the evening, unclouded by its festivities, but confused by its multitudinous succession of introductions, are about as definite as the Duke of Wellington's alleged128 monosyllabic description of the battle of Waterloo. But A---- writes in her diary: "From nine to twelve we stood, receiving over three hundred people out of the four hundred and fifty we invited." As I did not go to Europe to visit hospitals or museums, I might have missed seeing some of those professional brethren whose names I hold in honor and whose writings are in my library. If any such failed to receive our cards of invitation, it was an accident which, if I had known, I should have deeply regretted. So far as we could judge by all we heard, our unpretentious party gave general satisfaction. Many different social circles were represented, but it passed off easily and agreeably. I can say this more freely, as the credit of it belongs so largely to the care and self-sacrificing efforts of Dr. Priestley and his charming wife.
I never refused to write in the birthday book or the album of the humblest schoolgirl or schoolboy, and I could not refuse to set my name, with a verse from one of my poems, in the album of the Princess of Wales, which was sent me for that purpose. It was a nice new book, with only two or three names in it, and those of musical composers,-- Rubinstein's, I think, was one of them,--so that I felt honored by the great lady's request. I ought to describe the book, but I only remember that it was quite large and sumptuously129 elegant, and that I copied into it the last verse of a poem of mine called "The Chambered Nautilus," as I have often done for plain republican albums.
The day after our simple reception was notable for three social events in which we had our part. The first was a lunch at the house of Mrs. Cyril Flower, one of the finest in London,--Surrey House, as it is called. Mr. Browning, who seems to go everywhere, and is one of the vital elements of London society, was there as a matter of course. Miss Cobbe, many of whose essays I have read with great satisfaction, though I cannot accept all her views, was a guest whom I was very glad to meet a second time.
In the afternoon we went to a garden-party given by the Princess Louise at Kensington Palace, a gloomy-looking edifice130, which might be taken for a hospital or a poorhouse. Of all the festive131 occasions which I attended, the garden-parties were to me the most formidable. They are all very well for young people, and for those who do not mind the nipping and eager air, with which, as I have said, the climate of England, no less than that of America, falsifies all the fine things the poets have said about May, and, I may add, even June. We wandered about the grounds, spoke with the great people, stared at the odd ones, and said to ourselves,--at least I said to myself,--with Hamlet,
"The air bites shrewdly, it is very cold."
Robert Browning
ROBERT BROWNING
View larger image
The most curious personages were some East Indians, a chocolate-colored lady, her husband, and children. The mother had a diamond on the side of her nose, its setting riveted132 on the inside, one might suppose; the effect was peculiar133, far from captivating. A---- said that she should prefer the good old-fashioned nose-ring, as we find it described and pictured by travellers. She saw a great deal more than I did, of course. I quote from her diary: "The little Eastern children made their native salaam134 to the Princess by prostrating135 themselves flat on their little stomachs in front of her, putting their hands between her feet, pushing them aside, and kissing the print of her feet!"
I really believe one or both of us would have run serious risks of catching136 our "death o' cold," if we had waited for our own carriage, which seemed forever in coming forward. The good Lady Holland, who was more than once our guardian137 angel, brought us home in hers. So we got warmed up at our own hearth138, and were ready in due season for the large and fine dinner-party at Archdeacon Farrar's, where, among other guests, were Mrs. Phelps, our Minister's wife, who is a great favorite alike with Americans and English, Sir John Millais, Mr. Tyndall, and other interesting people.
I am sorry that we could not have visited Newstead Abbey. I had a letter from Mr. Thornton Lothrop to Colonel Webb, the present proprietor139, with whom we lunched. I have spoken of the pleasure I had when I came accidentally upon persons with whose name and fame I had long been acquainted. A similar impression was that which I received when I found myself in the company of the bearer of an old historic name. When my host at the lunch introduced a stately-looking gentleman as Sir Kenelm Digby, it gave me a start, as if a ghost had stood before me. I recovered myself immediately, however, for there was nothing of the impalpable or immaterial about the stalwart personage who bore the name. I wanted to ask him if he carried any of his ancestor's "powder of sympathy" about with him. Many, but not all, of my readers remember that famous man's famous preparation. When used to cure a wound, it was applied to the weapon that made it; the part was bound up so as to bring the edges of the wound together, and by the wondrous140 influence of the sympathetic powder the healing process took place in the kindest possible manner. Sir Kenelm, the ancestor, was a gallant141 soldier, a grand gentleman, and the husband of a wonderfully beautiful wife, whose charms he tried to preserve from the ravages142 of time by various experiments. He was also the homoeopathist of his day, the Elisha Perkins (metallic tractors) of his generation. The "mind cure" people might adopt him as one of their precursors143.
I heard a curious statement which was illustrated in the person of one of the gentlemen we met at this table. It is that English sporting men are often deaf on one side, in consequence of the noise of the frequent discharge of their guns affecting the right ear. This is a very convenient infirmity for gentlemen who indulge in slightly aggressive remarks, but when they are hit back never seem to be conscious at all of the riposte,--the return thrust of the fencer.
Dr. Allchin called and took me to a dinner, where I met many professional brothers, and enjoyed myself highly.
By this time every day was pledged for one or more engagements, so that many very attractive invitations had to be declined. I will not follow the days one by one, but content myself with mentioning some of the more memorable visits. I had been invited to the Rabelais Club, as I have before mentioned, by a cable message. This is a club of which the late Lord Houghton was president, and of which I am a member, as are several other Americans. I was afraid that the gentlemen who met,
"To laugh and shake in Rabelais's easy chair,"
might be more hilarious144 and demonstrative in their mirth than I, a sober New Englander in the superfluous145 decade, might find myself equal to. But there was no uproarious jollity; on the contrary, it was a pleasant gathering of literary people and artists, who took their pleasure not sadly, but serenely146, and I do not remember a single explosive guffaw147.
Another day, after going all over Dudley House, including Lady Dudley's boudoir, "in light blue satin, the prettiest room we have seen," A---- says, we went, by appointment, to Westminster Abbey, where we spent two hours under the guidance of Archdeacon Farrar. I think no part of the Abbey is visited with so much interest as Poets' Corner. We are all familiarly acquainted with it beforehand. We are all ready for "O rare Ben Jonson!" as we stand over the place where he was planted standing upright, as if he had been dropped into a post-hole. We remember too well the foolish and flippant mockery of Gay's "Life is a Jest." If I were dean of the cathedral, I should be tempted148 to alter the J to a G. Then we could read it without contempt; for life is a gest, an achievement,--or always ought to be. Westminster Abbey is too crowded with monuments to the illustrious dead and those who have been considered so in their day to produce any other than a confused impression. When we visit the tomb of Napoleon at the Invalides, no side-lights interfere149 with the view before us in the field of mental vision. We see the Emperor; Marengo, Austerlitz, Waterloo, Saint Helena, come before us, with him as their central figure. So at Stratford,--the Cloptons and the John a Combes, with all their memorials, cannot make us lift our eyes from the stone which covers the dust that once breathed and walked the streets of Stratford as Shakespeare.
Ah, but here is one marble countenance that I know full well, and knew for many a year in the flesh! Is there an American who sees the bust150 of Longfellow among the effigies151 of the great authors of England without feeling a thrill of pleasure at recognizing the features of his native fellow-countryman in the Valhalla of his ancestral fellow-countrymen? There are many memorials in Poets' Corner and elsewhere in the Abbey which could be better spared than that. Too many that were placed there as luminaries152 have become conspicuous by their obscurity in the midst of that illustrious company. On the whole, the Abbey produces a distinct sense of being overcrowded. It appears too much like a lapidary's store-room. Look up at the lofty roof, which we willingly pardon for shutting out the heaven above us,--at least in an average London day; look down at the floor and think of what precious relics153 it covers; but do not look around you with the hope of getting any clear, concentrated, satisfying effect from this great museum of gigantic funereal154 bricabrac. Pardon me, shades of the mighty155 dead! I had something of this feeling, but at another hour I might perhaps be overcome by emotion, and weep, as my fellow-countryman did at the grave of the earliest of his ancestors. I should love myself better in that aspect than I do in this coldblooded criticism; but it suggested itself, and as no flattery can soothe156, so no censure157 can wound, "the dull, cold ear of death."
Of course we saw all the sights of the Abbey in a hurried way, yet with such a guide and expositor as Archdeacon Farrar our two hours' visit was worth a whole day with an undiscriminating verger, who recites his lesson by rote13, and takes the life out of the little mob that follows him round by emphasizing the details of his lesson, until "Patience on a monument" seems to the sufferer, who knows what he wants and what he does not want, the nearest emblem158 of himself he can think of. Amidst all the imposing159 recollections of the ancient edifice, one impressed me in the inverse160 ratio of its importance. The Archdeacon pointed66 out the little holes in the stones, in one place, where the boys of the choir161 used to play marbles, before America was discovered, probably,-- centuries before, it may be. It is a strangely impressive glimpse of a living past, like the graffiti of Pompeii. I find it is often the accident rather than the essential which fixes my attention and takes hold of my memory. This is a tendency of which I suppose I ought to be ashamed, if we have any right to be ashamed of those idiosyncrasies which are ordered for us. It is the same tendency which often leads us to prefer the picturesque162 to the beautiful. Mr. Gilpin liked the donkey in a forest landscape better than the horse. A touch of imperfection interferes163 with the beauty of an object and lowers its level to that of the picturesque. The accident of the holes in the stone of the noble building, for the boys to play marbles with, makes me a boy again and at home with them, after looking with awe37 upon the statue of Newton, and turning with a shudder164 from the ghastly monument of Mrs. Nightingale.
What a life must be that of one whose years are passed chiefly in and about the great Abbey! Nowhere does Macbeth's expression "dusty death" seem so true to all around us. The dust of those who have been lying century after century below the marbles piled over them,--the dust on the monuments they lie beneath; the dust on the memories those monuments were raised to keep living in the recollection of posterity,--dust, dust, dust, everywhere, and we ourselves but shapes of breathing dust moving amidst these objects and remembrances! Come away! The good Archdeacon of the "Eternal Hope" has asked us to take a cup of tea with him. The tea-cup will be a cheerful substitute for the funeral urn2, and a freshly made infusion165 of the fragrant166 leaf is one of the best things in the world to lay the dust of sad reflections.
It is a somewhat fatiguing pleasure to go through the Abbey, in spite of the intense interest no one can help feeling. But my day had but just begun when the two hours we had devoted to the visit were over. At a quarter before eight, my friend Mr. Frederick Locker167 called for me to go to a dinner at the Literary Club. I was particularly pleased to dine with this association, as it reminded me of our own Saturday Club, which sometimes goes by the same name as the London one. They complimented me with a toast, and I made some kind of a reply. As I never went prepared with a speech for any such occasion, I take it for granted that I thanked the company in a way that showed my gratitude168 rather than my eloquence169. And now, the dinner being over, my day was fairly begun.
This was to be a memorable date in the record of the year, one long to be remembered in the political history of Great Britain. For on this day, the 7th of June, Mr. Gladstone was to make his great speech on the Irish question, and the division of the House on the Government of Ireland Bill was to take place. The whole country, to the corners of its remotest colony, was looking forward to the results of this evening's meeting of Parliament. The kindness of the Speaker had furnished me with a ticket, entitling me to a place among the "distinguished guests," which I presented without modestly questioning my right to the title.
The pressure for entrance that evening was very great, and I, coming after my dinner with the Literary Club, was late upon the ground. The places for "distinguished guests" were already filled. But all England was in a conspiracy170 to do everything possible to make my visit agreeable. I did not take up a great deal of room,--I might be put into a seat with the ambassadors and foreign ministers. And among them I was presently installed. It was now between ten and eleven o'clock, as nearly as I recollect24. The House had been in session since four o'clock. A gentleman was speaking, who was, as my unknown next neighbor told me, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, a leading member, as we all know, of the opposition171. When he sat down there was a hush172 of expectation, and presently Mr. Gladstone rose to his feet. A great burst of applause welcomed him, lasting173 more than a minute. His clean-cut features, his furrowed174 cheeks, his scanty175 and whitened hair, his well-shaped but not extraordinary head, all familiarized by innumerable portraits and emphasized in hundreds of caricatures, revealed him at once to every spectator. His great speech has been universally read, and I need only speak of the way in which it was delivered. His manner was forcible rather than impassioned or eloquent176; his voice was clear enough, but must have troubled him somewhat, for he had a small bottle from which he poured something into a glass from time to time and swallowed a little, yet I heard him very well for the most part. In the last portion of his speech he became animated177 and inspiriting, and his closing words were uttered with an impressive solemnity: "Think, I beseech178 you, think well, think wisely, think not for a moment, but for the years that are to come, before you reject this bill."
After the burst of applause which followed the conclusion of Mr. Gladstone's speech, the House proceeded to the division on the question of passing the bill to a second reading. While the counting of the votes was going on there was the most intense excitement. A rumor179 ran round the House at one moment that the vote was going in favor of the second reading. It soon became evident that this was not the case, and presently the result was announced, giving a majority of thirty against the bill, and practically overthrowing180 the liberal administration. Then arose a tumult181 of applause from the conservatives and a wild confusion, in the midst of which an Irish member shouted, "Three cheers for the Grand Old Man!" which were lustily given, with waving of hats and all but Donnybrook manifestations182 of enthusiasm.
I forgot to mention that I had a very advantageous183 seat among the diplomatic gentlemen, and was felicitating myself on occupying one of the best positions in the House, when an usher184 politely informed me that the Russian Ambassador, in whose place I was sitting, had arrived, and that I must submit to the fate of eviction185. Fortunately, there were some steps close by, on one of which I found a seat almost as good as the one I had just left.
It was now two o'clock in the morning, and I had to walk home, not a vehicle being attainable186. I did not know my way to my headquarters, and I had no friend to go with me, but I fastened on a stray gentleman, who proved to be an ex-member of the House, and who accompanied me to 17 Dover Street, where I sought my bed with a satisfying sense of having done a good day's work and having been well paid for it.
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1
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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3
migrations
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| n.迁移，移居( migration的名词复数 ) | |
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4
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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6
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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7
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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8
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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10
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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14
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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15
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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16
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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18
coeval
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| adj.同时代的；n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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19
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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20
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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21
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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22
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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23
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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24
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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26
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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27
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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30
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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34
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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35
conciseness
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| n.简洁，简短 | |
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36
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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37
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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38
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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39
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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41
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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42
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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45
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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47
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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48
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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49
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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50
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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52
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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53
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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54
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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55
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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56
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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57
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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58
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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59
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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60
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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61
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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62
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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64
stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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65
bawls
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的第三人称单数 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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66
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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67
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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68
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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69
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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70
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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71
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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72
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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73
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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76
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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77
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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79
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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80
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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81
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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82
Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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83
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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84
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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86
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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87
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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88
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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89
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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90
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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91
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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92
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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93
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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94
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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95
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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96
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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97
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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98
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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99
transmutes
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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101
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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102
hawthorns
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| n.山楂树( hawthorn的名词复数 ) | |
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103
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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104
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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105
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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106
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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107
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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108
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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109
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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110
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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111
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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112
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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113
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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114
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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115
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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116
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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117
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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118
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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119
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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120
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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121
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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122
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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123
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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124
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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125
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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126
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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127
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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128
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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129
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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130
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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131
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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132
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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133
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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134
salaam
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| n.额手之礼，问安，敬礼；v.行额手礼 | |
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135
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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136
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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137
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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138
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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139
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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140
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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141
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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142
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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143
precursors
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| n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 )；先行者；先兆；初期形式 | |
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144
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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145
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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146
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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147
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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148
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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149
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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150
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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151
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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152
luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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153
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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154
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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155
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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156
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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157
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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158
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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159
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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160
inverse
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| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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161
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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162
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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163
interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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164
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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165
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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166
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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167
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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168
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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169
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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170
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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171
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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172
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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173
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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174
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
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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176
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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177
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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178
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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179
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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180
overthrowing
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| v.打倒，推翻( overthrow的现在分词 )；使终止 | |
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181
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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182
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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183
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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184
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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185
eviction
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| n.租地等的收回 | |
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186
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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