If I were planning to make a tour of the United Kingdom, and could command the service of all the wise men I count or have counted among my friends, I would go with such a retinue9 summoned from the ranks of the living and the dead as no prince ever carried with him. I would ask Mr. Lowell to go with me among scholars, where I could be a listener; Mr. Norton to visit the cathedrals with me; Professor Gray to be my botanical oracle10; Professor Agassiz to be always ready to answer questions about the geological strata11 and their fossils; Dr. Jeffries Wyman to point out and interpret the common objects which present themselves to a sharp-eyed observer; and Mr. Boyd Dawkins to pilot me among the caves and cairns. Then I should want a better pair of eyes and a better pair of ears, and, while I was reorganizing, perhaps a quicker apprehension12 and a more retentive13 memory; in short, a new outfit14, bodily and mental. But Nature does not care to mend old shoes; she prefers a new pair, and a young person to stand in them.
What a great book one could make, with such aids, and how many would fling it down, and take up anything in preference, provided only that it were short enough; even this slight record, for want of something shorter!
Not only did I feel sure that many friends would like to read our itinerary15, but another motive16 prompted me to tell the simple story of our travels. I could not receive such kindness, so great evidences of friendly regard, without a strong desire, amounting to a positive necessity, for the expression of my grateful sense of all that had been done for us. Individually, I felt it, of course, as a most pleasing experience. But I believed it to have a more important significance as an illustration of the cordial feeling existing between England and America. I know that many of my countrymen felt the attentions paid to me as if they themselves shared them with me. I have lived through many strata of feeling in America towards England. My parents, full-blooded Americans, were both born subjects of King George III. Both learned in their early years to look upon Britons as the enemies of their country. A good deal of the old hostility17 lingered through my boyhood, and this was largely intensified18 by the war of 1812. After nearly half a century this feeling had in great measure subsided19, when the War of Secession called forth20 expressions of sympathy with the slaveholding States which surprised, shocked, and deeply wounded the lovers of liberty and of England in the Northern States. A new generation is outgrowing21 that alienation22. More and more the older and younger nations are getting to be proud and really fond of each other. There is no shorter road to a mother's heart than to speak pleasantly to her child, and caress23 it, and call it pretty names. No matter whether the child is something remarkable24 or not, it is her child, and that is enough. It may be made too much of, but that is not its mother's fault. If I could believe that every attention paid me was due simply to my being an American, I should feel honored and happy in being one of the humbler media through which the good-will of a great and generous country reached the heart of a far-off people not always in friendly relations with her.
I have named many of the friends who did everything to make our stay in England and Scotland agreeable. The unforeseen shortening of my visit must account for many disappointments to myself, and some, it may be, to others.
First in the list of lost opportunities was that of making my bow to the Queen. I had the honor of receiving a card with the invitation to meet Her Majesty25 at a garden-party, but we were travelling when it was sent, and it arrived too late.
I was very sorry not to meet Mr. Ruskin, to whom Mr. Norton had given me a note of introduction. At the time when we were hoping to see him it was thought that he was too ill to receive visitors, but he has since written me that he regretted we did not carry out our intention. I lamented26 my being too late to see once more two gentlemen from whom I should have been sure of a kind welcome,--Lord Houghton and Dean Stanley, both of whom I had met in Boston. Even if I had stayed out the whole time I had intended to remain abroad, I should undoubtedly27 have failed to see many persons and many places that I must always feel sorry for having missed. But as it is, I will not try to count all that I lost; let me rather be thankful that I met so many friends whom it was a pleasure to know personally, and saw so much that it is a pleasure to remember.
I find that many of the places I most wish to see are those associated with the memory of some individual, generally one of the generations more or less in advance of my own. One of the first places I should go to, in a leisurely28 tour, would be Selborne. Gilbert White was not a poet, neither was he a great systematic29 naturalist30. But he used his eyes on the world about him; he found occupation and happiness in his daily walks, and won as large a measure of immortality31 within the confines of his little village as he could have gained in exploring the sources of the Nile. I should make a solemn pilgrimage to the little town of Eyam, in Derbyshire, where the Reverend Mr. Mompesson, the hero of the plague of 1665, and his wife, its heroine and its victim, lie buried. I should like to follow the traces of Cowper at Olney and of Bunyan at Elstow. I found an intense interest in the Reverend Mr. Alger's account of his visit to the Vale of Llangollen, where Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby passed their peaceful days in long, uninterrupted friendship. Of course the haunts of Burns, the home of Scott, the whole region made sacred by Wordsworth and the group to which he belongs would be so many shrines32 to which I should make pilgrimages.
I own, also, to having something of the melodramatic taste so notable in Victor Hugo. I admired the noble fa?ade of Wells cathedral and the grand old episcopal palace, but I begged the bishop33 to show me the place where his predecessor34, Bishop Kidder, and his wife, were killed by the falling chimney in the "Great Storm."--I wanted to go to Devizes, and see the monument in the market-place, where Ruth Pierce was struck dead with a lie in her mouth,--about all which I had read in early boyhood. I contented35 myself with a photograph of it which my friend, Mr. Willett, went to Devizes and bought for me.
There are twenty different Englands, every one of which it would be a delight to visit, and I should hardly know with which of them to begin.
The few remarks I have to make on what I saw and heard have nothing beyond the value of first impressions; but as I have already said, if these are simply given, without pretending to be anything more, they are not worthless. At least they can do little harm, and may sometimes amuse a reader whom they fail to instruct. But we must all beware of hasty conclusions. If a foreigner of limited intelligence were whirled through England on the railways, he would naturally come to the conclusion that the chief product of that country is mustard, and that its most celebrated36 people are Mr. Keen and Mr. Colman, whose great advertising37 boards, yellow letters on a black ground, and black letters on a yellow ground, stare the traveller in the face at every station.
Of the climate, as I knew it in May and the summer months, I will only say that if I had any illusions about May and June in England, my fireplace would have been ample evidence that I was entirely38 disenchanted. The Derby day, the 26th of May, was most chilly39 and uncomfortable; at the garden-party at Kensington Palace, on the 4th of June, it was cold enough to make hot drinks and warm wraps a comfort, if not a necessity. I was thankful to have passed through these two ordeals40 without ill consequences. Drizzly41, or damp, or cold, cloudy days were the rule rather than the exception, while we were in London. We had some few hot days, especially at Stratford, in the early part of July. In London an umbrella is as often carried as a cane42; in Paris "un homme à para-pluie" is, or used to be, supposed to carry that useful article because he does not keep and cannot hire a carriage of some sort. He may therefore be safely considered a person, and not a personage.
The soil of England does not seem to be worn out, to judge by the wonderful verdure and the luxuriance of vegetation. It contains a great museum of geological specimens43, and a series of historical strata which are among the most instructive of human records. I do not pretend to much knowledge of geology. The most interesting geological objects in our New England that I can think of are the great boulders45 and the scratched and smoothed surface of the rocks; the fossil footprints in the valley of the Connecticut; the trilobites found at Quincy. But the readers of Hugh Miller46 remember what a variety of fossils he found in the stratified rocks of his little island, and the museums are full of just such objects. When it comes to underground historical relics47, the poverty of New England as compared with the wealth of Old England is very striking. Stratum48 after stratum carries the explorer through the relics of successive invaders49. After passing through the characteristic traces of different peoples, he comes upon a Roman pavement, and below this the weapons and ornaments50 of a tribe of ancient Britons. One cannot strike a spade into the earth, in Great Britain, without a fair chance of some surprise in the form of a Saxon coin, or a Celtic implement51, or a Roman fibula. Nobody expects any such pleasing surprise in a New England field. One must be content with an Indian arrowhead or two, now and then a pestle52 and mortar53, or a stone pipe. A top dressing54 of antiquity55 is all he can look for. The soil is not humanized enough to be interesting; whereas in England so much of it has been trodden by human feet, built on in the form of human habitations, nay56, has been itself a part of preceding generations of human beings, that it is in a kind of dumb sympathy with those who tread its turf. Perhaps it is not literally57 true that
One half her soil has walked the rest
In poets, heroes, martyrs58, sages5;
but so many of all these lie within it that the whole mother island is a campo santo to all who can claim the same blood as that which runs in the veins59 of her unweaned children.
The flora60 and fauna61 of a country, as seen from railroad trains and carriages, are not likely to be very accurately62 or exhaustively studied. I spoke63 of the trees I noticed between Chester and London somewhat slightingly. But I did not form any hasty opinions from what happened to catch my eye. Afterwards, in the oaks and elms of Windsor Park, in the elms of Cambridge and Oxford64 and Salisbury, in the lindens of Stratford, in the various noble trees, including the cedar65 of Lebanon, in which Tennyson very justly felt a pride as their owner, I saw enough to make me glad that I had not uttered any rash generalizations66 on the strength of my first glance. The most interesting comparison I made was between the New England and the Old England elms. It is not necessary to cross the ocean to do this, as we have both varieties growing side by side in our parks,--on Boston Common, for instance. It is wonderful to note how people will lie about big trees. There must be as many as a dozen trees, each of which calls itself the "largest elm in New England." In my younger days, when I never travelled without a measuring-tape in my pocket, it amused me to see how meek67 one of the great swaggering elms would look when it saw the fatal measure begin to unreel itself. It seemed to me that the leaves actually trembled as the inexorable band encircled the trunk in the smallest place it could find, which is the only safe rule. The English elm (Ulmus campestris) as we see it in Boston comes out a little earlier perhaps, than our own, but the difference is slight. It holds its leaves long after our elms are bare. It grows upward, with abundant dark foliage68, while ours spreads, sometimes a hundred and twenty feet, and often droops69 like a weeping willow70. The English elm looks like a much more robust71 tree than ours, yet they tell me it is very fragile, and that its limbs are constantly breaking off in high winds, just as happens with our native elms. Ours is not a very long-lived tree; between two and three hundred years is, I think, the longest life that can be hoped for it. Since I have heard of the fragility of the English elm, which is the fatal fault of our own, I have questioned whether it can claim a greater longevity73 than ours. There is a hint of a typical difference in the American and the Englishman which I have long recognized in the two elms as compared to each other. It may be fanciful, but I have thought that the compactness and robustness74 about the English elm, which are replaced by the long, tapering75 limbs and willowy grace and far-spreading reach of our own, might find a certain parallelism in the people, especially the females of the two countries.
I saw no horse-chestnut trees equal to those I remember in Salem, and especially to one in Rockport, which is the largest and finest I have ever seen; no willows76 like those I pass in my daily drives.
On the other hand, I think I never looked upon a Lombardy poplar equal to one I saw in Cambridge, England. This tree seems to flourish in England much more than with us.
I do not remember any remarkable beeches77, though there are some very famous ones, especially the Burnham beeches.
No apple-trees I saw in England compare with one next my own door, and there are many others as fine in the neighborhood.
I have spoken of the pleasure I had in seeing by the roadside primroses78, cowslips, and daisies. Dandelions, buttercups, hawkweed looked much as ours do at home. Wild roses also grew at the roadside,--smaller and paler, I thought, than ours.
I cannot make a chapter like the famous one on Iceland, from my own limited observation: There are no snakes in England. I can say that I found two small caterpillars79 on my overcoat, in coming from Lord Tennyson's grounds. If they had stayed on his premises80, they might perhaps have developed into "purple emperors," or spread "the tiger moth's deep damasked wings" before the enraptured81 eyes of the noble poet. These two caterpillars and a few house-flies are all I saw, heard, or felt, by day or night, of the native fauna of England, except a few birds,--rooks, starlings, a blackbird, and the larks83 of Salisbury Plain just as they rose; for I lost sight of them almost immediately. I neither heard nor saw the nightingales, to my great regret. They had been singing at Oxford a short time before my visit to that place. The only song I heard was that which I have mentioned, the double note of the cuckoo.
England is the paradise of horses. They are bred, fed, trained, groomed84, housed, cared for, in a way to remind one of the Houyhnhnms, and strikingly contrasting with the conditions of life among the wretched classes whose existence is hardly more tolerable than that of those quasi-human beings under whose name it pleased the fierce satirist86 to degrade humanity. The horses that are driven in the hansoms of London are the best I have seen in any public conveyance87. I cannot say as much of those in the four-wheelers.
Broad streets, sometimes, as in Bond Street, with narrow sidewalks; islands for refuge in the middle of many of them; deep areas; lofty houses; high walls; plants in the windows; frequent open spaces; policemen at near intervals89, always polite in my experience,--such are my recollections of the quarter I most frequented.
Are the English taller, stouter91, lustier, ruddier, healthier, than our New England people? If I gave my impression, I should say that they are. Among the wealthier class, tall, athletic-looking men and stately, well-developed women are more common, I am compelled to think, than with us. I met in company at different times five gentlemen, each of whom would be conspicuous92 in any crowd for his stature93 and proportions. We could match their proportions, however, in the persons of well-known Bostonians. To see how it was with other classes, I walked in the Strand94 one Sunday, and noted95 carefully the men and women I met. I was surprised to see how many of both sexes were of low stature. I counted in the course of a few minutes' walk no less than twenty of these little people. I set this experience against the other. Neither is convincing. The anthropologists will settle the question of man in the Old and in the New World before many decades have passed.
In walking the fashionable streets of London one can hardly fail to be struck with the well-dressed look of gentlemen of all ages. The special point in which the Londoner excels all other citizens I am conversant97 with is the hat. I have not forgotten Béranger's
"Quoique leurs chapeaux soient bien laids
*** ***! moi, j'aime les Anglais;"
but in spite of it I believe in the English hat as the best thing of its ugly kind. As for the Englishman's feeling with reference to it, a foreigner might be pardoned for thinking it was his fetich, a North American Indian for looking at it as taking the place of his own medicine-bag. It is a common thing for the Englishman to say his prayers into it, as he sits down in his pew. Can it be that this imparts a religious character to the article? However this may be, the true Londoner's hat is cared for as reverentially as a High-Church altar. Far off its coming shines. I was always impressed by the fact that even with us a well-bred gentleman in reduced circumstances never forgets to keep his beaver98 well brushed, and I remember that long ago I spoke of the hat as the ultimum moriens of what we used to call gentility,--the last thing to perish in the decay of a gentleman's outfit. His hat is as sacred to an Englishman as his beard to a Mussulman.
In looking at the churches and the monuments which I saw in London and elsewhere in England, certain resemblances, comparisons, parallels, contrasts, and suggestions obtruded99 themselves upon my consciousness. We have one steeple in Boston which to my eyes seems absolutely perfect: that of the Central Church, at the corner of Newbury and Berkeley streets. Its resemblance to the spire100 of Salisbury had always struck me. On mentioning this to the late Mr. Richardson, the very distinguished101 architect, he said to me that he thought it more nearly like that of the Cathedral of Chartres. One of our best living architects agreed with me as to its similarity to that of Salisbury. It does not copy either exactly, but, if it had twice its actual dimensions, would compare well with the best of the two, if one is better than the other. Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields made me feel as if I were in Boston. Our Arlington Street Church copies it pretty closely, but Mr. Gilman left out the columns. I could not admire the Nelson Column, nor that which lends monumental distinction to the Duke of York. After Trajan's and that of the Place Vend102?me, each of which is a permanent and precious historical record, accounting103 sufficiently104 for its existence, there is something very unsatisfactory in these nude105 cylinders106. That to the Duke of York might well have the confession107 of the needy108 knife grinder as an inscription109 on its base. I confess in all honesty that I vastly prefer the monument commemorating110 the fire to either of them. That has a story to tell and tells it,--with a lie or two added, according to Pope, but it tells it in language and symbol.
As for the kind of monument such as I see from my library window standing111 on the summit of Bunker Hill, and have recently seen for the first time at Washington, on a larger scale, I own that I think a built-up obelisk112 a poor affair as compared with an Egyptian monolith of the same form. It was a triumph of skill to quarry113, to shape, to transport, to cover with expressive114 symbols, to erect115, such a stone as that which has been transferred to the Thames Embankment, or that which now stands in Central Park, New York. Each of its four sides is a page of history, written so as to endure through scores of centuries. A built-up obelisk requires very little more than brute116 labor117. A child can shape its model from a carrot or a parsnip, and set it up in miniature with blocks of loaf sugar. It teaches nothing, and the stranger must go to his guide-book to know what it is there for. I was led into many reflections by a sight of the Washington Monument. I found that it was almost the same thing at a mile's distance as the Bunker Hill Monument at half a mile's distance; and unless the eye had some means of measuring the space between itself and the stone shaft118, one was about as good as the other. A mound119 like that of Marathon or that at Waterloo, a cairn, even a shaft of the most durable120 form and material, are fit memorials of the place where a great battle was fought. They seem less appropriate as monuments to individuals. I doubt the durability121 of these piecemeal122 obelisks123, and when I think of that vast inverted124 pendulum125 vibrating in an earthquake, I am glad that I do not live in its shadow. The Washington Monument is more than a hundred feet higher than Salisbury steeple, but it does not look to me so high as that, because the mind has nothing to climb by. But the forming taste of the country revels126 in superlatives, and if we could only have the deepest artesian well in the world sunk by the side of the tallest column in all creation, the admiring, not overcritical patriot127 would be happier than ever was the Athenian when he looked up at the newly erected128 Parthenon.
I made a few miscellaneous observations which may be worth recording129. One of these was the fact of the repetition of the types of men and women with which I was familiar at home. Every now and then I met a new acquaintance whom I felt that I had seen before. Presently I identified him with his double on the other side. I had found long ago that even among Frenchmen I often fell in with persons whose counterparts I had known in America. I began to feel as if Nature turned out a batch130 of human beings for every locality of any importance, very much as a workman makes a set of chessmen. If I had lived a little longer in London, I am confident that I should have met myself, as I did actually meet so many others who were duplicates of those long known to me.
I met Mr. Galton for a few moments, but I had no long conversation with him. If he should ask me to say how many faces I can visually recall, I should have to own that there are very few such. The two pictures which I have already referred to, those of Erasmus and of Dr. Johnson, come up more distinctly before my mind's eye than almost any faces of the living. My mental retina has, I fear, lost much of its sensitiveness. Long and repeated exposure of an object of any kind, in a strong light, is necessary to fix its image.
Among the gratifications that awaited me in England and Scotland was that of meeting many before unseen friends with whom I had been in correspondence. I have spoken of Mr. John Bellows131. I should have been glad to meet Mr. William Smith, the Yorkshire antiquary, who has sent me many of his antiquarian and biographical writings and publications. I do not think I saw Mr. David Gilmour, of Paisley, whose "Paisley Folk" and other writings have given me great pleasure. But I did have the satisfaction of meeting Professor Gairdner, of Glasgow, to whose writings my attention was first called by my revered132 instructor133, the late Dr. James Jackson, and with whom I had occasionally corresponded. I ought to have met Dr. Martineau. I should have visited the Reverend Stopford Brooke, who could have told me much that I should have liked to hear of dear friends of mine, of whom he saw a great deal in their hours of trial. The Reverend Mr. Voysey, whose fearless rationalism can hardly give him popularity among the conservative people I saw most of, paid me the compliment of calling, as he had often done of sending me his published papers. Now and then some less known correspondent would reveal himself or herself in bodily presence. Let most authors beware of showing themselves to those who have idealized them, and let readers not be too anxious to see in the flesh those whom they have idealized. When I was a boy, I read Miss Edgeworth's "L'Amie Inconnue." I have learned to appreciate its meaning in later years by abundant experiences, and I have often felt unwilling134 to substitute my real for my imaginary presence. I will add here that I must have met a considerable number of persons, in the crowd at our reception and elsewhere, whose names I failed to hear, and whom I consequently did not recognize as the authors of books I had read, or of letters I had received. The story of my experience with the lark82 accounts for a good deal of what seemed like negligence135 or forgetfulness, and which must be, not pardoned, but sighed over.
I visited several of the well-known clubs, either by special invitation, or accompanied by a member. The Athenaeum was particularly attentive136, but I was unable to avail myself of the privileges it laid freely open before me during my stay in London. Other clubs I looked in upon were: the Reform Club, where I had the pleasure of dining at a large party given by the very distinguished Dr. Morell Mackenzie; the Rabelais, of which, as I before related, I have been long a member, and which was one of the first places where I dined; the Saville; the Savage137; the St. George's. I saw next to nothing of the proper club-life of London, but it seemed to me that the Athenaeum must be a very desirable place of resort to the educated Londoner, and no doubt each of the many institutions of this kind with which London abounds138 has its special attractions.
My obligations to my brethren of the medical profession are too numerous to be mentioned in detail. Almost the first visit I paid was one to my old friend and fellow-student in Paris, Dr. Walter Hayle Walshe. After more than half a century's separation, two young friends, now old friends, must not expect to find each other just the same as when they parted. Dr. Walshe thought he should have known me; my eyes are not so good as his, and I would not answer for them and for my memory. That he should have dedicated139 his recent original and ingenious work to me, before I had thought of visiting England, was a most gratifying circumstance. I have mentioned the hospitalities extended to me by various distinguished members of the medical profession, but I have not before referred to the readiness with which, on all occasions, when professional advice was needed, it was always given with more than willingness, rather as if it were a pleasure to give it. I could not have accepted such favors as I received had I not remembered that I, in my time, had given my services freely for the benefit of those of my own calling. If I refer to two names among many, it is for special reasons. Dr. Wilson Fox, the distinguished and widely known practitioner140, who showed us great kindness, has since died, and this passing tribute is due to his memory. I have before spoken of the exceptional favor we owed to Dr. and Mrs. Priestley. It enabled us to leave London feeling that we had tried, at least, to show our grateful sense of all the attentions bestowed141 upon us. If there were any whom we overlooked, among the guests we wished to honor, all such accidental omissions142 will be pardoned, I feel sure, by those who know how great and bewildering is the pressure of social life in London.
I was, no doubt, often more or less confused, in my perceptions, by the large number of persons whom I met in society. I found the dinner-parties, as Mr. Lowell told me I should, very much like the same entertainments among my home acquaintances. I have not the gift of silence, and I am not a bad listener, yet I brought away next to nothing from dinner-parties where I had said and heard enough to fill out a magazine article. After I was introduced to a lady, the conversation frequently began somewhat in this way:--
"It is a long time since you have been in this country, I believe?"
"It is a very long time: fifty years and more."
"You find great changes in London, of course, I suppose?"
"Not so great as you might think. The Tower is where I left it. The Abbey is much as I remember it. Northumberland House with its lion is gone, but Charing143 Cross is in the same old place. My attention is drawn144 especially to the things which have not changed,--those which I remember."
That stream was quickly dried up. Conversation soon found other springs. I never knew the talk to get heated or noisy. Religion and politics rarely came up, and never in any controversial way. The bitterest politician I met at table was a quadruped,--a lady's dog,--who refused a desirable morsel145 offered him in the name of Mr. Gladstone, but snapped up another instantly on being told that it came from Queen Victoria. I recall many pleasant and some delightful146 talks at the dinner-table; one in particular, with the most charming woman in England. I wonder if she remembers how very lovely and agreeable she was? Possibly she may be able to identify herself.
People--the right kind of people--meet at a dinner-party as two ships meet and pass each other at sea. They exchange a few signals; ask each other's reckoning, where from, where bound; perhaps one supplies the other with a little food or a few dainties; then they part, to see each other no more. But one or both may remember the hour passed together all their days, just as I recollect90 our brief parley147 with the brig Economist148, of Leith, from Sierra Leone, in mid88 ocean, in the spring of 1833.
I am very far from despising the science of gastronomy149, but if I wished to institute a comparison between the tables of England and America, I could not do it without eating my way through the four seasons. I will say that I did not think the bread from the bakers150' shops was so good as our own. It was very generally tough and hard, and even the muffins were not always so tender and delicate as they ought to be. I got impatient one day, and sent out for some biscuits. They brought some very excellent ones, which we much preferred to the tough bread. They proved to be the so-called "seafoam" biscuit from New York. The potatoes never came on the table looking like new fallen snow, as we have them at home. We were surprised to find both mutton and beef overdone151, according to our American taste. The French talk about the Briton's "bifteck saignant," but we never saw anything cooked so as to be, as we should say, "rare." The tart152 is national with the English, as the pie is national with us. I never saw on an English table that excellent substitute for both, called the Washington pie, in memory of him whom we honor as first in pies, as well as in war and in the hearts of his countrymen.
The truth is that I gave very little thought to the things set before me, in the excitement of constantly changing agreeable companionship. I understand perfectly153 the feeling of the good liver in Punch, who suggests to the lady next him that their host has one of the best cooks in London, and that it might therefore be well to defer154 all conversation until they adjourned155 to the drawing-room. I preferred the conversation, and adjourned, indefinitely, the careful appreciation156 of the menu. I think if I could devote a year to it, I might be able to make out a graduated scale of articles of food, taking a well-boiled fresh egg as the unit of gastronomic157 value, but I leave this scientific task to some future observer.
The most remarkable piece of European handiwork I remember was the steel chair at Longford Castle. The most startling and frightful158 work of man I ever saw or expect to see was another specimen44 of work in steel, said to have been taken from one of the infernal chambers159 of the Spanish Inquisition. It was a complex mechanism160, which grasped the body and the head of the heretic or other victim, and by means of many ingeniously arranged screws and levers was capable of pressing, stretching, piercing, rending161, crushing, all the most sensitive portions of the human body, one at a time or many at once. The famous Virgin162, whose embrace drove a hundred knives into the body of the poor wretch85 she took in her arms, was an angel of mercy compared to this masterpiece of devilish enginery.
Ingenuity163 is much better shown in contrivances for making our daily life more comfortable. I was on the lookout164 for everything that promised to be a convenience. I carried out two things which seemed to be new to the Londoners: the Star Razor, which I have praised so freely, and still find equal to all my commendations; and the mucilage pencil, which is a very handy implement to keep on the writer's desk or table. I found a contrivance for protecting the hand in drawing corks165, which all who are their own butlers will appreciate, and luminous166 match-boxes which really shine brightly in the dark, and that after a year's usage; whereas one professing167 to shine by night, which I bought in Boston, is only visible by borrowed light. I wanted a very fine-grained hone, and inquired for it at a hardware store, where they kept everything in their line of the best quality. I brought away a very pretty but very small stone, for which I paid a large price. The stone was from Arkansas, and I need not have bought in London what would have been easily obtained at a dozen or more stores in Boston. It was a renewal168 of my experience with the seafoam biscuit. "Know thyself" and the things about thee, and "Take the good the gods provide thee," if thou wilt169 only keep thine eyes open, are two safe precepts170.
Who is there of English descent among us that does not feel with Cowper,
"England, with all thy faults, I love thee still"?
Our recently naturalized fellow-citizens, of a different blood and different religion, must not suppose that we are going to forget our inborn171 love for the mother to whom we owe our being. Protestant England and Protestant America are coming nearer and nearer to each other every year. The interchange of the two peoples is more and more frequent, and there are many reasons why it is likely to continue increasing.
Hawthorne says in a letter to Longfellow, "Why don't you come over, being now a man of leisure and with nothing to keep you in America? If I were in your position, I think I should make my home on this side of the water,--though always with an indefinite and never-to-be-executed intention to go back and die in my native land. America is a good land for young people, but not for those who are past their prime. ... A man of individuality and refinement172 can certainly live far more comfortably here--provided he has the means to live at all--than in New England. Be it owned, however, that I sometimes feel a tug173 at my very heart-strings when I think of my old home and friends." This was written from Liverpool in 1854.
We must not forget that our fathers were exiles from their dearly loved native land, driven by causes which no longer exist. "Freedom to worship God" is found in England as fully96 as in America, in our day. In placing the Atlantic between themselves and the Old World civilizations they made an enormous sacrifice. It is true that the wonderful advance of our people in all the arts and accomplishments174 which make life agreeable has transformed the wilderness175 into a home where men and women can live comfortably, elegantly, happily, if they are of contented disposition176; and without that they can be happy nowhere. What better provision can be made for a mortal man than such as our own Boston can afford its wealthy children? A palace on Commonwealth177 Avenue or on Beacon178 Street; a country-place at Framingham or Lenox; a seaside residence at Nahant, Beverly Farms, Newport, or Bar Harbor; a pew at Trinity or King's Chapel179; a tomb at Mount Auburn or Forest Hills; with the prospect180 of a memorial stained window after his lamented demise,--is not this a pretty programme to offer a candidate for human existence?
Give him all these advantages, and he will still be longing181 to cross the water, to get back to that old home of his fathers, so delightful in itself, so infinitely182 desirable on account of its nearness to Paris, to Geneva, to Rome, to all that is most interesting in Europe. The less wealthy, less cultivated, less fastidious class of Americans are not so much haunted by these longings183. But the convenience of living in the Old World is so great, and it is such a trial and such a risk to keep crossing the ocean, that it seems altogether likely that a considerable current of re-migration will gradually develop itself among our people.
Some find the climate of the other side of the Atlantic suits them better than their own. As the New England characteristics are gradually superseded184 by those of other races, other forms of belief, and other associations, the time may come when a New Englander will feel more as if he were among his own people in London than in one of our seaboard cities. The vast majority of our people love their country too well and are too proud of it to be willing to expatriate themselves. But going back to our old home, to find ourselves among the relatives from whom we have been separated for a few generations, is not like transferring ourselves to a land where another language is spoken, and where there are no ties of blood and no common religious or political traditions. I, for one, being myself as inveterately185 rooted an American of the Bostonian variety as ever saw himself mirrored in the Frog Pond, hope that the exchanges of emigrants186 and re-migrants will be much more evenly balanced by and by than at present. I hope that more Englishmen like James Smithson will help to build up our scientific and literary institutions. I hope that more Americans like George Peabody will call down the blessings187 of the English people by noble benefactions to the cause of charity. It was with deep feelings of pride and gratitude188 that I looked upon the bust72 of Longfellow, holding its place among the monuments of England's greatest and best children. I see with equal pleasure and pride that one of our own large-hearted countrymen has honored the memory of three English poets, Milton, and Herbert, and Cowper, by the gift of two beautiful stained windows, and with still ampler munificence189 is erecting190 a stately fountain in the birthplace of Shakespeare. Such acts as these make us feel more and more the truth of the generous sentiment which closes the ode of Washington Allston, "America to Great Britain:" We are one!
I have told our story with the help of my daughter's diary, and often aided by her recollections. Having enjoyed so much, I am desirous that my countrymen and countrywomen should share my good fortune with me. I hesitated at first about printing names in full, but when I remembered that we received nothing but the most overflowing191 hospitality and the most considerate kindness from all we met, I felt sure that I could not offend by telling my readers who the friends were that made England a second home to us. If any one of them is disturbed by such reference as I have made to him or to her, I most sincerely apologize for the liberty I have taken. I am far more afraid that through sheer forgetfulness I have left unmentioned many to whom I was and still remain under obligations.
If I were asked what I think of people's travelling after the commonly accepted natural term of life is completed, I should say that everything depends on constitution and habit. The old soldier says, in speaking of crossing the Beresina, where the men had to work in the freezing stream constructing the bridges, "Faut du tempérament pour cela!" I often thought of this expression, in the damp and chilly weather which not rarely makes English people wish they were in Italy. I escaped unharmed from the windy gusts192 at Epsom and the nipping chill of the Kensington garden-party; but if a score of my contemporaries had been there with me, there would not improbably have been a funeral or two within a week. If, however, the super-septuagenarian is used to exposures, if he is an old sportsman or an old officer not retired193 from active service, he may expect to elude194 the pneumonia195 which follows his footsteps whenever he wanders far from his fireside. But to a person of well-advanced years coming from a counting-room, a library, or a studio, the risk is considerable, unless he is of hardy196 natural constitution; any other will do well to remember, "Faut du tempérament pour cela!"
Suppose there to be a reasonable chance that he will come home alive, what is the use of one's going to Europe after his senses have lost their acuteness, and his mind no longer retains its full measure of sensibilities and vigor197? I should say that the visit to Europe under those circumstances was much the same thing as the petit verre,--the little glass of Chartreuse, or Maraschino, or Cura?oa, or, if you will, of plain Cognac, at the end of a long banquet. One has gone through many courses, which repose198 in the safe recesses199 of his economy. He has swallowed his coffee, and still there is a little corner left with its craving200 unappeased. Then comes the drop of liqueur, chasse-café, which is the last thing the stomach has a right to expect. It warms, it comforts, it exhales201 its benediction202 on all that has gone before. So the trip to Europe may not do much in the way of instructing the wearied and overloaded203 intelligence, but it gives it a fillip which makes it feel young again for a little while.
Let not the too mature traveller think it will change any of his habits. It will interrupt his routine for a while, and then he will settle down into his former self, and be just what he was before. I brought home a pair of shoes I had made in London; they do not fit like those I had before I left, and I rarely wear them. It is just so with the new habits I formed and the old ones I left behind me.
But am I not glad, for my own sake, that I went? Certainly I have every reason to be, and I feel that the visit is likely to be a great source of happiness for my remaining days. But there is a higher source of satisfaction. If the kindness shown me strengthens the slenderest link that binds204 us in affection to that ancestral country which is, and I trust will always be to her descendants, "dear Mother England," that alone justifies205 my record of it, and to think it is so is more than reward enough. If, in addition, this account of our summer experiences is a source of pleasure to many friends, and of pain to no one, as I trust will prove to be the fact, I hope I need never regret giving to the public the pages which are meant more especially for readers who have a personal interest in the writer.
The End
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outgrowing
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的现在分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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ordeals
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| n.严峻的考验，苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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drizzly
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| a.毛毛雨的(a drizzly day) | |
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42
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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46
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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52
pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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54
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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56
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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57
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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58
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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60
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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63
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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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70
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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76
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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81
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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85
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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87
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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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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93
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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95
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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96
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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97
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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98
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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99
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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101
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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102
vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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103
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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104
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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105
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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106
cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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107
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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108
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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109
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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110
commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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111
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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112
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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113
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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114
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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115
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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116
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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117
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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118
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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119
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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120
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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121
durability
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| n.经久性，耐用性 | |
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122
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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123
obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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124
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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126
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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127
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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128
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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129
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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130
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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131
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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132
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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134
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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135
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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136
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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137
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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138
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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140
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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141
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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143
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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144
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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145
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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146
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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147
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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148
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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149
gastronomy
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| n.美食法；美食学 | |
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150
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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151
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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152
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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153
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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154
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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155
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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157
gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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158
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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159
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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160
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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161
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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162
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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163
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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164
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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165
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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166
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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167
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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168
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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169
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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170
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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171
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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172
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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173
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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174
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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175
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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176
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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177
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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178
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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179
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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180
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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181
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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182
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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183
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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184
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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185
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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186
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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187
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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188
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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189
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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190
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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191
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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192
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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193
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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194
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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195
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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196
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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197
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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198
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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199
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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200
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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201
exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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202
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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203
overloaded
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| a.超载的，超负荷的 | |
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204
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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205
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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