He was shy by nature. He did not take the world into his confidence. He was not one to harp9 on his own troubles and ask the world to sympathize with him. The world had dealt him some very hard blows,—blows which hurt sorely,—and so, while he gave the public his books, he kept himself to himself. He transferred the aroma10 of Japan to his writings. He did not sell the reader snap-shots of his own personality. To one man only perhaps in the whole world did the little Greek-Irishman reveal his inner thoughts, and he was one who thirty-eight years ago opened his heart and his home to the travel-stained, poverty-burdened lad of nineteen, who had run away from a monastery11 in Wales and who still had part of his monk's garb12 for clothing when he reached America.
Hearn never discussed his family affairs very extensively, but made it clear that his father was a surgeon in the crack Seventy-sixth Regiment13 of British Infantry14, and his mother a Greek woman of Cherigo in the Ionian Islands. The social circle to which his father belonged frowned on the mesalliance, and when the wife and children arrived in England, after the father's death, the aristocratic relatives soon made the strangers feel that they were anything but welcome.
The young Lafcadio was chosen for the priesthood, and after receiving his education partly in France and partly in England, he was sent to a monastery in Wales. As he related afterwards, he was in bad odor there from the first. Even as a boy he had the skeptical16 notions about things religious that were to abide17 with him for long years after and change him to an ardent18 materialist19 until he fell under the influence of Buddhism20. One day, after a dispute with the priests, and in disgust with the course in life that had been mapped out for him, the boy took what money he could get and made off to America. After sundry21 adventures, concerning which he was always silent, he arrived in Cincinnati in 1869, hungry, tired, unkempt,—a boy without a trade, without friends, without money. In some way he made the acquaintance of a Scotch23 printer, and this man in turn introduced him to Henry Watkin, an Englishman, largely self-educated, of broad culture and wide reading, of singular liberality of views, and a lover of his kind. Watkin at this time ran a printing shop.
Left alone with the lad, who had come across the seas to be as far away as possible from his father's people, the man of forty-five surveyed the boy of nineteen and said, "Well, my young man, how do you expect to earn a living?"
"I don't know."
"Have you any trade?"
"No, sir."
"Can you do anything at all?"
"Yes, sir; I might write," was the eager reply.
"Umph!" said Watkin; "better learn some bread-winning trade and put off writing until later."
After this Hearn was installed as errand boy and helper. He was not goodly to look upon. His body was unusually puny27 and under-sized. The softness of his tread had something feline28 and feminine in it. His head, covered with long black hair, was full and intellectual, save for two defects, a weak chin and an eye of the variety known as "pearl,"—large and white and bulbous, so that it repelled29 people upon a first acquaintance.
Hearn felt deeply the effect his shyness, his puny body, and his unsightly eye had upon people, and this feeling served to make him even more diffident and more melancholy30 than he was by nature. However, as with many melancholy-natured souls, he had an element of fun in him, which came out afterwards upon his longer acquaintance with the first man who had given him a helping31 hand.
Hearn swept the floor of the printing shop and tried to learn the printer's craft, but failed, He slept in a little room back of the shop and ate his meals in the place with Mr. Watkin. He availed himself of his benefactor's library, and read Poe and volumes on free thought, delighted to find a kindred spirit in the older man. Together they often crossed the Ohio River into Kentucky to hear lectures on spiritualism and laugh about them. Their companionship was not broken when Mr. Watkin secured for the boy a position with a Captain Barney, who edited and published a commercial, paper, for which Hearn solicited32 advertisements and to which he began also to contribute articles. One of these—a singular composition for such a paper—was a proposal to cross the Atlantic in a balloon anchored to a floating buoy33. It was later in the year that he secured a position as a reporter on the Enquirer34, through some "feature" articles he shyly deposited upon the editor's desk, making his escape before the great man had caught him in the act. It was not long before the latent talent in the youth began to make itself manifest. He was not a rapid writer. On the contrary, he was exceedingly slow, but his product was written in English that no reporter then working in Cincinnati approached. His fellow reporters soon became jealous of him. They were, moreover, repelled by his personal appearance and chilled by his steady refusal to see the fun of getting drunk. Finding lack of congeniality among the young men of his own age and occupation, among whom he was to work for seven more years, his friendship with Mr. Watkin became all the stronger, so that he came to look upon the latter as the one person in Cincinnati upon whom he could count for unselfish companionship and sincere advice. Hearn's Cincinnati experiences ended with his service on the Enquirer. Before that he had been proofreader to a publishing house and secretary to Cincinnati's public librarian. He was also for a time on the staff of the Commercial. It was while on the Enquirer that he accomplished35 several journalistic feats36 that are still referred to in gatherings37 of oldtime newspaper men of Cincinnati. One was a grisly description of the charred38 body of a murdered man, the screed39 being evidently inspired by recollections of Poe. The other was an article describing Cincinnati as seen from the top of a high church steeple, the joke of it being that Hearn, by reason of his defective40 vision, could see nothing even after he had made his perilous41 climb. It was in the last days of his stay in Cincinnati that he, with H. F. Farny, the painter, issued a short-lived weekly known as Giglampz. Farny, not yet famous as an Indian painter, contributed the drawings, and Hearn the bulk of the letter press for the journal, which modestly announced that it was going to eclipse Punch and all the other famous comic weeklies. Hearn, always sensitive, practically withdrew from the magazine when Farny took the very excusable liberty of changing the title of one of the essays of the former. Farny thought the title offensive to people of good taste, and said so. Hearn apparently43 acquiesced44, but brooded over the "slight," and never again contributed to the weekly. Shortly afterwards it died. It is doubtful whether there are any copies in existence. Many Cincinnati collectors have made rounds of the second-hand45 book-shops in a vain search for stray numbers.
Early in their acquaintance Watkin and Hearn called each other by endearing names which were adhered to throughout the long years of their correspondence. Mr. Watkin, with his leonine head, was familiarly addressed as "Old Man" or "Dad;" while the boy, by virtue46 of his dark hair and coloring, the gloomy cast of his thoughts, and his deep love for Poe, was known as "The Raven47," a name which caught his fancy. Indeed, a simple little drawing of the bird stood for many years in place of a signature to anything he chanced to write to Mr. Watkin. In spite of their varying lines of work, the two were often together. When "The Raven" was prowling the city for news, he was often accompanied by his "Dad." Not infrequently, when the younger man had no especial task, he would come to Mr. Watkin's office and read some books there. One of these, whose title and author Mr. Watkin has forgotten, fascinated at the same time that it repelled Hearn by its grim and ghastly stories of battle, murder, and sudden death. One night Mr. Watkin left him reading in the office. When he opened the place the next morning he found this note from Hearn:
"10 P.M. These stories are positively48 so horrible that even a materialist feels rather unpleasantly situated50 when left alone with the thoughts conjured51 up by this dreamer of fantastic dreams. The brain-chambers52 of fancy become thronged53 with goblins. I think I shall go home."
For signature there was appended a very black and a very thoughtful-looking raven.
It was also in these days that Hearn indulged in his little pleasantries with Mr. Watkin. Hardly a day passed without a visit to the printing office. When he did not find his friend, he usually left a card for him, on which was some little drawing, Hearn having quite a talent in this direction,-a talent that he never afterward15 developed. Of course some of the cards were just as nonsensical as the nonsense verses friends often write to each other. They are merely quoted to show Hearn's fund of animal spirits at the time.
A pencil sketch55 by Hearn left at Mr. Watkin's shop at the beginning of their friendship.
Mr. Watkin one day left a card for possible customers: "Gone to supper. H. W." Hearn passed by and wrote on the opposite side of the card: "Gone to get my sable42 plumage plucked." The inevitable56 raven followed as signature. It was Hearn's way of saying he had come to see Mr. Watkin and had then gone to a barber shop to have his hair cut. Once he omitted the raven and signed his note, "Kaw."
Facsimile of one of the cards Hearn left at Mr. Watkin's shop.
On another occasion when Mr. Watkin came to the office he found a note informing him that he was "a flabbergasted ichthyosaurus and an antediluvian57 alligator58" for not being on hand.
The influence of Poe was strong upon him even in this nonsense. Hearn waited for his friend one night until a late hour. The shop was quite lonely, as it was the only open one in a big building on a more or less deserted59 street. The quiet became oppressive, and the little man left because "these chambers are cursed with the Curse of Silence. And the night, which is the Shadow of God, waneth."
Mr. Watkin had a dog. Hearn did not like the animal, and it seemed to reciprocate60 the feeling. One of Hearn's notes was largely devoted61 to the little beast. When he so chose Hearn could make a fairly good drawing. This particular note was adorned62 with rude pictures of an animal supposed to be a dog. The teeth were made the most prominent feature. The pictures were purposely made in a childish style, and used for the word "dog."
"Dear Nasty Cross Old Man!
"I tried to find you last night.
"You were not in apparently.
"I shook the door long and violently, and listened.
"I did not hear the [dog] bark.
"Perhaps you were not aware that the night you got so infernally mad I slipped a cooked beefsteak strongly seasoned with Strychnine under the door.
"I was glad that the [dog] did not bark.
"I suspect the [dog] will not bark Any More!
"I think the [dog] must have gone to that Bourne from which No Traveller Returneth.
"I hope the [dog] is Dead."
The note is signed with the usual drawing of a raven. On still another occasion he wrote the following farrago:
"I came to see you—to thank you—to remonstrate63 with you—to demonstrate matters syllogistically64 and phlebotomically. Gone!!! Then I departed, wandering among the tombs of Memory, where the Ghouls of the Present gnaw65 the black bones of the Past. Then I returned and crept to the door and listened to see if I could hear the beating of your hideous66 heart."
These little notes are not presented here for any intrinsic merit; they are given simply to show how different was the real Hearn from the shy, silent, uncommunicative, grave, little reporter.
His notes were but precursors67 to the letters in which he was most truly to reveal himself. Unlike the epistles of great writers that so frequently find their way into print, Hearn's letters were not written with an eye to publication. They were written solely68 for the interest of their recipient69. They were in the highest form of the true letter,—written talks with the favorite friend, couched usually in the best language the writer knew how to employ. They tell their own story,—the only story of Hearn's life,—a story often of hopeless search for bread-winning work; of bitter glooms and hysterical70 pleasures; of deep enjoyment71 of Louisiana autumns and West Indian and Japanese scenes; of savage72 hatred73 of Cincinnati and New Orleans, the two American cities in which he had worked as a newspaper man and in which he had been made to realize that he had many enemies and but few friends. Everything is told in these letters to Mr. Watkin, to whom he poured out his thoughts and feelings without reserve. Hearn's first step towards bettering himself followed when he became weary of the drudgery74 of work on the Cincinnati papers, and decided75, after much discussion with Mr. Watkin, to resign his position and go South, the Crescent City being his objective point.
It was in October, 1877, that Hearn set out from Cincinnati on his way to New Orleans, going by rail to Memphis, whence he took the steamboat Thompson Dean down the Mississippi River to his destination. While in Memphis, impatiently waiting for his steamer to arrive, and afterwards in New Orleans, Hearn kept himself in touch with his friend in Cincinnati by means of a series of messages hastily scribbled76 on postal77 cards. Many of these reflected the animal spirits of the young man of twenty-seven, who had still preserved a goodly quantity of his boyishness, though he felt, as he said, as old as the moon. But not all of the little messages were gay. The tendency to despondency and morbidity79, which had partially80 led Mr. Watkin to dub81 Hearn "The Raven," now showed itself. The first of these cards, which Mr. Watkin has preserved, was sent from Memphis on October 28, 1877. It bears two drawings of a raven. In one the eyes are very thoughtful. The raven is scratching its head with its claws, and below is the legend, "In a dilemma82 at Memphis." The other raven is merely labelled, "Remorseful83." The next was sent on October 29. Hearn had begun to worry. He wrote:
"Dear O. M. [Old Man]: Did not stop at Louisville. Could n't find out anything about train. Am stuck at Memphis for a week waiting for a boat. Getting d—d poor. New Orleans far off. Five hundred miles to Vicksburg. Board two dollars per day. Trouble and confusion. Flabbergasted. Mixed up. Knocked into a cocked hat."
The raven, used as the signature, wears a troubled countenance84. On the same day, perhaps in the evening, Hearn sent still another card:
"Dear O. M.: Have succeeded with enormous difficulty in securing accommodations at one dollar per diem, including a bed in a haunted room. Very blue. Here is the mosquito of these parts, natural size. [Hearn gives a vivid pencil drawing of one, two thirds of an inch long.] I spend my nights in making war upon him and my days in watching the murmuring current of the Mississippi and the most wonderful sunsets on the Arkansaw side that I ever saw. Don't think I should like to swim the Mississippi at this point. Perhaps the Dean may be here on Wednesday. I don't like Memphis at all, but cannot express my opinion in a postal card. They have a pretty fountain here—much better than that old brass85 candlestick in Cincinnati."
The next postal card was mailed on October 30, and contains one of the cleverest drawings of the series. Hearn says: "It has been raining all day, and I have had nothing to do but look at it. Half wish was back in Cincinnati."
Then follows a rude sketch of part of the Ohio River and its confluence86 with the Mississippi. A huddle87 of buildings represents Cincinnati. Another huddle represents Memphis. There stands the raven, his eyes bulging88 out of his head, looking at some object in the distance. The object is a huge snail89 which is leaving New Orleans and is labelled the Thompson Dean.
One of the finest of all the letters he wrote to Mr. Watkin was from Memphis. It is dated October 31, 1877. In this he made a prediction which afterwards came literally90 true. He seemed to foresee that, while in his loneliness he would write often to Mr. Watkin, once he became engrossed91 in his work and saw new sights and new faces, his letters would be written at greater intervals92.
"Dear Old Dad: I am writing in a great big, dreary94 room of this great, dreary house. It overlooks the Mississippi. I hear the puffing95 and the panting of the cotton boats and the deep calls of the river traffic; but I neither hear nor see the Thompson Dean. She will not be here this week, I am afraid, as she only left New Orleans to-day.
Facsimile of a postal card sent from Memphis
"My room is carpetless and much larger than your office. Old blocked-up stairways come up here and there through the floor or down through the ceiling, and they suddenly disappear. There is a great red daub on one wall as though made by a bloody96 hand when somebody was staggering down the stairway. There are only a few panes7 of glass in the windows. I am the first tenant97 of the room for fifteen years. Spiders are busy spinning their dusty tapestries98 in every corner, and between the bannisters of the old stairways. The planks99 of the floor are sprung, and when I walk along the room at night it sounds as though Something or Somebody was following me in the dark. And then being in the third story makes it much more ghostly.
"I had hard work to get a washstand and towel put in this great, dreary room; for the landlord had not washed his face for more than a quarter of a century, and regarded washing as an expensive luxury. At last I succeeded with the assistance of the barkeeper, who has taken a liking100 to me.
"Perhaps you have seen by the paper that General N. B. Forrest died here night before last. To-day they are burying him. I see troops of men in grey uniforms parading the streets, and the business of the city is suspended in honor of the dead. And they are firing weary, dreary minute guns.
"I am terribly tired of this dirty, dusty, ugly town,—-a city only forty years old, but looking old as the ragged101, fissured102 bluffs103 on which it stands. It is full of great houses, which were once grand, but are now as waste and dreary within and without as the huge building in which I am lodging104 for the sum of twenty-five cents a night. I am obliged to leave my things in the barkeeper's care at night for fear of their being stolen; and he thinks me a little reckless because I sleep with my money under my pillow. You see the doors of my room—there are three of them—lock badly.... They are ringing those dead bells every moment,—it is a very unpleasant sound. I suppose you will not laugh if I tell you that I have been crying a good deal of nights,—just like I used to do when a college boy returned from vacation. It is a lonely feeling, this of finding oneself alone in a strange city, where you never meet a face that you know; and when all the faces you did know seem to have been dead faces, disappeared for an indefinite time. I have not travelled enough the last eight years, I suppose: it does not do to become attached insensibly to places and persons.... I suppose you have had some postal cards from me; and you are beginning to think I am writing quite often. I suppose I am, and you know the reason why; and perhaps you are thinking to yourself: 'He feels a little blue now, and is accordingly very affectionate, &c.; but by and by he will be quite forgetful, and perhaps will not write so often as at present.'
"Well, I suppose you are right. I live in and by extremes and am on an extreme now. I write extremely often, because I feel alone and extremely alone. By and by, if I get well, I shall write only by weeks; and with time perhaps only by months; and when at last comes the rush of business and busy newspaper work, only by years,—until the times and places of old friendship are forgotten, and old faces have become dim as dreams, and these little spider-threads of attachments105 will finally yield to the long strain of a thousand miles."
A postal card of November 3 says: "Will leave Memphis Tuesday next, Perhaps. Am beginning to doubt the existence of the Thompson Dean." November 13, 1877, finds Hearn overjoyed to be in New Orleans. The postal card bears in the left-hand corner a drawing of a door labelled "228." In a window at the side of the door sits the raven. On the other side is the legend:
Raven liveth at
228 Baronne St.
New Orleans
Care Mrs. Bustellos
Then comes another raven, with the doggerel107:
Indite108 him an epistle.
Don't give him particular H—.
And finally the remarks:
Pretty Louisiana! Nice Louisiana!
Hearn began to send letters to one of the Cincinnati papers, but was soon in a terrible plight109, as his postal card of December 9 demonstrates:
"I am in a very desperate fix here,—having no credit. If you can help me a little within the next few days, please try. I fear I must ask you to ask Davie to sell all my books except the French ones. The need of money has placed me in so humiliating a position that I cannot play the part of correspondent any longer. The Commercial has not sent me anything, and I cannot even get stamps. I landed in New Orleans with a fraction over twenty dollars, which I paid out in advance."
Facsimile of a postal card
Mr. Watkin was unable to make the reply he desired, and was even prevented by other matters from answering in any way until weeks later. It was this silence which caused Hearn to mail a postal card, on January 13, 1878, which contained one of his cleverest drawings. In the background is shown the sky with a crescent moon. In the foreground, upright from a grass-grown, grave, stands a tombstone, bearing the inscription110:
H. W.
DIED
NOV. 29
1877
Perched on top of the stone is a particularly ragged and particularly black raven. It was the last gleam of fun that was to come from him for some time. He was to experience some of the bitterest moments of his life, moments which explained his hatred of New Orleans, as the slanders111 of the newspapermen of Cincinnati embittered112 him against that city.
The following seems to be the first, or one of the first, letters written by him after his arrival in New Orleans. As usual, it is undated:
"Dear Old Friend: I cannot say how glad I was to hear from you. I did not—unfortunately—get your letter at Memphis; it would have cheered me up. I am slowly, very slowly, getting better.
Drawing on a postal card sent to Watkin to remind him he had not written
"The wealth of a world is here,—unworked gold in the ore, one might say; the paradise of the South is here, deserted and half in ruins. I never beheld113 anything so beautiful and so sad. When I saw it first—sunrise over Louisiana—the tears sprang to my eyes. It was like young death,—a dead bride crowned with orange flowers,—a dead face that asked for a kiss. I cannot say how fair and rich and beautiful this dead South is. It has fascinated me. I have resolved to live in it; I could not leave it for that chill and damp Northern life again. Yes; I think you could make it pay to come here. One can do much here with very little capital. The great thing is, of course, the sugar-cane business. Everybody who goes into it almost does well. Some make half a million a year at it. The capital required to build a sugar mill, &c., is of course enormous; but men often begin with a few acres and become well-to-do in a few years. Louisiana thirsts for emigrants114 as a dry land for water. I was thinking of writing to tell you that I think you could do something in the way of the fruit business to make it worth your while to comedown,—oranges, bananas, and tropical plants sell here at fabulously115 low prices. Bananas are of course perishable116 freight when ripe; but oranges are not, and I hear they sell at fifty cents a hundred, and even less than that a short distance from the city. So there are many other things here one could speculate in. I think with one partner North and one South, a firm could make money in the fruit business here. But there, you know I don't know anything about business. What's the good of asking ME about business?
"If you come here, you can live for almost nothing. Food is ridiculously cheap,—that is, cheap food. Then there are first-class restaurants here, where the charge is three dollars for dinner. But board and lodging is very cheap....
Facsimile of envelope addressed to Mr. Watkin by Hearn
"I have written twice to the Commercial, but have only seen one of my letters,—the Forrest letter. I have a copy. I fear the other letters will not be published. Too enthusiastic, you know. But I could not write coolly about beautiful Louisiana....
"Oh, you must come to New Orleans sometime,—no nasty chill, no coughs and cold. The healthiest climate in the world. Eternal summer.
"It is damp at nights however, and fires are lit of evenings to dry the rooms. You know the land is marshy118. Even the dead are unburied,—they are only vaulted119 up. The cemeteries120 are vaults121, not graveyards122. Only the Jews bury their dead; and their dead are buried in water. It is water three—yes, two—feet underground.
"I like the people, especially the French; but of course I might yet have reason to change my opinion....
"Would you be surprised to hear that I have been visiting my UNCLE? Would you be astonished to learn that I was on the verge123 of poverty? No. Then, forsooth, I will be discreet124. One can live here for twenty cents a day—what's the odds125? ...
"Yours truly,
"The Prodigal126 Son"
On the reverse side of an application for a money order, Hearn wrote to Watkin in 1878, some considerable time after his arrival in New Orleans:
"I see the Cincinnati Commercial once in a while, and do not find any difference in it. My departure affecteth its columns not at all. In sooth a man on a daily newspaper is as a grain of mustard seed. Hope I may do better in New Orleans. It is time for a fellow to get out of Cincinnati when they begin to call it the Paris of America. But there are some worse places than Cincinnati. There is Memphis, for example."
At one period, early during his stay in New Orleans, when Hearn began to look back upon what he had accomplished, or rather had failed to accomplish, in his life, he sank into the depths of despair. As was his wont127, he wrote from his heart to his sole friend, depending upon him not only for cheer, but for advice. Mr. Watkin refused to take this long letter seriously, teased him about it rather, and advised him not to go to England, but to remain here in this country and persist in one line of work. The Hearn letter, which follows, belongs to the month of February, 1878:
"Dear Old Man: I shall be twenty-eight years old in a few days,—a very few days more; and I am frightened to think how few they are. I am afraid to look at the almanac to find out what day The Day falls upon,—it might fall upon a Friday,—and I can't shake off a superstition128 about it,—a superstition always outlives a religion. Looking back at the file of these twenty-eight years, which grow more shadowy in receding129, I can remember and distinguish the features of at least twenty. There is an alarming similarity of misery130 in all their faces; and however misty131 the face, the outlines of misery are remarkably132 perceptible. Each, too, seems to be a record of similar events,—thwarting of will and desire in every natural way, ill success in every aim, denial of almost every special wish, compulsion to ad upon the principle that everything agreeable was wrong and everything disagreeable right, unpleasant recognition of selfweakness and inability to win success by individual force,—not to mention enormous addenda133 in the line of novel and wholly unexpected disappointments. Somehow or other, whenever I succeeded in an undertaking134, the fruit acquired seemed tasteless and vapid135; but usually, when one step more would have been victory, some extraordinary and unanticipated obstacle rose up in impassability. I must acknowledge, however, that, as a general rule, the unexpected obstacle was usually erected by myself;—some loss of temper, impatience136, extra-sensitiveness, betrayed and indulged instead of concealed137, might be credited with a large majority of failures.
"Without a renovation138 of individuality, however, I really can see no prospect139, beyond the twenty-eighth year, of better years—the years seem to grow worse in regular succession. As to the renovation,—it is hardly possible: don't you think so? Sometimes I think small people without great wills and great energies have no business trying to do much in this wonderful country; the successful men all appear to have gigantic shoulders and preponderant deportments. When I look into the private histories of the young men who achieved success in the special line I have been vainly endeavoring to follow to some termination, I find they generally hanged themselves or starved to death, while their publishers made enormous fortunes and world-wide reputations after their unfortunate and idealistic customers were dead. There were a few exceptions, but these exceptions were cases of extraordinary personal vigor140 and vital force. So while my whole nature urges me to continue as I have begun, I see nothing in prospect: except starvation, sickness, artificial wants, which I shall never be wealthy enough to even partially gratify, and perhaps utter despair at the end. Then again, while I have not yet lost all confidence in myself, I feel strongly doubtful whether I shall ever have means or leisure to develop the latent (possible) ability within me to do something decently meritorious141. Perhaps, had I not been constrained142 to ambition by necessity, I should never have had any such yearnings about the unattainable and iridescent143 bubbles of literary success. But that has nothing to do with the question. Such is the proposition now: how can I get out of hell when I have got halfway144 down to the bottom of it? Can I carry on any kind of business? I can fancy that I see you throw back your head and wag your beard with a hearty145 laugh at the mere54 idea, the preposterous146 idea!
"Can I keep any single situation for any great length of time? You know I can't,—couldn't stand it; hate the mere idea of it,—something horribly disagreeable would be sure to happen. Then again, I can't even stay in one place for any healthy period of time. I can't stay anywhere without getting in trouble. And my heart always feels like a bird, fluttering impatiently for the migrating season. I think I could be quite happy if I were a swallow and could have a summer nest in the ear of an Egyptian colossus or a broken capital of the Parthenon.
"I know just exactly what I should like to do,—to wander forever here and there until I got very old and apish and grey, and died,—just to wander where I pleased and keep myself to myself, and never bother anybody. But that I can't do. Then what in the name of the Nine Incarnations of Vishnu, can I do? Please try to tell me.
"Shall I, in spite of myopia, seek for a passage on some tropical vessel147, and sail hither and thither148 on the main, like the ghost of Gawain on a wandering wind, till I have learned all the ropes and spars by heart, and know by sight the various rigging of all the navies of the world?
"Shall I try to go back to England at once, instead of waiting to be a millionaire? (This is a seaport149, remember: that is why I dread150 to leave it for further inland towns. I feel as if I could almost catch a distant glimpse of the mighty151 dome152 of St. Paul's from the levee of New Orleans.)
"Shall I begin to eat opium153, and enjoy in fancy all that reality refuses, and may forever refuse me?
"Shall I go to Texas and start a cheap bean-house—(hideous occupation!) with my pact154, who wants me to go there?
"Shall I cease to worry over fate and facts, and go right to hell on a 2.40, till I get tired even of hell and blow my highly sensitive and exquisitely156 delicate brains out?
"Shall I try to get acquainted with Yellow Jack157 and the Charity Hospital,—or try to get to St. Louis on the next boat? Honestly, I'd like to know. I'm so tired,—so awfully158, fearfully, disgustingly tired of wasting my life without being able to help it. Don't tell me I could have helped it,—I know better. No man could have helped doing anything already done. I hate the gilded159 slavery of newspaper work,—the starvation of Bohemianism,—the bore of waiting for a chance to become an insurance agent or a magazine writer,—and oh, venerable friend, I hate a thousand times worst of all to work for somebody else. I hoped to become independent when I came down here,—to work for myself; and I have made a most damnable failure of it. In addition to the rest, my horrid160 eye is bad yet. I had lost nearly half the field of vision from congestion161 of the retina when I wrote you the rather frantic162 epistles which you would not answer. Now I see only in patches, but am getting along better and hope to be quite well in time,—certainly much better. You see I can write a pretty long letter to while away Sunday idleness."
Hearn had reached New Orleans at the time the yellow fever was raging there, and in April, 1878, he wrote reassuring163 his old friend that his health was not endangered:
"Dear Old Man: Yellow Jack has not caught me; and since I was laid up with the dengue or break-bone fever, I believe I am acclimated164.... They sprinkle the streets here with watering-carts filled with carbolic acid, pour lime in the gutters165, and make all the preparations against fever possible, except the only sensible one of cleaning the stinking166 gutters and stopping up the pest-holes. Politicians make devilish bad health officers. When I tell you that all of our gutters are haunted by eels49 whose bite is certain death, you can imagine how vile167 they are.... Nobody works here in summer. The population would starve to death anywhere else. Neither does anybody think of working in the sun if they can help it. That is why we have no sunstroke. The horses usually wear hats."
After a seven months' hunt for work Hearn saw some of the hardest times of his life in New Orleans. The situation, as he described in his letter to Mr. Watkin, could not have been worse than when, as a waif, he wandered the streets of London. It was postmarked June 14, 1878.
"Dear Old Man: Wish you would tell me something wise and serviceable. I'm completely and hopelessly busted168 up and flattened169 out, but I don't write this because I have any desire to ask you for pecuniary170 assistance,—have asked for that elsewhere. Have been here seven months and never made one cent in the city. No possible prospect of doing anything in this town now or within twenty-five years. Books and clothes all gone, shirt sticking through seat of my pants,—literary work rejected East,—get a five-cent meal once in two days,—don't know one night where I'm going to sleep next,—and am d—d sick with climate into the bargain. Yellow fever supposed to be in the city. Newspapers expected to bust106 up. Twenty dollars per month is a good living here; but it's simply impossible to make even ten. Have been cheated and swindled considerably171; and have cheated and swindled others in retaliation172. We are about even. D—n New Orleans!—wish I'd never seen it. I am thinking of going to Texas. How do you like the idea?—to Dallas or Waco. Eyes about played out, I guess. Have a sort of idea that I can be wonderfully economical if I get any more good luck. Can save fifteen out of twenty dollars a month—under new conditions (?). Have no regular place of residence now. Can't you drop a line to P. O. next week, letting shining drops of wisdom drip from the end of your pen?"
It was right after this in the same month, when his fortunes were at the lowest ebb173, that things took a turn for the better, as is indicated by the following, in which in jest he proposes to engage in a "get-rich-quick" scheme:
"Dear Old Man: Somehow or other, when a man gets right down in the dirt, he jumps up again. The day after I wrote you, I got a position (without asking for it) as assistant editor on the Item, at a salary considerably smaller than that I received on the Commercial (of Cincinnati), but large enough to enable me to save half of it. Therefore I hasten to return Will's generous favor with the most sincere thanks and kindest wishes. You would scarcely know me now, for my face is thinner than a knife and my skin very dark. The Southern sun has turned me into a mulatto. I have ceased to wear spectacles, and my hair is wild and ghastly. I am seriously thinking of going into a fraud, which will pay like hell,—an advertising174 fraud: buying land by the pound and selling it in boxes at one dollar per box. I have a party here now who wants to furnish bulk of capital and go shares. He is an old hand at the dodge175. It would be carried along under false names, of course; and there is really no money in honest work.... I think I shall see you in the fall or spring; and when I come again to Cincinnati, it will be, my dear old man, as you would wish, with money in my pocket. It did me much good to hear from you; for I fancied my postal card asking for help might have offended you; and I feared you had resolved that I was a fraud. Well, I am something of a fraud, but not to everybody I don't like the people here at all, and would not live here continually. But it is convenient now, for I could not live cheaper elsewhere."
Again undated, but belonging to his early New Orleans period, is the letter in which, after discussing some business venture he had in mind, he says:
"There is a strong feeling down here that the South will soon be the safest place to live in. The labor177 troubles North promise to be something terrible. I assure you that few well-posted newspaper men here would care to exchange localities until after these labor troubles have assumed some definite shape. There is no labor element here that is dangerous.
"There are some businesses which would pay here: a cheap restaurant, a cheap swimming bath, or a cheap laundry. Money just now could be coined at any of these things. Everything else here is dead. I met a highly educated Jew here not long ago, who had lived and made money in New Zealand, Martinique, British Columbia, Panama, Sandwich Islands, Buenos Ayres, and San Francisco. 'I have been,' he said, 'almost every place where money can be made, and I know almost every dodge known to Hebrews in the money-making way. But I do not see a single chance to make anything in this town.' He left for the North. He was from London.
"I should like to see you down here, if it were not for malaria178. You would not escape the regular marsh117 fever; but that is not dangerous when the symptoms are recognized and promptly179 treated. When I had it I did not know what it was. I took instinctively180 a large dose of castor oil. Sometime after I met the druggist, a good old German, who sold it me. 'I never expected to see you again,' he said; 'you had a very bad case of fever when I saw you.'
"But everybody gets that here. You live so abstemiously181 and thirst so little after the flesh-pots that I think you would not have much to fear. I go swimming a good deal; but I find the water horribly warm. The lake seems to be situated directly over the great furnace of Hell....
"I'll be doubly d—d if I have the vaguest idea what I shall do. I have a delightfully182 lazy life here; and I assure you I never intend to work fourteen hours a day again. But whether to leave here I don't know. I'm only making about ten dollars a week, but that is better than making twenty-five dollars and being a slave to a newspaper. I write what I please, go when I please, and quit work when I please. I have really only three hours a day office duty,—mostly consumed in waiting for proofs. If I stay here, I can make more soon. But I don't really care a damn whether I make much money or not. If I have to make money by working hard for it, I shall certainly remain poor. I have done the last hard work I shall ever do.
"On the success of some literary work, however, I have a vague idea of receiving enough ready money to invest in some promising184 little specs, here,—of the nature I have already hinted at. If they pay, they will pay admirably. If I lose the money, I shan't die of starvation....
"I shall certainly not leave here before seeing Cuba. It would be a mortal sin to be so near the Antilles and yet never have sailed that sapphire185 sea yclept the Spanish Main.
"I never felt so funny in my whole life. I have no ambition, no loves, no anxieties,—sometimes a vague unrest without a motive186, sometimes a feeling as if my heart was winged and trying to soar away, sometimes a vague longing176 for pleasurable wanderings, sometimes a halfcrazy passion for a great night with wine and women and music. But these are much like flitting dreams, and amount to little. They are ephemeral. The wandering passion is strongest of all; and I feel no inclination187 to avail myself of the only anchor which keeps the ship of a man's life in port.
"Then again,—I have curiously188 regained189 memories of long ago, which I thought utterly190 forgotten. Leisure lends memory a sharp definition. Life here is so lazy,—nights are so liquid with tropic moonlight,—days are so splendid with green and gold,—summer is so languid with perfume and warmth,—that I hardly know whether I am dreaming or awake. It is all a dream here, I suppose, and will seem a dream even after the sharp awakening191 of another voyage, the immortal192 gods only know where. Ah! Gods! beautiful Gods of antiquity193! One can only feel you, and know you, and believe in you, after living in this sweet, golden air. What is the good of dreaming about earthly women, when one is in love with marble, and ivory, and the bronzes of two thousand years ago? Let me be the last of the idol-worshippers, O golden Venus, and sacrifice to thee the twin doves thou lovest,—the birds of Paphos,—the Cythendae!"
Hearn had had his troubles with New Orleans and Cincinnati newspaper men, some of whom pirated his translations, while others printed slanderous194 stories concerning his manner of living,—slanders which Mr. Watkin combated in a personal letter to the editor of the Commercial some years after, when his attackers again became busy. On July 10, 1878, Hearn wrote:
"My Dear Old Man: Was delighted to hear from you. I am very glad the thing is as much of a mystery to you as it is to me. I can only surmise195 that it must have been a piece of spite work on the part of a certain gentleman connected with the N. O. Times, who printed some of my work before, and got a raking for it. My position here is a peculiar196 one, and not as stable as I should like, so that if it were made to appear that I had re-utilized stuff from the Item, I would certainly get into trouble. I have been very ill for a week, break-bone fever. I do not expect to return North 'broke.' 'Cahlves is too scace in dis country to be killed for a prodigal son.' I wish you were near that I might whisper projects of colossal197 magnitude in your ear. I am working like hell to make a good raise for Europe. Will write more soon. Editor away to-day and the whole paper on my hands.
"Monday. Delayed posting letter. I find this climate terribly enervating198. No one could have led a more monastic life than I have done here; yet I find I cannot even think energetically. The mind seems to lose all power of activity. I have been collecting materials for magazine articles, and I can't write them out. I have only been able to do mechanical work,—translating, &c., and one Romanesque essay, which was successively rejected by three magazines. Wish I was on a polar expedition.
"I have been an awfully good boy down here, and have no news to tell you of amours or curious experiences."
Hearn once more tells of his trouble with a Cincinnati paper, alleging199 the owners failed to pay him for his New Orleans correspondence, and how finally he was "happily discharged."
Then he resumes: "By the way, I wrote a poem for the decoration of the soldiers' graves at Chalmette National Cemetery200, on the 30th inst. I think it was. The poem was read by Col. Wright of this city at the decoration and published in the Democrat201. It was the first bit of rhyme I wrote, and so you must excuse it. But it is not as good as—
"The love of Hearn and Watkin,
What is its kin25?—
It is two toads202 encysted
Within one stone,
Two vipers203 twisted
Into one.
"Here is the poem:
"Fairflowers pass away:
In perfumed ruin falls the lily's urn24;
In pallid204 pink decay
Moulders205 the rose;—all in their time return
To the primeval clay.
"Yet still their tiny ghosts
Hover206 about our homes on viewless wings;
In incense207-breathing hosts
They love to haunt those stores of trifling208 things
Of which affection boasts,—
"Some curl of glossy209 hair,—
Some loving letter penned by pretty fingers,—
Some volume old and rare,
On whose time-yellow fly-leaf fondly lingers
The name of a woman fair.
"So in that hour
When brave lives fail and brave hearts cease to beat,—
Each deed of power
Lives on to haunt our memories,—faintly sweet
Like the ghost of a flower.
"Each flower we strew210
In tribute to the brave to-day shall prove
A token true
Of some sweet memory of the dead we love,—
The Men in Blue.
"Perchance the story
Of Chalmette's heroes may be lost to fame,
As years wax hoary211;
But Valor's Angel keeps each gallant212 name
On his Roll of Glory."
August 14, 1878, Hearn wrote a letter to the man who had always cheered him and who now in turn needed cheering. Business in all lines in Cincinnati was bad, and Mr. Watkin was quite despondent213. He had written Hearn something of this, and also had hinted that he might move to Kansas or somewhere farther West. In return he received the following letter, expressive214 of all that was most fun-loving in its writer:
"My Dear Old Man: I think you had better come here next Oktober and rejoin your naughty raven. It would not do you any harm to reconnoitre. Think of the times we could have,—delightful183 rooms with five large windows opening on piazzas215 shaded by banana trees; dining at Chinese restaurants and being served by Manila waitresses, with oblique216 eyes and skin like gold; visiting sugar-cane plantations217; scudding218 over to Cuba; dying with the mere delight of laziness; laughing at cold and smiling at the news of snowstorms a thousand miles away; eating the cheapest food in the world,—and sinning the sweetest kind of sins. Now you know, good old Dad, nice old Dad,—you know that you are lazy and ought to be still lazier. Come here and be lazy. Let me be the siren voice enticing219 a Ulysses who does not stuff wax in his ears. Don't go to horrid, dreadful Kansas. Go to some outrageous220 ruinous land, where the moons are ten times larger than they are there. Or tell me to pull up stakes, and I shall take unto myself the wings of a bird and fly to any place but beastly Cincinnati.
"Money can be made here out of the poor. People are so poor here that nothing pays except that which appeals to poverty. But I think you could make things hop26 around lively. Now one can make thirty milk biscuits for five cents and eight cups of coffee for five cents. Just think of it! ...
"Cincinnati is bad; but it's going to be a d—d sight worse. You know that as well as I do. Leave the vile hole and the long catalogue of Horrid Acquaintances behind you, and come down here to your own little man,—good little man. Get you nice room, nice board, nice business. Perhaps we might strike ile in a glorious spec. Why don't you spec.? You'd better spec, pretty soon, or the times will get so bad that you will have to get up and dust. This is a seaport. There are tall ships here. They sail to Europe,—to London, Marseilles, Constantinople, Smyrna. They sail to the West Indies and those seaports221 where we are going to open a cigar store or something of that kind.
Oh, I have seven tall ships at sea,
And seven more at hand;
And five and twenty jolly, jolly seamen222
Shall be at your command.
May the Immortal Gods preserve you in immortal youth."
There now follow some letters whose dates it has been impossible to fix. The cancellation223 marks on the envelopes give the months, but not the years. However, there is internal evidence to show that they belong to the period between the last group and the group of 1882, so that they were written in the years 1879, 1880, and 1881, in all probability. The first is one of the most interesting letters in the whole set. The future great writer is displayed as the owner of a five-cent eating-house. The letter is replete224 with ridiculous little sketches225 of a bird, which he claimed was a raven. In fact:, in the following, wherever "raven" is used, the reader must understand that there is a drawing of one in the letter. It was written in February:
"My Dear O. M.: Your style of correspondence—four letters a year—leads me to suppose that the fate of the Raven is of little consequence. It was therefore with surprise that I heard of a letter concerning It being received at the Item office. The letter warranted the assumption that you had at least some curiosity, if nothing better, in regard to It. That curiosity should be gratified. The Raven keepeth a restaurant in the city of New Orleans. It is secretly in business for itself. It is also in the newspaper business. The reason It has gone into business for itself is that It is tired of working for other people. The reason that It is still in the newspaper line is that the business is not yet paying, and needs some financial support. The business is the cheapest in N. O. All dishes are five cents. Knocks the market price out of things. The business has already cost about one hundred dollars to set up. May pay well; may not. The Raven has a partner,—a large and ferocious226 man, who kills people that disagree with their coffee. The Raven expects to settle in Cuba before long. Is going there to reconnoitre in a few months,—if Fortune smileth. It has mastered the elements of Spanish language, and has a Spanish tutor who comes every day to teach It. It has been studying Spanish assiduously for six mos.; and trusts to be able to establish a meson de los estrangeros, or stranger's restaurant, in Havana,—unless It is busted up pretty soon. It might be busted up. As yet It has remained poor. Economy is the cause thereof. It has seen little of wine and women in this city. Its notions are mean and stingy. It is constantly suspicious that Its partner may go back on It. It is of a suspicious character. It has debts on its mind, but prefers to look after its own interests at present,—until It can buy some clothes. It also proposes to establish another five-cent eating-house here in the French quarter, sooner or later, if this one pays. If the O. M. ever leaves Cincinnati, he may see the Raven. Otherwise he will not. If he comes to this part of the world, he can obtain board cheap at the five-cent restaurant. The Raven would not object: to see him again,—on the contrary, he is filled with Curiosity to see him. The Raven may succeed right off. He may not. But he is going to succeed sooner or later, even if he has to start an eating-house in Hell. He sends you his respects,—reserving his affection for a later time."
Hearn enclosed with the latter a yellow handbill advertising his restaurant. It was as follows:
"The 5 cent Restaurant
160 Dryades Street
This is the cheapest eating-house in the South. It is neat, orderly, and respectable as any other in New Orleans. You can get a good meal for a couple of nickels. All dishes 5 cents. A large cup of pure Coffee, with Rolls, only 5 cents.
Everything half the price of the markets."
In a letter postmarked June 27, he again refers to his knowledge of Spanish, and, what is more interesting, makes his first reference to Japan, the country where he was to achieve his best work: "Your little Raven talks Spanish. Has a fair acquaintance with the language. Just now rusty227 for want of practice. Soon pick it up again.... "Have also wild theories regarding Japan.
Splendid field in Japan Climate just like
England,—perhaps a little milder. Plenty of Europeans. English, American and French papers....
"Would not be surprised if you could make N. Orleans trip pay—now that I have seen your circulars. Only—remember C. O. D. Everybody here is a thief. Must be careful even in changing a quarter not to get counterfeits228 or false change. Horrid den8 of villains229, robbers, mutual230 admiration,—political quacks231, medical quacks, literary quacks,—adventurers, Spanish, Italian, Greek, English, Corsican, French, Venezuelan,—Parisian roués, Sicilian murderers, Irish ruffians.... Couldn't be half so bad in Japan."
The censure232 of New Orleans people must not be taken too seriously. He afterwards had some very dear friends there, who changed his opinions to a great extent. On November 24 came a letter liberally sprinkled with drawings of the raven and replete with his fun:
"Dear Old Man: The Raven has not found letter-writing a pleasant occupation lately. It has had some trouble; It has also been studying very hard; It has had Its literary work doubled, and It has had little leisure time, as Its grotesque233 and fantastic Eye is not yet in a healthy condition. It cannot write at night, not in these beautiful Southern Nights, which flame with stars,—the 'holy Night,' as the old Greek poet called it, which is 'all Eye, all Ear, all perfume to the student.'
"The Raven would like to see you, as It could tell you a great many queer things about Southern matters, which no paper has published or dare publish, and about the city and about the people. But It hardly hopes to see you; for after this summer It will not be here. It has latterly heard much of advantages held out to It in Mexico City, where the great exposition is soon to be held; and Its Spanish studies have been successful. It wants to find a temporary resting-place among Spanish people, and cannot stay here. It would be pleased to forget Its own language for a while, whether in Cuba or elsewhere.... The Raven cannot go North, as It cannot afford to. It will require all It can save to carry It through troubles which await It somewhere else,—for thou knowest full well that Woe234 is the normal condition of the Raven's existence. The Raven passeth Its time thusly: In the morning It a-riseth with the Sun and drinketh a cup of coffee and devoureth a piece of bread. Then It proceeded to the office and concocteth devilment for the Item, Then It returned to Its room, whose windows are shadowed by creeping plants and clouds of mosquitoes, and received Its Spanish tutor. Then It goeth to a Chinese restaurant, where It eateth an amazing dinner,—Its bump of ALIMENTATIVENESS being enormously developed. Then It spendeth two hours among the second-hand bookstores. It then goeth to bed,—to arise in the dead vast and middle of the night and smoke Its pipe. For a year It hath not smoked a cigar; and Its morals are exemplary. It sendeth you Its affectionate good-will and proceedeth forthwith to smoke Its pipe."
Again, without any clue as to its date and without any aid from the memory of Mr. Watkin, is a small photograph of the writer, with this characteristic note:
"Dear Old Dad: Would like to hear from you, to see you, to chat with you. Write me a line or two. As soon as I can find time, will write a nice, long, chatty letter,—all about everything you would like to hear. Am doing well. New Orleans is not, however, what I hoped it was. Are you well and happy? I have thoughts of cemeteries and graves, and a dear old Ghost with a white beard,—a Voice of the Past.
"I press your hand.
"Lafcadio Hearn"
Facsimile of part of a letter from hearn to Mr. Watkin
Facsimile of a characteristic note from Hearn to mr. Watkin written on the back of a photograph
In a letter dated July 7, 1882, Hearn tells of his first adventures in the book-writing line and of the horrified235 criticisms of some of the Eastern book-reviewers. All told, however, he becomes the more purposeful Hearn, the man Mr. Watkin had always predicted he would be if he continued at his literary work in his own way. It is interesting for another reason, too, in that it shows how already, in these New Orleans days, Hearn was preparing himself by his studies for his future life in Japan.
"My Dear Old Dad: Your letter lies before me here like a white tablet of stone bearing a dead name; and in my mind there is just such a silence as one feels standing236 before a tomb,—so that I can press your hand only and say nothing.
A fanciful pencil sketch by Hearn
"I must go North in a few months, by way of Cincinnati, and spend a week or so in the city. My intention is to see Worthington about a new publication. He is now in Europe. Here I make thirty dollars a week for about five hours' work a day, and the position appears tolerably solid; but the climate is enervating, the man who refuses to connect himself with church or clique237 lives alone like a hermit238 in the Thebaids, and one sickens of such a life at times. Sometimes I fancy that the older I grow, the more distasteful companionship becomes; but this may be owing to the situation here. Nevertheless I am feeling very old, old almost as the Tartar of Longfellow's poem,—'three hundred and sixty years.'
"Imagine the heavy, rancid air of a Southern swamp in midsummer, when the very clouds seem like those which belonged to the atmosphere of pregeologic periods, uncreated lead and iron,—never a breath of pure air,—dust that is powdered dung,—quaking ground that shakes with the passage of a wagon,—heat as of a perpetual vapor239 bath,—and at night, subtle damps that fill the bones with rheumatism240 and poison the blood. Then, when one thinks of green hills and brisk winds, comes a strange despondency. It is something like the outlying region through which Milton's Lucifer passed, half crawling, half flying, on his way to the Garden of Eden. Your little reprints provoked very pleasant old memories. I paid the Somebody one hundred and fifty dollars for the publication.[1] Have not yet heard from him. The understanding is that I get my money back and something besides. However, I shall be satisfied with the something. I have had many nice notices, letters from authors of some note, and a few criticisms of the true Pharisaic species. I enclose one for your amusement. I have also built up a fine library, about three hundred picked volumes, and have a little money saved. Have also some ambition to try the book business,—not here, but in San Francisco or somewhere else. However, I have no definite plans,—only a purpose to do something for myself and thus obtain leisure for a systematic241 literary purpose. Were you situated like me,—that is, having no large business or large interests,—I think I should try to coax242 you to seek the El Dorado of the future, where fortunes will certainly be made by practical men,—Mexico,—where no one ever lights a fire, and where one has only to go in the sun when he is too cold, into the shade when he is too warm. But for the present I will only ask you to come down here when the weather gets healthy and your business will allow it. You will stay with me, of course, and no expense. The trip would be agreeable in the season when the air is sweet with orange blossoms.
[1] Translation of Gautier's short stories.
"The population here is exceedingly queer,—something it is hard to describe, and something which it is possible to learn only after a painful experience of years. At present I may say that all my acquaintances here are limited to about half a dozen, with one or two friends whom I invite to see me occasionally. Yet almost daily I receive letters from people I do not know, asking favors which I never grant. New Orleans is the best school for the study of human selfishness I have ever been in. Buddhism teaches that the second birth is to this life 'as the echo to the voice in the cavern243, as the great footprints to the steps of the elephant.' According to the teaching of the Oriental Christ, this whole population will be born again as wild beasts,—which is consoling. ... You say you cannot write. I differ with you; but it would certainly be impossible for either of us to write many things we would like to say. Still, you can easily drop a line from time to time, even a postal card, just to let me know you are well. If I do not get up to see you by September, I hope to see you down. I dreamed one night that I heard the ticking of the queer clock,—like the longstrides of a man booted and spurred. You know the clock I mean,—the long, weird-faced clock. My eyes are not well, of course,—never will be; but they are better. More about myself I cannot tell you in a letter,—except that I suppose I have changed a little. Less despondent, but less hopeful; wiser a little and more silent; less nervous, but less merry; more systematic and perhaps a good deal more selfish. Not strictly244 economical, but coming to it steadily245; and in leisure hours studying the theories of the East, the poetry of antique India, the teachings of the wise concerning absorption and emanation, the illusions of existence, and happiness as the equivalent of annihilation. Think they were wiser than the wisest of Occidental ecclesiastics246.
"And still there is in life much sweetness and much pleasure in the accomplishment247 of a fixed248 purpose. Existence may be a delusion249 and desire a snare250, but I expect to exist long enough to satisfy my desire to see thee again before entering Nirvana. So, reaching to thee the grasp of friendship across the distance of a thousand miles, I remain in the hope of being always remembered sincerely as your friend."
On September 10, 1882, in reply to a letter from Mr. Watkin, in which the latter said he thought of going to Tampa for a rest and possibly also to look around and see what the business prospers251 were, Hearn filled five big sheets with all the information he could gather about Tampa, from facts about fleas252 to a glowing eulogy253 of the moon,—"seven times larger than your cold moon."
Following upon his translations of Gautier, Hearn busied himself with translations from Flaubert, and sent the manuscript of the proposed title-page and introduction to Mr. Watkin to set up, as he was superstitious254 about his "Dear Old Dad" bringing him luck. As usual he urged his friend to visit him, drawing in a letter of September 14, 1882, the following alluring255 pictures:
"In October we shall have exquisite155 weather—St. Martin's summer, the Creoles call it,—something like Indian summer North. Then I shall indeed hope to see you. No danger now of fever; and will have a nice healthy room for you. If you can't get away in October, wait till November,—nice and clear month generally, with orange-blossom smells. Raven wants to have a big talk. As for writing, don't write if it bothers you. I am sure you cannot have much time and must take care of your eyes. Perhaps some day we can both take things more easily, and a long rest by running streams, near mountain winds and in a climate like unto an eternal mountain springtime. Dream of voices of birds, whisper of leaves, milky256 quivering of stars, laughing of streams, odors of pine and of savage flowers, shadows of flying clouds, winds triumphantly257 free. Horrible cities! vile air! abominable258 noises! sickness! humdrum259 human machines! Let us strike our tents! move a little nearer to Nature!"
October 26, 1882, still writing about the promised visit of Mr. Watkin, he sent the following:
"My Dear Old Man: As the twig260 is bent261, &c.—neither you nor I can now correct ourselves of habits. We are both old. [Hearn was thirty-two and Mr. Watkin fifty-nine.] I, for my part, feel ancient as the moon, and regret the departure of my youth. But I observe that all my best friends have the same habit. There's Charley Johnson,—wrote me twice in five years. There's the old newspaper coteries262 never write me at all. There is myself, just as bad as anybody. When somebody asked Théophile Gautier to write, he answered, 'Oh, ask a carpenter to plane planks just for fun!' It is a fact. Life's too short.... I was afraid for a while that Yellow Jack was trying to climb up this way from Pensacola; but I think all danger is now over. The weather feels chilly263 to us,—alligator-blooded and web-footed dwellers264 of the swamp (the Dismal265 Swamp): it will feel warm to you....
"Yes; I think a river trip down would be nicer for you, as it would include rest, good living, and a certain magical illusion of Southern beauties which bewitched me into making my dwelling266-place among the frogs and bugs267 and the everlasting268 mosquitoes. 'Bugs' here mean every flying and crawling thing whereof the entomology is unknown to the people. The electric lights nightly murder centillions of them."
The letter is signed as usual with the drawing of a raven. As a novelty, the bird is looking at a steamer bearing over the side-wheel the name Watkin.
November 24, 1882, he wrote to Mr. Watkin, foreshadowing the book, "Stray Leaves from Strange Literatures," which was to bring him his first meed of praise from all sides. Again in this letter he somewhat despondently269 referred to his being a small man in a world where, according to his morbid78 views, big men won all the battles:
"I'm busy on a collection of Oriental legends,—Brahmanic, Buddhistic271, Talmudic, Arabic, Chinese, and Polynesian,—which I hope to have ready in the spring. I think I can get Scribner or Osgood to bring it out.
"I think myself that life is worth living under the conditions you speak of; but they are very hard to obtain. I would be glad to try a new climate,—a new climate is a new life, a new youth. Here the problem of existence forever stares one in the face with eyes of iron. Independence is so hard to obtain,—the churches, the societies, the organizations, the cliques272, the humbugs273 are all working against the man who tries to preserve independence of thought and action. Outside of these one cannot obtain a woman's society, and if obtained one is forever buried in the mediocrity to which she belongs.... My idea of perfect bliss274 would be ease and absolute quiet,—silence, dreams, tepidness,—great quaint22 rooms overlooking a street full of shadows and emptiness,—friends in the evening, a pipe, a little philosophy, wandering under the moon.... I am beginning to imagine that to be forever in the company of one woman would kill a man with ennui275. And I feel that I am getting old—immemorially old,—older than the moon. I ought never to have been born in this century, I think sometimes, because I live forever in dreams of other centuries and other faiths and other ethics,—dreams rudely broken by the sound of cursing in the street below, cursing in seven different languages. I can't tell you much else about myself. I live in my books, and the smoke of my pipe, and ideas that nobody has any right expelling a good time in this world unless he be gifted with great physical strength and force of will. These give success. Little phantoms276 of men are blown about like down in the storms of the human struggle: they have not enough weight to keep them in place. And the Talmud says: 'There are three whose life is no life: the Sympathetic man, the Irascible, and the Melancholy.' But alas277! the art by which the Sorceress of Colchis could recreate a body by cutting it up and boiling it in a pot is lost. Don't you think happiness is solely the result of perfect health under normal conditions of existence? I believe in the German philosopher who said that whether one had a billion dollars a day or only one dollar a week, it made no difference in regard to the amount of happiness a human brain was susceptible278 of. Still, it would be so nice to avoid the opposite by walling oneself up from the human species,—like the Cainites, whose cities were 'walled up to Heaven.'"
There now ensues in the correspondence, a silence extending over a period of nearly five years. These were busy years for Hearn. His position in the New Orleans newspaper world became a prominent one, and his translations of stories from the French, made for the papers by which he was employed, were so favorably received as to give him greater confidence in his own abilities.
Early in June of the year 1887 things began to take a turn for greater work for Hearn. His studies of the negroes and the Creoles of Louisiana had attracted the attention of the publishers, and he had received some rather tempting279 offers to do work for them. It was then that he left New Orleans, going to New York by way of Cincinnati. With all of his old shyness, his avoidance of mere acquaintances, and his love of the white-haired old gentleman, who alone in Cincinnati had understood him, Hearn spent his entire day in Cincinnati in chat at Watkin's printing office, which was then situated at 26 Longworth Street. It was there that Hearn saw once more the tall clock, whose peculiar ticking seemed to have fascinated him and to which references are made even in his few letters from Japan. After the day with Mr. Watkin, he went direct to New York, where he was the guest of his friend, Mr. H. E. Krehbiel, the well-known musical critic, who was then living at 438 West 57th Street. From there it was that Hearn wrote to his mentor280 the following confession281 of affection and gratitude282:
"Dear Old Man: A delightful trip brought me safe and sound to New York, where my dear friend Krehbiel was waiting to take me to his cosy283 home. I cannot tell you how much our little meeting delighted me, or how much I regretted to depart so soon, or how differently I regarded our old friendship from my old way of looking at it. I was too young, too foolish, and too selfish to know you as you are, when we used to be together. Ten years made little exterior284 change in me, but a great deal of heart-change; and I saw you as you are,—noble and true and frank and generous, and felt I loved you more than I ever did before; felt also how much I owed you, and will always owe you,—and understood how much allowance you had made for all my horrid, foolish ways when I used to be with you. Well, I am sure to see you again.' I am having one of the most delightful holidays here I ever had in my life; and I expect to stay a few weeks. If it were not for the terrible winters, I should like to live in New York. Some day I suppose I shall have to spend a good deal of my time here. The houses eleven stories high, that seem trying to climb into the moon,—the tremendous streets and roads,—the cascading285 thunder of the awful torrent286 of life,—the sense of wealth-force and mind-power that oppresses the stranger here,—all these form so colossal a contrast with the inert287 and warmly colored Southern life that I know not how to express my impression. I can only think that I have found superb material for a future story, in which the influence of New York on a Southern mind may be described. Well, new as these things may seem to me, they are, no doubt, old and uninteresting to you,—so that I shall not bore you with my impressions. I will look forward to our next meeting, when during a longer stay in Cin. I can tell you such little experiences of my trip as may please you. I want to get into that dear little shop of yours again. I dreamed of it the other night, and heard the ticking of the old clock like a man's feet treading on pavement far away; and I saw the Sphinx, with the mother and child in her arms, move her monstrous288 head, and observe: 'The sky in New York is grey!'
"When I woke up it was grey, and it remained grey until to-day. Even now it is not like our summer blue. It looks higher and paler and colder. We are nearer to God in the South, just as we are nearer to Death in that terrible and splendid heat of the Gulf289 Coast. When I write God, of course I mean only the World-Soul, the mighty and sweetest life of Nature, the great Blue Ghost, the Holy Ghost which fills planets and hearts with beauty.
"Believe me, Dear Old Dad,
"Affectionately, your son,
"Lafcadio Hearn"
Below this is once more the familiar drawing of the raven.
From this time on the letters came at greater and greater intervals. There were only three more from America and then four from Japan. It was not that Hearn forgot his old friend or cared less for him. But he became busier, and with larger projects, newer aims, and a different life, there was less time in which to indulge himself in the active correspondence of former years. Between the New York group of letters and those from Japan is a gap. Letters on both sides had become a matter of years instead of weeks or months. Mr. Watkin, with the increasing weight of years on his shoulders and the increasing cares of a business that had begun to decline with the introduction of modern printing methods, found less time to write to his Raven.
Early in July, 1887, Hearn at last departed on that long-wished-for journey to the West Indies. A note, hastily scribbled to Mr. Watkin, told of the arrangements:
"Dear Old Man: I leave on the Barracouta for Trinidad, Sunday, at daybreak. I have been travelling about a good deal, and have been silent only because so busy and so tired when the business was over. Your dear letter and your excellent little stamp both delighted me. I will let you hear from me soon again,—that is, as soon as I can get to a P. O.
"With affection, always your little Raven,
"Lafcadio Hearn"
This promise of frequent letters was one he was not destined290 to keep. Once in the West Indies, he found himself so enthralled291 by its beauties, so busy putting on paper his impressions of what he was seeing and breathing and feeling, that it was not until he was once more in the United States that he found time to write.
September 21, 1887, he sent the following from Metuchen, New Jersey292:
"Dear Old Dad: After three months or so in the West Indies and British Guiana, I am back again in the U. S. in first-rate health and spirits. I ought to have been able to write you, I thought, from Martinique; but the enormous and unexpected volume of work I had to do rendered it almost impossible to write anything except business letters to Harpers, and one or two necessary notes to friends looking after my affairs elsewhere. My conviction is that you and I would do well to spend our lives in the Antilles. All dreams of Paradise (even Mahomet's) are more than realized there by nature;—after returning, I find this world all colorless, all grey, and fearfully cold. I feel like an outcast from heaven. But it is no use trying to tell you anything about it in a letter. I wrote nearly three hundred pages of manuscript to the Harpers about it,—and I have not been able to say one thousandth part. I got two little orders for stamps for you at Martinique,—pencil stamps like the one you made for me. One is to be 'Plissonneau, fils;' the other, 'A. Testart.' Send bill to me, and stamps to A. Testart, St. Pierre, Martinique, French W. Indies. I hope to see you on my way South, dear old Dad.
"Believe me always,
"Lafcadio Hearn"
In view of the terrible catastrophe293 at St. Pierre, it would be interesting to know whether Hearn's friends perished in that fury of fire and lava294 and hot ashes. Hearn's expectations about returning to New Orleans were not destined to be fulfilled. So successful had he been in his work for Harpers that, a week later than the date of the previous letter, he had the satisfaction of announcing that he was going back to what at that time seemed to him the most delightful region in the world. The opening of this letter is unique, in that it is the only one in which he is in the least ceremonious:
"H. Watkin, Esq., Dear Old Dad: I am going right back to the Tropics again, this time to stay. I have quit newspapering forever. Wish I could see you and chat with you before I go, but I cannot get a chance this time. My address will be care American Consul295, St. Pierre, Martinique, Lesser296 Antilles. I may not be there all the time, but that will be my headquarters, and there letters will always reach me. To-day I am packing, rushing around breathlessly, preparing to go,—so that my letter must be brief. I did better with my venture than I ever expected; for I got for my work done seven hundred dollars, besides having secured material for much better work. You will hear of me in the Harper's Magazine this winter,—beginning about January and February. I shall be able hereafter to rest where I please; so that I shall have no trouble, when I get to New York again, in running to Cincinnati. Of course I don't want my little plans known yet,—because no one knows what might turn up; but these are the present prospers,—quite bright for me. I will write from Martinique or Guadeloupe, and try to coax you to go down there. Good-bye for a little while, with my best love to you.
"L. Hearn"
Again this promise of letters from the West Indies was destined to be broken. While lotus-eating, Hearn wrote few letters. He was most probably busy, amid the glow and color of the Antilles, studying the philosophical297, scientific, and religious works which were destined so strongly to color his writings about Japan. He went to the latter country in 1890. In order that the reader may have a clear understanding of events, the facts in Hearn's Japanese career may be told in a few words. In 1890 and 1891 he served as English teacher in the ordinary middle school and the normal school of Matsue in Izumo. Next he was connected with the government school at Kumamoto. Then came newspaperwork at Kobe, and finally in 1896 he was honored by being made lecturer on English literature at the Imperial University of Tokio, which position he held until 1903, when he retired298, owing to increasing trouble with his eyes, which had caused him anxiety all his life. He was contemplating299 a lecture trip in the United States, but ill health prevented. He died at his Tokio home September 26, 1904, and was buried September 29, with the Buddhist270 rites300, the funeral service being held at the temple of Jito-in of Ichigaya. He now sleeps in the lonely old cemetery of Zōshigaya in the outskirts301 of the capital. Shortly after Hearn reached Japan Mr. Watkin obtained his address, and wrote him a letter telling how often he had thought of him and had expected to hear from him in the two years and more that had elapsed since their last letters. This brought a speedy reply,—a reply which showed that, so far as his feeling for the old English printer was concerned, there was little difference between the immature302, ambition-stung youth of nineteen and the well-known, mature author of forty, who felt in some dim way that there amid this Oriental people he was destined to live and die. The reply to Mr. Watkin is from Yokohama, and, contrary to Hearn's previous rule, is actually dated,—April 25, 1890.
"Dear Old Dad: I was very happy to feel that your dear heart thought about me; I also have often found myself dreaming of you. I arrived here, by way of Canada and Vancouver, after passing some years in the West Indies. I think I shall stay here some years. I have not been getting rich,—quite the contrary; but I am at least preparing a foundation for ultimate independence,—if I keep my health. It is very good now, but I have many grey hairs, and I shall be next June forty years old.
"I trust to make enough in a year or two to realize my dream of a home in the West Indies; if I succeed, I must try to coax you to come along, and dream life away quietly where all is sun and beauty. But no one ever lived who seemed more a creature of circumstances than I; I drift with various forces in the direction of least resistance,—resolve to love nothing, and love always too much for my own peace of mind,—places, things, and persons,—and lo! presto303! everything is swept away, and becomes a dream,—like life itself.
"Perhaps there will be a great awakening; and each will cease to be an Ego304, but an All, and will know the divinity of Man by seeing, as the veil falls, himself in each and all.
"Here I am in the land of dreams,—surrounded by strange Gods. I seem to have known and loved them before somewhere: I burn incense before them. I pass much of my time in the temples, trying to see into the heart of this mysterious people. In order to do so I have to blend with them and become a part of them. It is not easy. But I hope to learn the language; and if I do not, in spite of myself, settle here, you will see me again. If you do not, I shall be under big trees in some old Buddhist cemetery, with six laths above me, inscribed305 with prayers in an unknown tongue, and a queerly carved monument typifying those five elements into which we are supposed to melt away. I trust all is well with you, dear old Dad. Write me when it will not pain your eyes. Tell me all you can about yourself. Be sure that I always remember you; and that my love goes to you.
"Lafcadio Hearn
"I could tell you so much to make you laugh if you were here; and to hear you laugh again would make me very happy."
An interval93 of over four years now occurred before Hearn wrote once more to Cincinnati. Some very decided changes had taken place in his life. He had wedded306 a Japanese woman, he had a son, and he was reputed to have become a Buddhist. He had been successful with his literary work, his essays on things Japanese being among the most noteworthy and popular articles in the Atlantic Monthly. It was at this period, when Mr. Watkin thought his friend was most happy, that he received a long reply from Japan in response to a joint307 letter sent by the old gentleman and his daughter, Miss Effie Watkin. It is a singular thing that it was not until this time that Hearn ever mentioned Mr. Watkin's wife and daughter. He had in truth been few times in their presence. Mrs. Watkin, a woman of strong common sense, had found the foolish superstitions308 of the young lad hard to bear, and he had accordingly, when in Cincinnati, confined his particular friendship to the husband and father. The letter from Hearn rather surprised its recipient by reason of its despondency. It had much of the old gloomy cast of thought. For this there were two potent309 reasons. One was his worry over his son's future. The other was his worry over that Japan he had learned to love so well. He felt doubtful about the outcome of the war with China,—the letter was written in September, 1894,—and troubles for the Mikado's empire always made him a little sad. Singularly enough, the same feeling can be traced very clearly in his book, "Japan, An Attempt at Interpretation," written in the first months of the struggle with Russia.
One other word of introductory comment is necessary. His seeming depreciation310 of his own essays was only the reflection of his general gloomy viewpoint at the time the letter was written. Hearn was dwelling at the time at Kumamoto.
"Dear Old Dad: It delighted me to get that kindest double letter from yourself and sweet-hearted little daughter,—or rather delighted us. My wife speaks no English, but I translated it for her. She will send a letter in Japanese, which Miss Effie will not be able to read, but which she will keep as a curiosity perhaps. Our love to you both.
"How often I have thought of you, and wondered about you, and wished I could pass with you more of the old-fashioned evenings, reading ancient volumes of the Atlantic Monthly,—so much better a magazine in those days than in these, when I am regularly advertised as one of its contributors.
"I often wonder now at your infinite patience with the extraordinary, superhuman foolishness and wickedness of the worst pet you ever had in your life. When I think of all the naughty, mean, absurd, detestable things I did to vex311 you and to scandalize you, I can't for the life of me understand why you did n't want to kill me,—as a sacrifice to the Gods. What an idiot I was!—and how could you be so good?—and why do men change so? I think of my old self as of something which ought not to have been allowed to exist on the face of the earth,—and yet, in my present self, I sometimes feel ghostly reminders312 that the old self was very real indeed. Well, I wish I were near you to love you and make up for all old troubles.
"I have a son. He is my torment313 and my pride. He is not like me or his mother. He has chestnut314 hair and blue eyes, and is enormously strong,—the old Gothic blood came out uppermost. I am, of course, very anxious about him. He can't become a Japanese,—his soul is all English, and his looks. I must educate him abroad. Head all above the ears,—promises to be intelligent. I shall never have another child. I feel too heavily the tremendous responsibility of the thing. But the boy is there,—intensely alive; and I must devote the rest of my existence to him. One thing I hope for is that he will never be capable of doing such foolish things as his daddy used to do. His name is Kaji-we or Ka-jio. He does not cry, and has a tremendous capacity for growing. And he gives me the greatest variety of anxiety about his future.
"When you hear that I have been able to save between thirty-five hundred and four thousand dollars, you will not think I have made no progress. But I have put all, or all that I could reasonably do, in my wife's name. The future looks very black. The reaction against foreign influence is strong; and I feel more and more every day that I shall have to leave Japan eventually, at least for some years. When I first met you I was—nineteen. I am now forty-four! Well, I suppose I must have lots more trouble before I go to Nirvana.
"Effie says you do not see my writings. My book will be out by the time you get this letter,—that is, my first book on Japan.[1] Effie can read bits of it to you. And I figure in the Atlantic every few months. Cheap fame;—the amazing fortune I once expected does n't turn up at all. I have been obliged to learn the fact that I am not a genius, and that I must be content with the crumbs315 from the table of Dives.
"But this is all Egotism. I am guilty of it only because you asked for a small quantity. About yourself and all who love you my letter rather ought to be. Speak always well of me to John Chamberlain [a journalist]. I liked him well. Do you remember the long walks over the Ohio, in the evening, among the fireflies and grasshoppers316, to hear lectures upon spiritual things? If I were near you now, I could saturate317 you with Oriental spiritualism,—Buddhism,—everything you would like, but after a totally novel fashion. When one has lived alone five years in a Buddhist atmosphere, one naturally becomes penetrated318 by the thoughts that hover in it; my whole thinking, I must acknowledge, has been changed, in spite of my long studies of Spencer and of Schopenhauer. I do not mean that I am a Buddhist, but I mean that the inherited ancestral feelings about the universe—the Occidental ideas every Englishman has—have been totally transformed.
"There is yet no fixity, however: the changes continue,—and I really do not know how I shall feel about the universe later on. What a pity that Western education and Western ideas only corrupt319 and spoil the Japanese,—and that the Japanese peasant is now superior to the Japanese noble!
"You have heard of the war. The Japanese are a fighting race; and I think they will win all the battles. But to conquer a Chinese army is not the same thing as to conquer the Chinese government. The war makes us all uneasy. Japan's weakness is financial. A country where it costs a dollar a month to live, and where the population is only forty million, is not really strong enough for such an enormous job. Our hope is that science and rapidity of movement may compensate320 for smallness of resources.
"I am almost sure I shall have to seek America again. If that happens, I shall see you or die. All now is doubt and confusion. But in this little house all is love to you. We have your picture;... we all know you, as if you were an old acquaintance.
"I wish we could be together somewhere for a pleasant evening chat, hearing in the intervals the office clock, like the sound of a long-legged walker. I wish we could talk over all the hopes and dreams of ideal societies, and the reasons of the failure to realize them. I wish I could tell you about the ideas of Western civilization which are produced by a long sojourn321 in the Orient. How pleasant to take country walks again! that is, if there be any country left around Cincinnati. How pleasant to read to you strange stories and theories from the Far East! Still, I have become so accustomed to Japanese life that a return to Western ways would not be altogether easy at first. What a pity I did not reach Japan ten years sooner!
"Tell me, if you write again, all pleasant news about old friends. Love to you always, and believe me ever,
"Your extremely bad and ungrateful
"Grey-headed boy,
"Lafcadio Hearn"
[1] Glimpses of Unfamiliar322 Japan.
Shortly after this long letter came the one written by Hearn's Japanese wife, accompanied by this note:
"Dear Miss Effie: Here is my wife's answer to your most kind letter. She thanks you very much for writing,—says that she knows your papa well, by looking at his photograph, and by hearing me talk of him; she apologizes for not being able to write or speak English; she hopes to see you some day, and to be shown by you some of the wonders of the Western world, about which she knows nothing; she tells you about our little son; and finally says that if she ever comes to America she will bring you some curious memento323 from Japan. It is all written in the old style of high Japanese courtesy, in which your letter is called 'jewel-pen letter.' Best regards and kindest love for your papa. We are going to leave Kumamoto. Will write again soon.
"Lafcadio Hearn"
In 1895 an accident befell Mr. Watkin, and, upon his request, Mrs. Watkin wrote a letter to the distant friend. Mrs. Watkin was rather timid about it and was dubious324 about receiving a reply. However, despite this feeling, she enclosed some little verses of hers upon a spiritual theme. In a short time she received the following reply:
"Kobe;—shimoyamatedori, Shichome
"7 Feb. 28, 1895
"Dear Mrs. Watkin: Your kind, sweet letter reached me by last American mail, and gave me all the pleasure you could have desired. But why have you even dreamed of apologizing for writing to me, who love you all, and for whom everything is comprehensible even if not wholly comprehended? All love and good wishes to you. I received the little poem, and liked it. Those mysteries in which you appear to be interested are scarcely mysteries in the Far East: the immaterial world counts here for more than the visible. Perhaps some day I may suddenly drop in upon you all, and talk ghostliness to you,—a new ghostliness, which you may like. Some hints of it appear in a little book of mine, to be issued about the time this letter reaches you,—'Out of the East.'
"I really think I may see you and my dear old Dad again. I may be obliged erelong to return, at least temporarily, to America, to make some money, though my home must be in Japan till my boy grows up a little. He seems to be very strong and bright, and queerly enough he is fair. I have two souls now, which is troublesome; for his every word and cry stirs strange ripples325 in my own life, and the freedom of being responsible only for oneself is over forever for me. Whether this be for the worse or the better in the eternal order of things, the Gods must decide.
"I should like to see your new home. The other one was very cosy; but perhaps this is even better. What I also want to see is No. 16 Longworth Street, and to hear the ticking of the old clock that used to sound like the steps of a long-legged man walking on pavement. Effie wrote me a dear, pretty letter. Thank her for me. It is just about seven years now since I saw Dad. I suppose he looks now more like Homer than ever. .1 have become somewhat grey, and have crow's-feet around my eyes. Also I have become fat, and disinclined for violent exercise. In other words, I'm getting down the shady side of the hill,—and the horizon before me is already darkening, and the winds blowing out of it, cold. And I am not in the least concerned about the enigmas,—except that I wonder what my boy will do if I don't live to be nearly as old as Dad. Ever with all affectionate regards to him and yourself and Effie,
"Lafcadio Hearn"
In 1896 Mr. Watkin, partially recovered from his injuries, wrote Hearn a letter, and received a last one from him,—a reply in which the writer finally placed the seal upon the finest friendship in his history. Unlike some of his other attempts at prophecy, Hearn's predictions in this last letter failed to come true. He never saw his old friend again, and the old gentleman, at the age of eighty-two, now occupies a room in the Old Men's Home in Cincinnati, counting among his chief treasures the letters which have been here presented.
"Kobe
"Nakayamatedori
"7-chome
"Bangai 16
"May 23,'96
"Dear Old Dad: How nice to get so dear a letter from you! I know the cost to you of writing it, and my dear old father must not imagine that I do not understand why he cannot write often. With his little grey boy it is much the same now: he finds it hard to write letters, and he has very few correspondents. Why, indeed, should he have many? True men are few; and the autograph-hunters, and the scheming class of small publishers, and the people, who want gratis326 information about commercial matters in Japan are not considered by him as correspondents. They never get any answers. I have two or three dear friends in this world: is not that enough?—you being oldest and dearest. To feel that one has them is much.
"But I must ask many pardons. I fear Miss Effie will not forgive me for not acknowledging ere now the receipt of a photograph, which surprised as much as it pleased me. To think of the little girl having so developed into the fine serious woman! How old it makes me feel! for I remember Miss Effie when she was so little. Please ask her to forgive me. I was away when the photograph came (in Kyoto), and when I returned, lazily put off writing from day to day. There was, however, some excuse for my laziness. I have been very sick with inflammation of the lungs, and am getting well very slowly. But all danger is practically over.
"I see from the kind letter of protest bearing your initials that the idealism which makes love has never gone out of your heart when you think of me. It is all much more real than any materialism327; see, you always predicted that I should be able to do something, while extremely practical, materialistic328 people predicted that I should end in jail or at the termination of a rope. And your prediction seems to have been wiser,—for at last, at last I am attracting a little attention in England.... Also I see (what I did not know before) that some people have been writing horrid things about me. I expected it, sooner or later, as I have been an open enemy of the missionaries329; and, besides, the least success in this world must be atoned330 for. The price is heavy. Those who ignore you when you are nobody find it necessary to hate you when you disappoint their expectations. But if I keep my health I need not care very much. The incident only brought out some of the honey in dear old Dad's heart.
"You ask about my boy. I can best respond by sending his last photo,—nearly three years old now. If I can educate him in France or Italy, it would be better for him, I think. He is very sensitive; and I am afraid of American or English school training for him. I only pray the Gods will spare me till he is eighteen or twenty. I am watching to see what he will develop; if he have any natural gift, I shall try to cultivate only that gift. Ornamental331 education is a wicked, farcical waste of time. It left me incapacitated to do anything; and I still feel the sorrow of the sin of having dissipated ten years in Latin and Greek, and stuff,... when a knowledge of some one practical thing, and of a modern language or two, would have been of so much service. As it is, I am only self-taught; for everything I learned in school I have since had to unlearn. You helped me with some of the unlearning, dear old Dad!
"I really expect to see you. You are only seventy-two, and hale, and I trust you have long years before you, and that we shall meet. About the business depression, I hear that it is passing and that 'flush times' are in store for the West. This, I trust, will be. Oh, no! I shall not have to look for you 'in the old men's home,'—no, I shall see you in your own home,—and talk queer talk to you.
"For the time being (indeed, for two years) I have lived altogether by literary work, without breaking my little reserves, and it is likely that better things are in store for me. I am anxious for success,—for the boy's sake above all. To have the future of others to make—to feel the responsibilities—certainly changes the face of life. I am always frightened, of course; but I work and hope. That is the best, is it not? Remember me to all kind friends. Ask Effie to forgive my rude silence, and all yours to believe my love and constant remembrance.
"Lafcadio Hearn
"I am a Japanese citizen now (Y. Koizumi),—adopted into the family of my wife. This settles all legal question as to property as well as marriage under Japanese law; and if I die, the Consul can't touch anything belonging to my people."
The rest is silence.
点击收听单词发音
1 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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2 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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3 miraculously | |
ad.奇迹般地 | |
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4 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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5 Buddhas | |
n.佛,佛陀,佛像( Buddha的名词复数 ) | |
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6 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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7 panes | |
窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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8 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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9 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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10 aroma | |
n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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11 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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12 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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13 regiment | |
n.团,多数,管理;v.组织,编成团,统制 | |
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14 infantry | |
n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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15 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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16 skeptical | |
adj.怀疑的,多疑的 | |
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17 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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18 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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19 materialist | |
n. 唯物主义者 | |
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20 Buddhism | |
n.佛教(教义) | |
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21 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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22 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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23 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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24 urn | |
n.(有座脚的)瓮;坟墓;骨灰瓮 | |
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25 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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26 hop | |
n.单脚跳,跳跃;vi.单脚跳,跳跃;着手做某事;vt.跳跃,跃过 | |
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27 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
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28 feline | |
adj.猫科的 | |
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29 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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30 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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31 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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32 solicited | |
v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 );(指娼妇)拉客;索求;征求 | |
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33 buoy | |
n.浮标;救生圈;v.支持,鼓励 | |
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34 enquirer | |
寻问者,追究者 | |
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35 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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36 feats | |
功绩,伟业,技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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37 gatherings | |
聚集( gathering的名词复数 ); 收集; 采集; 搜集 | |
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38 charred | |
v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式);烧焦 | |
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39 screed | |
n.长篇大论 | |
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40 defective | |
adj.有毛病的,有问题的,有瑕疵的 | |
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41 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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42 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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43 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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44 acquiesced | |
v.默认,默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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46 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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47 raven | |
n.渡鸟,乌鸦;adj.乌亮的 | |
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48 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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49 eels | |
abbr. 电子发射器定位系统(=electronic emitter location system) | |
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50 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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51 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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52 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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53 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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55 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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56 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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57 antediluvian | |
adj.史前的,陈旧的 | |
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58 alligator | |
n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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59 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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60 reciprocate | |
v.往复运动;互换;回报,酬答 | |
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61 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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62 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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63 remonstrate | |
v.抗议,规劝 | |
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64 syllogistically | |
adv.三段论法式地,演绎式地 | |
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65 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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66 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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67 precursors | |
n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 );先行者;先兆;初期形式 | |
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68 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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69 recipient | |
a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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70 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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71 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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72 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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73 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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74 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
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75 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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76 scribbled | |
v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 );乱画;草草地写;匆匆记下 | |
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77 postal | |
adj.邮政的,邮局的 | |
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78 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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79 morbidity | |
n.病态;不健全;发病;发病率 | |
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80 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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81 dub | |
vt.(以某种称号)授予,给...起绰号,复制 | |
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82 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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83 remorseful | |
adj.悔恨的 | |
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84 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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85 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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86 confluence | |
n.汇合,聚集 | |
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87 huddle | |
vi.挤作一团;蜷缩;vt.聚集;n.挤在一起的人 | |
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88 bulging | |
膨胀; 凸出(部); 打气; 折皱 | |
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89 snail | |
n.蜗牛 | |
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90 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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91 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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92 intervals | |
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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93 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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94 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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95 puffing | |
v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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96 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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97 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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98 tapestries | |
n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 );绣帷,织锦v.用挂毯(或绣帷)装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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100 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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101 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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102 fissured | |
adj.裂缝的v.裂开( fissure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103 bluffs | |
恐吓( bluff的名词复数 ); 悬崖; 峭壁 | |
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104 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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105 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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106 bust | |
vt.打破;vi.爆裂;n.半身像;胸部 | |
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107 doggerel | |
n.拙劣的诗,打油诗 | |
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108 indite | |
v.写(文章,信等)创作 | |
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109 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
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110 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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111 slanders | |
诽谤,诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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112 embittered | |
v.使怨恨,激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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114 emigrants | |
n.(从本国移往他国的)移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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115 fabulously | |
难以置信地,惊人地 | |
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116 perishable | |
adj.(尤指食物)易腐的,易坏的 | |
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117 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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118 marshy | |
adj.沼泽的 | |
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119 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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120 cemeteries | |
n.(非教堂的)墓地,公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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121 vaults | |
n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 );地下室;撑物跳高;墓穴 | |
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122 graveyards | |
墓地( graveyard的名词复数 ); 垃圾场; 废物堆积处; 收容所 | |
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123 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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124 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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125 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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126 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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127 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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128 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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129 receding | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
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130 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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131 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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132 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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133 addenda | |
n.附录,附加物;附加物( addendum的名词复数 );补遗;附录;(齿轮的)齿顶(高) | |
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134 undertaking | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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135 vapid | |
adj.无味的;无生气的 | |
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136 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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137 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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138 renovation | |
n.革新,整修 | |
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139 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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140 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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141 meritorious | |
adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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142 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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143 iridescent | |
adj.彩虹色的,闪色的 | |
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144 halfway | |
adj.中途的,不彻底的,部分的;adv.半路地,在中途,在半途 | |
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145 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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146 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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147 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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148 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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149 seaport | |
n.海港,港口,港市 | |
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150 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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151 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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152 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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153 opium | |
n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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154 pact | |
n.合同,条约,公约,协定 | |
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155 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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156 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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157 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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158 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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159 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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160 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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161 congestion | |
n.阻塞,消化不良 | |
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162 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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163 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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164 acclimated | |
v.使适应新环境,使服水土服水土,适应( acclimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165 gutters | |
(路边)排水沟( gutter的名词复数 ); 阴沟; (屋顶的)天沟; 贫贱的境地 | |
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166 stinking | |
adj.臭的,烂醉的,讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 );发臭味;名声臭;糟透 | |
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167 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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168 busted | |
adj. 破产了的,失败了的,被降级的,被逮捕的,被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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169 flattened | |
[医](水)平扁的,弄平的 | |
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170 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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171 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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172 retaliation | |
n.报复,反击 | |
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173 ebb | |
vi.衰退,减退;n.处于低潮,处于衰退状态 | |
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174 advertising | |
n.广告业;广告活动 a.广告的;广告业务的 | |
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175 dodge | |
v.闪开,躲开,避开;n.妙计,诡计 | |
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176 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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177 labor | |
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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178 malaria | |
n.疟疾 | |
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179 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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180 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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181 abstemiously | |
adv.适中地;有节制地;适度地 | |
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182 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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183 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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184 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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185 sapphire | |
n.青玉,蓝宝石;adj.天蓝色的 | |
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186 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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187 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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188 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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189 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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190 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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191 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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192 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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193 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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194 slanderous | |
adj.诽谤的,中伤的 | |
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195 surmise | |
v./n.猜想,推测 | |
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196 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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197 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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198 enervating | |
v.使衰弱,使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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199 alleging | |
断言,宣称,辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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200 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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201 democrat | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士;民主党党员 | |
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202 toads | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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203 vipers | |
n.蝰蛇( viper的名词复数 );毒蛇;阴险恶毒的人;奸诈者 | |
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204 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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205 moulders | |
v.腐朽( moulder的第三人称单数 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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206 hover | |
vi.翱翔,盘旋;徘徊;彷徨,犹豫 | |
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207 incense | |
v.激怒;n.香,焚香时的烟,香气 | |
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208 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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209 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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210 strew | |
vt.撒;使散落;撒在…上,散布于 | |
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211 hoary | |
adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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212 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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213 despondent | |
adj.失望的,沮丧的,泄气的 | |
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214 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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215 piazzas | |
n.广场,市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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216 oblique | |
adj.斜的,倾斜的,无诚意的,不坦率的 | |
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217 plantations | |
n.种植园,大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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218 scudding | |
n.刮面v.(尤指船、舰或云彩)笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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219 enticing | |
adj.迷人的;诱人的 | |
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220 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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221 seaports | |
n.海港( seaport的名词复数 ) | |
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222 seamen | |
n.海员 | |
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223 cancellation | |
n.删除,取消 | |
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224 replete | |
adj.饱满的,塞满的;n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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225 sketches | |
n.草图( sketch的名词复数 );素描;速写;梗概 | |
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226 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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227 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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228 counterfeits | |
v.仿制,造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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229 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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230 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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231 quacks | |
abbr.quacksalvers 庸医,骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 );江湖郎中;(鸭子的)呱呱声v.(鸭子)发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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232 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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233 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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234 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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235 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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236 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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237 clique | |
n.朋党派系,小集团 | |
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238 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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239 vapor | |
n.蒸汽,雾气 | |
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240 rheumatism | |
n.风湿病 | |
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241 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
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242 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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243 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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244 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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245 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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246 ecclesiastics | |
n.神职者,教会,牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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247 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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248 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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249 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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250 snare | |
n.陷阱,诱惑,圈套;(去除息肉或者肿瘤的)勒除器;响弦,小军鼓;vt.以陷阱捕获,诱惑 | |
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251 prospers | |
v.成功,兴旺( prosper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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252 fleas | |
n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 );爱财如命;没好气地(拒绝某人的要求) | |
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253 eulogy | |
n.颂词;颂扬 | |
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254 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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255 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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256 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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257 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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258 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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259 humdrum | |
adj.单调的,乏味的 | |
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260 twig | |
n.小树枝,嫩枝;v.理解 | |
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261 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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262 coteries | |
n.(有共同兴趣的)小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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263 chilly | |
adj.凉快的,寒冷的 | |
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264 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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265 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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266 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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267 bugs | |
adj.疯狂的,发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 );病菌;虫子;[计算机](制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的)错误 | |
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268 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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269 despondently | |
adv.沮丧地,意志消沉地 | |
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270 Buddhist | |
adj./n.佛教的,佛教徒 | |
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271 Buddhistic | |
adj.佛陀的,佛教的 | |
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272 cliques | |
n.小集团,小圈子,派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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273 humbugs | |
欺骗( humbug的名词复数 ); 虚伪; 骗子; 薄荷硬糖 | |
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274 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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275 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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276 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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277 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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278 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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279 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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280 mentor | |
n.指导者,良师益友;v.指导 | |
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281 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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282 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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283 cosy | |
adj.温暖而舒适的,安逸的 | |
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284 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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285 cascading | |
流注( cascade的现在分词 ); 大量落下; 大量垂悬; 梯流 | |
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286 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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287 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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288 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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289 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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290 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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291 enthralled | |
迷住,吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 ); 使感到非常愉快 | |
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292 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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293 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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294 lava | |
n.熔岩,火山岩 | |
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295 consul | |
n.领事;执政官 | |
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296 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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297 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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298 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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299 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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300 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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301 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
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302 immature | |
adj.未成熟的,发育未全的,未充分发展的 | |
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303 presto | |
adv.急速地;n.急板乐段;adj.急板的 | |
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304 ego | |
n.自我,自己,自尊 | |
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305 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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306 wedded | |
adj.正式结婚的;渴望…的,执著于…的v.嫁,娶,(与…)结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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307 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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308 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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309 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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310 depreciation | |
n.价值低落,贬值,蔑视,贬低 | |
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311 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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312 reminders | |
n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 );提醒…的东西;(告知该做某事的)通知单;提示信 | |
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313 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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314 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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315 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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316 grasshoppers | |
n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 );蝗虫;蚂蚱;(孩子)矮小的 | |
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317 saturate | |
vt.使湿透,浸透;使充满,使饱和 | |
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318 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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319 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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320 compensate | |
vt.补偿,赔偿;酬报 vi.弥补;补偿;抵消 | |
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321 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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322 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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323 memento | |
n.纪念品,令人回忆的东西 | |
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324 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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325 ripples | |
逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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326 gratis | |
adj.免费的 | |
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327 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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328 materialistic | |
a.唯物主义的,物质享乐主义的 | |
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329 missionaries | |
n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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330 atoned | |
v.补偿,赎(罪)( atone的过去式和过去分词 );补偿,弥补,赎回 | |
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331 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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