A letter from Miss Goold overtook him the following Thursday in the hotel at Clogher.
‘I was delighted to hear from you again,’ she wrote. ‘I was afraid you had cut me altogether, gone over to the respectable people, and forgotten poor Ireland. Captain Quinn told me that you and he had quarrelled, and I gathered that you rather disapproved10 of him. Well, he was a bit of a blackguard; but, after all, one doesn’t expect a man who takes on a job of that kind to be anything else. I never thought it would suit you, and you will do me the justice of remembering that I never wanted you to volunteer. Now about your article. It was admirable. These “Cheap Patriots”’—it was thus the article was headed—‘are just the creatures we want to scarify. Dowling and his kind are the worst enemies Ireland has to-day. We’ll publish anything of that kind you send us, and remember we’re not the least afraid of anybody. It’s a grand thing for a paper to be as impecunious12 as the Croppy. No man but a fool would take a libel action against us with any hope of getting damages. A jury might value Dowling’s character at any fantastic sum they chose, but it would be a poor penny the Croppy would pay. Still, we’re not so hard up that we can’t give our contributors something, and next week you’ll get a small cheque from the office. I hope it may encourage you to send us more. Don’t be afraid to speak out. If anything peculiarly seditious occurs to you, write it in Irish. I know it’s all the same to you which language you write in. Do us half a column every fortnight or so on Western life and politics.’
Hyacinth was absurdly elated by Miss Goold’s praise. He made up his mind to contribute regularly to the Croppy, and had visions of a great future as a journalist, or perhaps a literary exponent13 of the ideas of Independent Ireland.
Meanwhile, he became very intimate both with the Quinns and with Canon Beecher’s family. Mrs. Quinn was an enthusiastic gardener, and early in the spring Hyacinth helped her with her flowerbeds. He learnt to plait the foliage14 of faded crocuses, and pin them tidily to the ground with little wooden forks. He gathered suitable earth for the boxes in which begonias made their earliest sproutings, and learned to know the daffodils and tulips by their names. Later on he helped Mr. Quinn to mow15 the grass and mix a potent16 weed-killer for the gravel17 walks. There came to be an understanding that, whenever he was not absent on a journey, he spent the latter part of the afternoon and the evening with the Quinns. As the days lengthened18 the family tea was pushed back to later and later hours to give more time out of doors.
There is something about the very occupation of gardening which is deadening to enthusiasm. Perhaps a man learns patience by familiarity with growing plants. Nature is never in a hurry in a garden, and there is no use in trying to hustle19 a flower, whereas a great impatience20 is the very life-spirit of enthusiastic patriotism21. There has probably never been a revolutionary gardener, or even a strong Radical22 who worked with open-air flowers. Of course, in greenhouses things can be forced, and the spirit of the ardent23 reformer may find expression in the nurture24 of premature25 blooms. Perhaps also the constant stooping which gardening necessitates26, especially in the early spring, when the weeds grow plentifully28, tends to destroy the stiff mental independence which must be the attitude of the militant29 patriot11. It is very difficult for a man who has stooped long enough to have conquered his early cramps30 and aches to face the problems of politics with uncompromising rigidity31. Hyacinth recognised with a curious qualm of disgust that his thoughts turned less and less to Ireland’s wrongs and Ireland’s future as he learnt to care for the flowers and the grass.
No doubt, too, the atmosphere of the Quinns’ family life was not congenial to the spirit of the Irish politician. Mrs. Quinn was totally uninterested in politics, and except a prejudice in favour of what she called loyalty32, had absolutely no views on any question which did not directly affect her home and her children. Mr. Quinn had a coldly-reasonable political and economic creed33, which acted on the luxuriant fancies of Hyacinth’s enthusiasm as his weed-killer did on the tender green of the paths. He declined altogether to see any good in supporting Irish manufactures simply because they were Irish. The story of O’Reilly’s attitude towards his shawls moved him to no indignation.
‘I think he’s perfectly34 right,’ he said. ‘If a man can buy cheap shawls in England he would be a fool to pay more for Irish ones. Business can’t be run on those lines. I’m not an object of charity, and if I can’t meet fair competition I must go under, and it’s right that I should go under.’
Hyacinth had no answer to give. He shirked the point at issue, and attacked Mr. Quinn along another line in the hope of arousing his indignation.
‘But it is not fair competition that you are called upon to face. Do you call it fair competition when the Government subsidizes a woollen factory in a convent?’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Quinn, ‘you are thinking of the four thousand pounds the Congested Districts Board gave to the convent at Bobeen. But it is hardly fair to hold the Government responsible for the way that body wastes eighty thousand pounds a year.’
‘The Government is ultimately responsible, and you must admit that, after such a gift, and in view of the others which will certainly follow, you are called upon to meet most unfair competition.’
‘Yes, I admit that. But isn’t that exactly what you want to make general? There doesn’t seem to me any difference between giving a bounty36 to one industry and imposing37 a protective tariff38 in favour of another; and if your preference for Irish manufactures means anything, it means a sort of voluntary protection for every business in the country. If you object to the Robeen business being subsidized you can’t logically try to insist on mine being protected.’
It was puzzling to have the tables turned on him so adroitly40. Hyacinth was reduced to feeble threat.
‘Just wait a while till the nuns41 get another four thousand pounds, and perhaps four thousand pounds more after that, and see how it will affect you.’
Mr. Quinn smiled.
‘I’m not much afraid of nuns as trade competitors, or, for the matter of that, of the Congested Districts Board either. If the Yorkshire people would only import a few Mother Superiors to manage their factories, and take the advice of members of our Board in their affairs, I would cheerfully make them a present of any reasonable subsidy42, and beat them out of the market afterwards.’
There was another influence at work on Hyacinth’s mind which had as much to do with the decay of his patriotism as either the gardening or Mr. Quinn’s logic39. Marion Beecher and her sister were very frequently at the Mill House during the spring and summer. There was one long afternoon which was spent in the marking out of the tennis-ground. Mr. Quinn had theories involving calculations with a pencil and pieces of paper about the surest method of securing right angles at the corners and parallel lines down the sides of the court. Hyacinth and Marion worked obediently with a tape measure and the garden line. One of the boys messed cheerfully with a pail of liquid whitening. Afterwards the gardening was somewhat deserted43, and Hyacinth was instructed in the game. It took him a long time to learn, and for many afternoons he and Marion were regularly beaten, but she would not give up hope of him. Often the excuse of her coming to the Quinns was the necessity of practising some new hymn44 or chant for Sunday. Hyacinth worked as hard at the music as at the tennis under her tuition, and there came a time when he could sing an easy tenor45 part with fair accuracy. Then in the early summer, when the evenings were warm, hymns46 were sung on the lawn in front of the house. There seemed no incongruity47 in Marion Beecher’s company in passing without a break from lawn-tennis to hymn-singing, and Mr. Quinn was always ready to do his best at the bass48 with a serious simplicity49, as if it were a perfectly natural and usual thing to close an afternoon’s amusement with ‘Rock of Ages.’ Hyacinth was not conscious of any definite change in his attitude towards religion. He still believed himself to be somehow outside the inner shrine50 of the life which the Beechers and the Quinns lived, just as he had been outside his father’s prayers. But he found it increasingly difficult after an hour or two of companionship with Marion Beecher to get back to the emotions which had swayed him during the weeks of his intimacy51 with Miss Goold. To write for the Croppy after sitting beside Marion in church on Sunday evenings was like passing suddenly from a quiet wood into a heated saloon where people wrangled52. A wave of the old passionate53 feeling, when it returned, affected54 him as raw spirit would the palate of a boy.
One day early in summer—the short summer of Connaught, which is glorious in June, and dissolves into windy mist and warm rain in the middle of July—Hyacinth was invited by Canon Beecher to join a boating party on the lake. The river, whose one useful function was the turning of Mr. Quinn’s millwheel, wound away afterwards through marshy55 fields and groves56 of willow-trees into the great lake. At its mouth the Beechers kept their boat, a cumbrous craft, very heavy to row, but safe and suited to carry a family in comfort. The party started early—Canon Beecher, Hyacinth, and one of the boys very early, for they had to walk the two miles which separated Ballymoy from the lake shore. Mrs. Beecher, the girls, the two other boys, and the baskets of provisions followed a little later on the Rectory car, packed beyond all possibility of comfort. The Canon himself pulled an oar35 untiringly, but without the faintest semblance57 of style, and the party rippled58 with joy when they discovered that Hyacinth also could row.
‘Now,’ said Elsie, ‘we can go anywhere. We can go on rowing and rowing all day, and see places we’ve never seen before.’
‘My dear girl,’ said her mother, ‘remember that Mr. Conneally and your father aren’t machines. You mustn’t expect them to go too far.’
‘Oh, but,’ said Elsie, ‘father says he never gets tired if he has only one oar to pull.’
The Canon was preparing for his toil59. The old coat, in colour now almost olive green, was folded and used as a cushion by Marion in the bow. His white cuffs60, stowed inside his hat, were committed to the care of Mrs. Beecher. He rolled his gray shirtsleeves up to the elbow, and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m ready. If I’m not hurried, I’ll pull along all day. But what about you, Conneally? You’re not accustomed to this sort of thing?’
But Hyacinth for once was self-confident. He might be a poor singer and a contemptible61 tennis player, but he knew that nothing which had to do with boats could come amiss to him. He looked across the sparkling water of the lake.
‘I’ll go on as long as you like. You won’t tire me when there’s no tide and no waves. This is a very different business from getting out the sweeps to pull a nobby five miles against the strength of the ebb62, with a heavy ground swell63 running.’
About eleven o’clock they landed on an island and ate biscuits. The Canon told Hyacinth the story of the ruin under whose walls they sat.
‘It belonged to the Lynotts, the Welshmen of Tyrawley. They were at feud64 with the Burkes, and one night in winter——’
The girls wandered away, carrying their biscuits with them. It is likely that they had heard the story every summer as long as they could remember. Mrs. Beecher alone still maintained an attitude of admiration65 for her husband’s antiquarian knowledge, the more creditable because she must have been familiar with the onset66 of the MacWilliam Burkes before even Marion was old enough to listen. To Hyacinth the story was both new and interesting. It stirred him to think of the Lynotts fighting hopelessly, or begging mercy in the darkness and the cold just where he sat now saturate67 with sunlight and with life. He gazed across the mile of shining water which separated the castle from the land, and tried to realize how the Irish servant-girl swam from the island with an infant Lynott on her back, and saved the name from perishing. How the snow must have beaten in her face and the lake-waves choked her breath! It was a great story, but the girls, shouting from the water’s edge, reminded him that he was out to pull an oar, and not to sentimentalize. He and the Canon rose, half smiling, half sighing, and took their places in the boat.
They penetrated68 before luncheon69 time to a bay hitherto unknown to the Beechers. A chorus of delight greeted its discovery. The water shone bright green and very clear above the slabs70 of white limestone71. The shore far inland was almost verdure-less. Broad flat rocks lay baking in the sunshine, and only the scantiest72 grass struggled up between their edges. Sometimes they overlapped73 each other, and rose like an immense staircase. Fifty yards or so from the land was a tiny island entirely74 overgrown with stunted75 bushes. The boat was pushed up to it and a landing-place sought, but the shrubs76 were too thick, and it was decided77 to picnic among the rocks on the land. Then Marion in the bow made a discovery. A causeway about a foot under water led from the island to the shore. The whole party leaned over to examine it. Every stone was visible in the clear water, and it was obvious that it had been planned and built, and was no merely accidental formation of the rocks. The Canon had heard of a similar device resorted to by an island hermit78 to insure the privacy of his cell. Hyacinth spoke79 vaguely80 of the settlements of primitive81 communities of lake-dwellers. The three boys planned an expedition across the causeway after luncheon.
‘We’ll carry our shoes and stockings with us,’ they said, ‘and then explore the island. Perhaps there is a hermit there still, or a primitive lake-dweller. What is a primitive lake-dweller, Mr. Conneally?’
Hyacinth was uncertain, but hazarded a suggestion that the lake-dwellers were the people who buried each other in raths. The Canon, whose archaeology83 did not go back beyond St. Patrick, offered no correction.
Tea was made later on in yet another bay, this time on the eastern shore of the lake. An oak wood grew down almost to the water’s edge, and the branches overhung a sandy beach, more golden than any sea-strand. The whole party collected dead wood and broken twigs84 for the fire. Then, while the girls unpacked85 the baskets and secured the kettle amidst the smoke, Hyacinth lay back luxuriously86 and watched the sun set behind the round-shouldered mountain opposite. The long, steep slope shone bright green while the sun still rested in view above the summit; then suddenly, when the topmost rim82 of it had dipped out of sight, the whole mountainside turned purple, and a glory of gold and crimson87 hung above it on the motionless streaks88 of cloud. Slowly the splendour faded, the purple turned gray, and a faint breeze fluttered across the lake.
The day was the first of many which Hyacinth gave to such expeditions. The work of Mr. Quinn’s office was not so pressing as to necessitate27 his spending every day there when he was in Ballymoy, and a holiday was always obtainable. The lake scenery remained vivid in his memory in after-years, and had its influence upon him even while he enjoyed it, unconscious of anything except the present pleasure. There was something besides the innocent gaiety of the girls and the simple sincerity89 of the Canon’s platitudes90, something about the lake itself, which removed him to a spiritual region utterly91 remote from the fiery92 atmosphere of Miss Goold’s patriotism. Many things which once loomed93 very large before him sank to insignificance94 as he drank to the full of the desolation around him. The past, in which no doubt men strove and hoped, hated and loved and feared, had left the just recognisable ruins of some castles and the causeway built by an unknown hermit or the prehistoric95 lake-dwellers. A few thatched cabins, faintly smoking, and here and there a cairn of stones gathered laboriously96 off the wretched fields, were the evidences of present activity. Now and then a man hooted97 to his dog as it barked at the sheep on the hillside, or a girl drove a turf-laden donkey inland from the boggy98 shore. Otherwise there were no signs of human life. A deep sense of monotony and inevitableness settled down upon Hyacinth. He came for the first time under the great enchantment100 which paralyzes the spirit and energy of the Celt. He knew himself to be, as his people were, capable of spasms101 of enthusiasm, the victim of transitory burnings of soul. But the curse was upon him—the inevitable99 curse of feeling too keenly and seeing too clearly to be strenuous102 and constant. The flame would die down, the enthusiasm would vanish—it was vanishing from him, as he knew well—and leave him, not indeed content with common life, but patient of it, and to the very end sad with the sense of possibilities unrealized.
Yet it was not without many struggles and periods of return to the older emotions that Hyacinth surrendered his enthusiasm. There still recurred103 to him memories of his father’s vision of an Armageddon and the conception of his own part in it. Sometimes, waking very early in the morning, he became vividly104 conscious of his own feebleness of will and his falling away from great purposes. The conviction that he was called to struggle for Ireland’s welfare, to sacrifice, if necessary, his life and happiness for Ireland, was strong in him still. He felt himself affected profoundly by the influences which surrounded him, but he had not ceased to believe that the idea of self-sacrificing labour was for him a high vocation105. He writhed106, his limbs twisting involuntarily, when these thoughts beset107 him, and often he was surprised to discover that he was actually uttering aloud words of self-reproach.
Then he would write fiercely, brutally108, catch at the excuse of some hypocrisy or corruption109, or else denounce selfishness and easy-going patriotic110 sentiment, finding subject for his satire111 in himself. His articles brought him letters of praise from Miss Goold. ‘You have it,’ she wrote once, ‘the thing we all seek for, the power of beating red-hot thought into sword-blades. Write more like the last.’ But the praise always came late. The violent mood, the self-reproach, the bitterness, were past. His life was wrapt round again with softer influences, and he read his own words with shame when they reached him in print. Afterwards for a while, if he wrote at all, it was of the peasant life, of quaint112 customs, half-forgotten legends and folklore113. These articles appeared too, but brought no praise from Miss Goold. Once she reproached him when he lapsed114 into gentleness for many consecutive115 weeks.
‘You oughtn’t to waste yourself. There are fifty men and women can do the sort of thing you’re doing now; we don’t want you to take it up. It’s fighting men we need, not maundering sentimentalists.’
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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synonyms
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| 同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
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6
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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15
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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necessitates
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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subsidy
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| n.补助金，津贴 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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46
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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47
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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48
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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49
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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50
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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51
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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52
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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56
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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62
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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64
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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penetrated
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| 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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69
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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72
scantiest
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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83
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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84
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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99
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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100
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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101
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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102
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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103
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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104
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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106
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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108
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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109
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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110
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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111
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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112
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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113
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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114
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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115
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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