To Ghent, over which lay for centuries the oblivion that came upon all the cities of Flanders after they lost their independence and fell into the hands of the unscrupulous princes and states of the Renaissance7, one following another with{173} variety of oppression but no cessation thereof, has come a new vitality8. It is as great a city now as then, counting a population of well over 200,000, while Bruges has no more than a quarter of this number. Providentially, it has suffered less than might have been feared by this accession of prosperity; its wonderful churches and tall towers, its quays9 with their serried10 lines of high gabled houses, its great castle of the Counts of Flanders, its winding11 streets and tortuous12 canals lined with ancient and lovely dwellings14 and spanned by little stone bridges, all tell even now for almost their full value; and though the city is quite metropolitan15 in its cleanness and well-being16, with fine new streets and bridges and shops, the spell of a great antiquity17 is over it, and the new follows the old with conscientious18 effort and delightful19 delicacy20 of feeling. If an old city must gain a new lease of life, let it be after the fashion of Ghent.
Here is an old treasure-house full of wonders, and it can be touched upon lightly, if at all, for it demands a volume to itself. It has a dozen churches, all of the deepest interest; the Cathedral of St. Bavon, St. Nicholas, St. Michael, St. Jacques, standing21 to the front. All suffered{174} from the Protestants and the French Revolution, and some from the mishandling of restorers, but they retain their individuality, which is very marked, for one and all are very local variants22 of the styles one finds elsewhere; they are of Ghent and of no other place. Brick is used widely, as elsewhere in Flanders, either by itself or mingled23 with stone; and it is used with that intelligence, so rare in modern times, that indicates the possibility of adapting a style to the materials through which it is expressed. Of course, then art was as living a thing as religion and the realities of liberty, whereas now they all fall in the category of those fictions that please while they do not persuade—which makes all the difference in the world. All Flanders is a lesson in the use of brick, and as it is used here in St. Nicholas, and in the houses of the Quai aux Herbes, as it was used in lost Louvain, in desolated24 Ypres, in battered25 Malines, it was a study in good art, a lesson in the history of human culture, a demonstration26 of the perfect adaptation of modest means to a very noble end.
Ghent must have been a city of indescribable beauty about the middle of the sixteenth century before its dark days began and one scourge27 after another followed the Reformers with their combination of dull brutality28, insane self-sufficiency, and savage29 fury of destruction. Even now the group of towers, St. Bavon, St. Nicholas, and the belfry with its “Great Bell Roland”—though the original spires31 are gone and the belfry has further suffered the indignity32 of an extinguisher cap of iron—gives some faint idea of what must have been before coal and iron came, first to destroy and then most hideously33 to re-create. So also does the towering old castle give a hint, whether you see it from the Place Ste. Pharailde or from the canal, with its great buttresses34 lifting out of the water; so does the unfinished but sumptuous35 H?tel de Ville with its fretted36 bays and balconied turrets37; so do the beautiful ruins of the ancient abbey shrouded38 in vines and trees. Life in a medi?val city such as this could have left little to be desired so far as beauty of environment was concerned, and when this contained within itself unspoliated, unrestored churches that were in use all the time and meant something besides a seventh-day respectability, and a great bell in a tall tower, around whose rim39 were the words, “My name is Roland. When I toll40 there is fire; when I ring there is victory in Flanders,” it is{176} easy to see how men could and did paint such pictures as “The Adoration41 of the Lamb That Was Slain42.”
This, with the other great pictures in Flanders, will be considered in another chapter. It is the central art-treasure of the cathedral, the pride of the Netherlands, and one of the wonders of painting of the world.
Past tragic43 Termonde—a name and a deed never to be forgotten so long as history endures—now only a desert of broken walls and a place of unquiet ghosts, the Scheldt goes down to Antwerp, the last of the inner circle of impotent defences of the eternal things that cannot resist, against the passing things that are omnipotent44 during their little day. In the sixteenth century it was the greatest and richest city in Europe; now, with its 400,000 inhabitants, it is double its former size but numerically counts for little beside the insane aggregations45 that call themselves cities and are the work of the last century of misdirected and evanescent energy. Its greatness culminated46 in 1550, and then came the sequence of catastrophes47 that reduced it to material insignificance48 for three hundred years, the Protestant Reformation, with its savage destruction in 1566 of churches{177} and monasteries49, and of what they stood for as well; the Spanish occupation, with Alva’s enormities in 1576, when the more industrious50 and able citizens were driven into England, and the city itself burned; the winning away by the Dutch of its old command of commerce; the closing of the river by the Peace of Westphalia, and finally the devastating51 storm of the French Revolution which destroyed pretty much of anything that had been left. By this time the population had fallen to 40,000, but under Napoleon a short-lived recovery began, which was brought to an end by the revolution of 1830, and it was not until the middle of the century that a more lasting52 development was initiated53.
Antwerp is a good enough modern town, as these go, but its disasters have robbed it of all its ancient quality, and even the cathedral has the air of being out of place. Great as it is, it is not a masterpiece, or even an exemplar of its many Gothic variants at their best. Its unusual width and number of aisles54, its great height and its forest of columns give a certain impressiveness and a very beautiful play of light and shade, while its single tower is quite wonderful in its slender grace and its intricate and delicate scaf{178}folding. Its one famous picture is the over-praised “Descent from the Cross” of Rubens, painted while he was under Italian influence and therefore, if quite uncharacteristic, nobler and more self-contained than the products of his maturity55 when he had become wholly himself.
There are one or two other churches of fragmentary value, the unique museum made out of the old dwelling13 and printing-office of Christopher Plantin, with its stores of medi?val and Renaissance industrial art, and the Royal Museum where there are more admirable examples of the painting of Flanders, Brabant, and the Netherlands than are to be found gathered together in any other one place. For critical, or in a limited way, artistic56 study, this hoarding57 together, cheek by jowl, of innumerable works of art collected from desecrated58 churches and ruined monasteries, has its uses, but no one of the pictures torn from its original and intended surroundings tells for its full value. One wonders sometimes whether a daily newspaper, a school of fine arts, or a picture-gallery is the most biting indictment59 of contemporary culture and artistic sense; certainly whatever the answer, the picture-gallery{179} presents powerful claims that are not lightly to be disregarded.
So, from the dunes60 of the North Sea around to the wide estuary61 of the Scheldt, the ring of defences is complete, and in the midst like a citadel62 lies Bruges, the Dream City, preserving, guarding, and reverencing63 its dreams.
I knew Bruges first in 1886 when I seem to remember its old walls, when its new buildings were few and unobjectionable, and when the tourist—English, German, American—was as much of a novelty as he was an anachronism. I am told now that the walls have gone, and the boulevards and architects’ buildings, and the tourists have come in; have come in hosts, with all their destructive possibilities, but I can think only of the old Bruges, still, meditative64, serene65; a town Maxfield Parish might have designed, but impossible elsewhere except as a survival, by some providential miracle of beneficence, from the heart of the Middle Ages.
This is not to say that Bruges has survived intact. Hurled66 into the midst of the maelstrom67 of chaos68 that characterised the Renaissance in all its political aspects, she was ruined utterly69 between Maximilian of Austria, the Calvinists, and the{180} Duke of Alva. War and pillage70, massacre71, bribery72, treason, the rack marked the advance in culture and civilisation73 beyond the dark days of medi?valism. What the Austrian spared the Protestant devoured74, while the Spaniard gleaned75 the crumbs76 that remained. Bruges, that great city, proud, rich, and beautiful above all cities of the North, counted now a population of a scant77 30,000, hopeless, abandoned, poverty-stricken.
The greatest ruin was wrought78 by one Balfour, a creature in the pay of William of Orange, who in 1578 captured the city and held it for six years, during which time the Catholic religion was prohibited, the bishop79 was imprisoned80, all priests were either driven into exile or tortured and then burned at the stake, while churches were destroyed, turned into stables, sacked and desecrated, and more great pictures, statues, shrines81, windows, sacred vessels82, and vestments were destroyed than have been miraculously83 preserved. Every religious house in the vicinity was completely expunged84, including the vast Cistercian monastery85 of Coxyde, the most glorious church in Flanders; and its wide-spread gardens, fields, and orchards86 regained87 from the dunes by centuries of labour, reverted88 to their original{181} estate, and desolation took the place of beneficent and hard-won fertility.
Out of this reign89 of terror came as some compensation the saving of Bruges—or what was left of it. In 1560 the Pope had made the city an episcopal see, on the urging of Philip II, and after Balfour had met a well-merited, but too sudden and merciful, death, the exiled and plundered90 orders took refuge within its walls, building new and humbler quarters for themselves and hospitals and almshouses for the miserable91 citizens. The Church took the place of commerce, and under its care some degree of life came back to the ruined city; and the quality it then took on, of a community of religious houses, institutions of charity and mercy, and old churches restored again to their proper uses, it has never lost.
Toward the end of the seventeenth and all through the eighteenth century the slow destruction of old beauty went on, though with a different impulse. Now it was the unescapable vandalism of ignorance and degraded taste that marked the time; old windows that had escaped the Calvinists were pulled out so that a better light might fall on a new altar, since it was “such an admirable imitation of marble,” even as hap{182}pened in Chartres, where some of the matchless windows were contemptuously cast into a ditch to reveal the tawdry splendours of the lamentable92 high altar and imitation marble of the choir93 which represented the enlightened intelligence of the eighteenth-century canons. The sixteenth century was bad enough, but one wonders sometimes how any continental94 culture survived the eighteenth century.
Later, when the nineteenth century came to crown with perfect achievement the arduous95 but incomplete efforts of its predecessor96, ugly and barbarous houses took the place of only too many of the beautiful works of the Middle Ages, and finally the wonderful old walls were ruthlessly razed97 to give place to silly boulevards. And in spite of it all Bruges survives, and more completely than any other city of the North, for it is farthest away from the kingdom of coal and iron, and if war passes it by, it may still remain an oasis98, a sanctuary99 in the desert.
The beauty of Bruges is incomparable and unique. Threaded by winding canals, crossed by innumerable old stone bridges, where pink-and-grey walls, tall gables, spired100 turrets, leaning fronts of mullioned windows rise from old stone{183}paved quays and garden walls hung with vines and backed by tree tops; cut by narrow streets of ancient houses, with old churches and convents and chapels102 on every hand and with slender towers lifting over quaint103 market-places and little squares and sudden gardens, it is a continuous and ever-varying and never-exhausting delight that, so far as I know, finds its rival only in Venice. A city that has shrunken a little within its walls is always more beautiful than one that has burst them and is steadily104 intruding105 into the fleeing countryside. That is the difference between the advance of man and that of nature. Ghent, Rome, Nuremberg are kernels106 of sweetness surrounded by a monstrously107 expanding rind that is exceeding bitter, but Carcassonne, Rothenburg, Siena, Bruges are so wholly different there is no possibility of comparison. When the houses of an old town seem to huddle108 a little more closely together, while superfluous109 walls fall away and the tide of green comes lapping on already moss-grown walls to cover and obliterate110 the traces man has left of his less successful efforts, then you have something approaching a perfect environment, particularly if, as here, there are innumerable and endless treasures of the best that man{184} can do, now carefully preserved, and growing better the nearer nature comes to touch them with her wand of magic.
Architecturally, Bruges is fifteenth century with a singular consistency—when it isn’t of a century later or, and less conspicuously111, of the fourteenth century; not that it matters much, it all hangs together because it is all of one mood and one impulse and one race. Its H?tel de Ville, one of the perfect things in architecture, I have spoken of elsewhere; its churches, at least six of them, are each engaging in a different way, and each contains treasures of endless pictures, wood carving112, metal work, vestments, gathered from ruined monasteries and churches to take the place of the greater treasures pillaged113 and destroyed by the Calvinists. Our Lady’s Church, with its curiously114 beautiful tower and its gem-like porch; the cathedral with its ugly modern tower and its fine interior with all its pictures and treasures of “dinanderie”; the Chapel101 of the Holy Blood, still fantastic and charming in spite of its sufferings at the hands of the French Revolutionists; St. Jacques, St. Gilles, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre with its noble tomb of Count Baldwin of Jerusalem and his wife.
Then there are all the old guild-houses, hospitals, convents, monasteries, and the rows and rows of fine old dwellings, each a model of personal and curiously contented115 architectural art, but, after all, Bruges is not Bruges because of its single buildings, or all of them together, or because of its pictures and its metal work and wood carving. It is Bruges because of its unearthly beauty of canals and gardens, of endless sudden compositions of lovely forms and lines and silhouettes116; because of its still atmosphere of old days and better ways, and because it is a place where religion no longer appears as an accessory but takes its place even in these modern times as a constant, daily, poignant117, and personal influence.
Already this living charm had begun to exert itself over a wider and wider field, and when the war came there were more than 4,000 English and Americans who had taken up their residence there, drawn118 by its subtle charm and by what this stood for once, and stands for now. When the King is back in Brussels again, and real life begins once more, who knows but that the spirit of Bruges may find itself dominant119 over the spirit (has it a spirit?) of Charleroi, not only in Flan{186}ders and Belgium and Europe, but throughout the world, for “the old order changeth, giving place to new,” and the “new” is also, and unmistakably, the old, preserved as here in Bruges for better days, when through suffering and ruin man comes into his own again, and sees once more what is, what is not, worth while.
In Brabant were once other centres of old memories: Maastricht, Liége, Huy, and Namur; Dinant, Louvain, and Malines. None of them remains120, for across Brabant runs the black scar that has transformed the cities of the Sambre and the Meuse into smoking anvils121, where iron is hammered out into efficiency and coal is torn from the earth and burned in consuming fires to the same end; for across Brabant runs the red scar that efficiency has blazed like a trail of enduring flame, never to be forgotten or forgiven so long as man remains on earth; a portent122 and a horror to all generations in s?cula s?culorum. Dinant, Louvain, Malines; yes, and Tirlemont, Aerschot, Wavre and the innumerable other names that are uttered below the breath as signifying things that cannot be spoken but never will be forgotten, things that give one at last to understand the stern necessity of the once discredited123, but{187} now grateful, doctrines124 of hell and of eternal damnation in the Christian125 scheme of the universe.
Dinant, whose fame in the fifteenth century for the making of wonderful works of art in metal, gave the name “dinanderie” to this admirable art—Dinant, crouched126 under the castle-crowned cliffs of the Meuse, with its quaint church, has gone now, and gone also is Louvain, all but its H?tel de Ville which is more like a pyx or a reliquary, or some other work of “dinanderie,” than a real building. The destruction of Louvain needs no description, for its fires have burned its story indelibly into human consciousness. We know only too well how its university was destroyed, with its priceless library and its ancient and unique manuscripts; how the great and beautiful Church of St. Pierre was swept by flames and left a hopeless ruin; how its streets were absorbed, one after another, in the roaring conflagration127, covering with their débris the stains of massacre and pillage. Of Malines we know less, nor shall until the great cloud rolls back, but there was much there to lose, and some of this we know has been lost while more may follow. In spite of the altars to coal and iron outside the old cincture of the town, Malines itself was a{188} gentle and lovely old place, gathered around its great Church of St. Rombaut with its incredible tower. A town of old houses and still canals in strangely poetic128 combination, a little Bruges with a finer church than any the perfect Flemish city could boast. The church itself is of a vigorous type of the earliest fourteenth-century architecture, but the great tower, which was planned as the highest and most splendid spire30 in the world, though it completed only three hundred and twenty of its projected five hundred and fifty feet, is fifteenth century, and as perfect an example of late Gothic at its best as may be found anywhere in the world. It is really indescribable in its combination of majesty129, brilliancy of design, and inconceivable intricacy of detail. The exuberance130 that marks the flamboyant131 art of France is here controlled and directed into the most excellent channels, and if ever it had been completed it must have taken its place as the most beautiful tower in the world. As it is, it ranks in its own way with the southern flèche of Chartres and Giotto’s Tower in Florence, and more one cannot say.
Information is not forthcoming as to how far it already has been wrecked132; it is said that the{189} glimmering133 pinnacles134 and niches135 of its amazing buttresses have suffered severely136 from shell-fire, and that its carillon, the finest in Belgium, has been destroyed; if nothing worse follows, the world may yet see its visionary spire take actual form at last, in the gratitude137 of a people for the passing from themselves, and from the world, of the shadow of death.
Inevitably138, when one thinks of Malines, Louvain, Ypres, Arras, Soissons, Reims, there comes the suggestion of possible restorations, concretely expressed already by German savants and arch?ologists incapable139 of comprehending the difference between art and imitation, and as some palliation for the evils that have been done. It is a thought that must resolutely140 be put aside. As I said in speaking of Reims, if enough remains to be made habitable by simple patching and protection, let this be done by all means, but without a foot of false carving or glass or sculpture. Build other churches if you like, and as you must, and perhaps on the old general lines, though elsewhere, but let us have no more a Pierrefond or a Mt. St. Michael. What is gone is gone irrevocably, and its shells and shards141 are too valuable in their eternal teaching to be obliterated{190} by well-meant schemes of rehabilitation142. When a whole town passes, as Ypres and Louvain and Arras, then as it fell so let it lie. A kindly143 nature will slowly turn these bleak144 piles of fallen masonry145 into beautiful memorials, clothing them with grass and vines and flowers and trees. Let them stand so for ever, a memorial to the dead and a warning to man in his pride of life and insolence146 of will; and for the new cities, let them rise as beautifully as may be alongside, but not over, the graves of a dead era. Glastonbury and Jumièges, in their solemn and noble ruin, tell their story to ears that at last are disposed to listen, and the story of Reims and Louvain, with the same moral at its end, must be told eternally after the same fashion.
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confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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variants
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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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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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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aggregations
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| n.聚集( aggregation的名词复数 )；集成；集结；聚集体 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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51
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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52
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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53
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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54
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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55
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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56
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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57
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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58
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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60
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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61
estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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62
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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63
reverencing
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的现在分词 )；敬礼 | |
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64
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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65
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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66
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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68
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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69
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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70
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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71
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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72
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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73
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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74
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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75
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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76
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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77
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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78
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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79
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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80
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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82
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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83
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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84
expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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85
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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86
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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87
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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88
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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89
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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90
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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92
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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93
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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94
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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95
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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96
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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97
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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99
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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100
spired
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| v.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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102
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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103
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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104
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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105
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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106
kernels
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| 谷粒( kernel的名词复数 )； 仁； 核； 要点 | |
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107
monstrously
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108
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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109
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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110
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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111
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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112
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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113
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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115
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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116
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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117
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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118
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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119
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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120
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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121
anvils
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| n.（铁）砧( anvil的名词复数 )；砧骨 | |
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122
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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123
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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124
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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125
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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126
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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128
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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129
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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130
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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131
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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132
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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133
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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134
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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135
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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136
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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137
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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138
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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139
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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140
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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141
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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142
rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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143
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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144
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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145
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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146
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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