“I REMEMBER, I remember, the house where I was born.” Indeed, I can hardly do otherwise, for the Perkins Institution for the Blind was one of the landmarks2 of Boston in the nineteenth century. It was also, so to speak, the intermittent3 home of our family for many years. My father bought “Green Peace” and moved the family there soon after my birth, hence we lived at the Institution only from time to time.
The “Doctor’s” wing of the great building was always at his disposal. In the summer, when the family were at Newport, he often stayed there. It was a refuge to us in time of trouble. Did our city house catch fire, or other circumstances make a change desirable—presto! we departed, servants and all, for the Institution! My brother-in-law, Henry Richards, complained mildly during his courtship that no notice was given of these intended hegiras. He would come to see sister Laura one evening and bid her good-by, with every expectation of calling on her the following day. When, twenty-four hours later, he rang the door-bell, there was no response! The Howe family had folded their tents, like the Arabs, and silently moved over to the Institution. It will be judged, from this story, that the Doctor’s part was fully5 furnished, save that the halls, like all those in the building, had uncarpeted marble floors. For the Perkins Institution for the Blind had originally been a hotel, the Mount Washington House.
The building, simple, massive, and dignified6, stood on a hill commanding a lovely view of Boston Harbor with its many islands. Just behind it rose Dorchester Heights. As children we played among the earthworks whence the cannon7 of Washington’s army had forced the British to evacuate8 Boston. We did not then know that Col. Richard Gridley, one of our ancestors, had planned those fortifications and the defenses of Bunker Hill as well. He was a veteran of the French wars who had “won laurels9 as an accomplished10 engineer at Louisburg.”[1]
1. Frothingham’s Siege of Boston.
When the Institution for the Blind was moved to South Boston, Ward11 twelve was more highly esteemed12 as a place of residence than it is now. A peninsula connected with the mainland only by Dorchester Neck, it enjoys the full sweep of the famous Boston east wind. Hence it is cool in summer, and the extended shore gives opportunities for sea-bathing. One of the sad memories of my childhood is the booming of cannon fired in the hope of bringing to the surface the bodies of those who had been drowned while bathing.
South Boston has so many natural advantages of climate and scenery that it was hoped the city would grow in that direction. But the situation has its drawbacks. In order to reach Boston proper it is necessary either to take a long and circuitous14 route through Dorchester, or else to cross one of the bridges which span the harbor. These were, when I can first remember, fitted with primitive15 wooden drawbridges through which vessels16 seemed always to be passing, if one were in a hurry. Boston was at this time a seaport18 in reality as well as in name, the wharves19 filled with shipping20. To a child it was alarming to see the solid floor of the bridge divide in two portions and rise slowly in the air, disclosing an open space of water. It diminished very much one’s feeling of security. To be sure, after the vessel17 had finally passed through, and the great wooden jaws21 had again snapped together, a large iron bolt restrained further vagaries22 on their part. But what was to prevent the draw from sinking down under the weight of the passing vehicles? Then there were legends of adventurous23 and unfortunate little boys who had been caught between the descending24 jaws. If you and your driver were fair-minded persons, your carriage took its proper place in the line and patiently waited its turn to cross. Despite the warning sign, “Keep to the Right as the Law Directs,” there were people so unfair as to try to form a second line and so cross ahead of earlier comers. These we regarded with righteous indignation.
The neighborhood of the bridges was occupied by tenement-houses, making the approach to South Boston rather squalid. The House of Correction and other public institutions then established there lessened26 the attractiveness of the peninsula. So when Boston began to expand in earnest it took the usual course of cities and grew toward the west. The Back Bay was duly filled in, for the new part of Boston is on made ground. My father considered this much less wholesome27 than the original soil.
In the days of my childhood, South Boston, while not a fashionable suburb, counted many substantial and fairly well-to-do citizens among its inhabitants. Toward the eastern end it was pleasantly open and still retained a rural air. At City Point were semi-circles of granite28, built for the cannon of the Revolution. Facing it, with a mile of water stretching between, was the grim gray outline of Fort Independence, not yet reduced to innocuous desuetude29 by the changes in methods of warfare30.
As there was already a baby girl, it was hoped that I would be a boy. My father was much disappointed at my failure to fulfil this hope. He declared that the only way to console him would be to name me for Florence Nightingale, which was accordingly done. This was before the Crimean War had made her famous. My parents, however, had spent some days at “Embley,” the home of the Nightingale family, while on their wedding-tour. Florence, then a young woman of twenty-three, was already turning toward her life-work. She consulted my father, as a philanthropist of experience, about the propriety31 of her studying nursing and devoting her life to the care of the sick. He, of course, counseled her to do so. Ever in advance of his own day and generation, he would have had small patience with the people who even now consider a nurse as a species of social pariah32.
Miss Nightingale corresponded with my parents before she had taken up her public work. The beautiful and devout33 spirit of her later years, as well as an intense interest in the movements in behalf of political and religious freedom, is manifest in these early letters. Touches of fun remind us that she had a happy sense of humor. Throughout the correspondence we see the great admiration34 of the young English gentlewoman for the man whose life was dedicated35 to the cause which she longed to take up.
She thus acknowledged the news of my birth and of the decision to name the new baby after her, foreshadowing, also, her own future career.
Embley, December 26.
I cannot pretend to express, my dear kind friends, how touched and pleased I was by such a remembrance of me as that of your child’s name.... If I could live to justify36 your opinion of me, it would have been enough to have lived for, and such thoughts as that of your goodness are great thoughts, “strong to consume small troubles,” which should bear us up on the wings of the Eagle, like Guido’s Ganymede, up to the feet of the God, there to take what work He has for us to do for Him. I shall hope to see my little Florence before long in this world, but, if not, I trust there is a tie formed between us which shall continue in Eternity—if she is like you, I shall know her again there, without her body on, perhaps the better for not having known her here with it.
... Good-by, my dearest friend, which word I am sure I never say to you without its good old meaning, God be with you. You never can tell me enough about yourself, or about Dr. Howe’s reforms.
I have no time to be ashamed of myself for writing you such a long and barren letter in return—I would write now, because, from the day after Christmas Day, for a month, I shall not have a moment to myself, except the solemn minute of the procession in to dinner, when everybody knows that each person may have the full and exclusive possession of his or her thoughts to him or herself, till the dogs are fairly feeding.
If I could live to see anything like a Protestant Sisterhood of Charity in England “my eyes would indeed have seen His salvation,” but now I see nothing but a mist, and only hope, when the mist clears away, to see something else.
Pray excuse me—I’m coming back—but only to say this time, what I never can express, how very earnestly I am ever your loving and grateful Florence.
Pray give our very kindest remembrances to Dr. Howe—and so fare you well, very well, my dear, dear friends.
In a later letter she writes of the two babies:
... I often think of your little couple, and imagine what they are like, and fancy the curious mixture there must be in them. I see them standing37 in the doorway38, looking at me with irresolute39 eyes, and I sit quite still, that they may not go away—perhaps the only intercourse40 that will be permitted me with them on earth. It would be a curious speculation41 (if one’s acquaintance were but large enough to enable one to collect a sufficient number of facts to form a sort of experience) to find out what materials in the parents’ characters kneaded together into what sort of pate42 in the children’s—and the general laws of these admixtures. I wonder, in this diving and grubbing age, that people don’t make at least rough theories about it (there must be some laws, if we could but find them out)—beginning with Genesis, where we see that the “sons of God” which, I suppose, only means the men great in wisdom and virtue43 and piety44, who led these antediluvian45 females to the Hymeneal altar, who, I am afraid, were pagans or at the least something very bad by their being called the “daughters of men,” we see that their offspring, poor things! were strong and violent and restive46 and whatever else we may suppose symbolized47 under the character of “giants.” N. B.—This, upon second thoughts, looks like an uncivil apologue, and, as I remember, poor Mrs. Fowler got into a scrape by sealing a letter once with a wafer on which were two donkeys with the motto “When shall we three meet again?” of course implying that the receiver of the letter was the third donkey (though preserve me from putting you into the same category of souls as Mrs. Fowler’s correspondent!), yet I must beg to assure you that the above is no parable48.
The downfall from the heavens has been so prodigious49 these last three weeks, that the river has been the driest place, and standing in it up to one’s shoulders the best shelter from the rain. Archbishop Whately is practising mesmerism at Dublin with a Catholic priest. Miss Martineau’s last books are stupid—if the revelations of the laws of Nature, which were made to her in a state of mesmerism, have found their incarnation in her recent Game-law Tales in sea-green covers, I wish her “toutes sortes de prospérités et un peu plus de go?t.” The laws of Nature are uncommon50 dry ones—but I have come to the end of my paper, and with all our kindest remembrances to Dr. Howe, believe me, dearest Julia,
Yours till Doomsday i’ th’ afternoon,
Florence.
Florence Nightingale did not content herself with sending loving messages to her godchild. Her christening-gift—a beautiful edition of Knight’s Shakespeare—is one of my most treasured possessions. I still have also the remains51 of a bracelet52 made of her hair, with a little golden heart at the clasp.
In my mother’s correspondence with her sisters the “babies” are important figures. Maternal53 affection represents us in a glorified54 aspect; nevertheless, it is pleasant to have our early virtues55 and talents recorded by her loving hand. A few extracts from her letters are given below.
New York, Oct., 1845.
To Mrs. Thomas Crawford.
... You complain that no one tells you about Florence. Oh! she is a perfect angel! The little creature lies in my arms all night, and makes me too happy. She is the image of our dear father—is not that strange? She has his eyes, his brow, almost his smile. So strong is the likeness56 that even Lizzie Hogg cried out: “Oh! she is like dear Mr. Ward!” This endears her to me very, very much. She was christened in our little study at South Boston. No one was present but Sumner, [Doctor] Fisher, Wightie, and Laura. The good Mr. Burton christened her, and made the service even more touching57 and beautiful than did our friend Parker. I had had a very nice cake made at home, iced over and adorned58 with sugar-plum letters.... The child has a heavenly disposition59, and is much more robust60 than Julia was at her age....
May 30, ’46.
To Mrs. Crawford.
... For this summer my great themes of interest are Annie’s[2] marriage and Fofo’s teeth. Flossy, as Julia calls her, is as healthy a child as one can see. She creeps on the floor all day, and can pull herself up by a chair, and stand for a long time, though she is just nine months old.... I confess my spirits have risen wonderfully since I left the institution. My little corner is so green and pretty, so quiet and hidden from all. I have not those dreadful stairs to go up and down, all the rooms are so near together. I need not lose sight of the children at any time....
2. My aunt, Anne Eliza Ward, who married Adolphe Mailliard.
June 17, 1847.
... I stay at home pretty much all day, and generally all the evening, too. I write stories and verses, and when my eyes are tired I paste pictures in the nursery scrap-book, which is in great demand. In another year I shall have a governess for Julia, who is getting too big to be left with a servant. She and Flossy come on well with their French....
Nov. 31, ’47.
... Yesterday I incautiously used the word devil, and Julia said, “Mamma, that is not a pretty word; you had better say villain61.” They are both as lovely as children can be. The little one is passionately62 attached to her sister and cries whenever they are separated....
My father hired a house in Mount Vernon Street, in the years 1847–50, and of this I have still some recollections. The most interesting is that of a day in February, 1850, when my father carried all his three children down-stairs on his back, in a single load, to see our new little sister. She was later named Laura, after my father’s noted63 pupil, Laura Bridgman, and Elizabeth, after his sister. As Mrs. Laura E. Richards, author of many nursery rhymes and juvenile64 books, she has since been beloved by several generations of little folk.
Our brother, Henry Marion Howe, was not quite two years old when he came down on his father’s back to welcome sister Laura into this bustling65 world. Although, on one occasion, when he plunged66 her into the horse-trough, he nearly helped her out of it, they were throughout their childhood inseparable friends and companions.
Other memories of those years, 1847–50, relate to my earliest school-days. We went to a private school near by, kept by a Miss Watson, Paper dolls, made or contributed by the older girls, and peach leather loom67 large in these recollections of school attendance. The latter delicious article of food was a species of stiff marmalade prepared in a sheet about half an inch thick. This was rolled up tightly, and a piece, which was literally68 a jelly roll, was cut off the end. You could not only eat this, but you could first, happy thought, uncoil it. In old Southern cook-books the receipt for making peach leather can be found. Ours came from Professor and Mrs. Lieber, the former being at that time connected with Columbia College in South Carolina. He has been gratefully remembered, during the present war, as one of the freedom-loving Germans of earlier days.
Somehow or other I learned to read, for I can remember being conversant69 with my Reader before I was five years old—according to the custom of that day.
In the early summer of 1850 our parents, with the younger children, Harry70 and Laura, sailed for Europe. As became a child of New England, I was extremely reserved, and it was thought a pleasant sign when, as the family were about to depart, I wept. Alas71! Investigation72 revealed that my tears were really connected with the little Greek almonds—doubtless too few had been allotted73 to me. In justice to myself I must say that on the return, eighteen months later, of my mother, brother and sister, I found tears of joy in my eyes.
My eldest74 sister and I were left in the custody75 of our faithful nurse, Lizzie, and in the care of friends. We spent the summer happily at Concord76, Massachusetts. Hearing the bells toll77 one day, we asked the reason, and were told that General Taylor (then President of the United States) was dead.
One happy autumn day there was a cry of, “Papa! Papa!” and we rushed down the street into his arms. He could not remain away longer from America, owing to his many cares. We were now installed in the delightful78 home “Green Peace,” with an efficient housekeeper79, Mrs. Stanwood, to care for us.
A sad memory comes back to me out of this distant past. On a certain summer day the blind pupils and their teachers made an excursion to the seaside, sister Julia and I going with them. Nurse Lizzie allowed us to go in bathing, but cautioned us to hold tightly to a rock whose head rose above the water.
With childish bravado80, I let go, calling on the others to look at me. Suddenly a great wave dashed over me, but not more quickly than Lizzie, who rushed in and dragged me out, all dressed as she was. She never recovered from the cold taken that day, dying of consumption not long afterward81. I must have been five or six years old at the time of the funeral. I remember seeing the face of the devoted82 nurse lying white and still beneath the glass of the coffin83. I remember, too, that all knelt on the earth around the grave, the service being according to the Roman Catholic ritual.
While “Green Peace” remained our home for many years, its situation on the southerly slope of a hill made it warm in summer. Accordingly, in 1852 my father and the poet Longfellow hired a house on the cliffs at Newport, with the understanding that no other boarders should be received except those of whom they approved. The company that assembled beneath the roof of this early “Cliff House” was of a literary turn of mind. Count Gurowski nicknamed it “H?tel Rambouillet.” A daguerreotype84 is still in existence showing Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow, my mother, Mrs. Freeman (wife of the artist), and Mr. Thomas Gold Appleton, the noted wit. A broad smile pervades85 the group, doubtless due to the fact that in those early days of photography the victims were obliged to sit some twenty minutes before the camera.
George William Curtis was among the favored few who spent that summer at the “Cliff House.” He was then a handsome young bachelor who went to balls and parties. Alas! Near his room was the Howe nursery, and the children, who took no part in the social gaieties of Newport, arose at an early hour. Our noise and that of our portable tin bath-tub sadly disturbed the morning slumbers86 of the “Howadji.”
I was a little girl of an independent turn of mind and objected decidedly to being kissed. Some of the gentlemen thought this very amusing in a child of barely seven, and delighted in teasing me. To enter or leave the house was a feat87 of daring, for the enemy might be lurking88 in the shadow of the hall, ready to catch me. Once, at least, I was seized and held up in the air by a Mr. G——. “Now I’ve got you!” he exclaimed. He was soon glad to put down a very irate89 and struggling little girl. The foolish custom of kissing children indiscriminately has happily gone out of fashion.
Another sad memory of that summer rises before me. I see on the lawn of “Cliff House” my silver mug, with a deep wound in its side. One of the gentlemen, espying90 it in the grass, took it for a pewter vessel and obligingly discharged his pistol at it.
The Longfellow boys, Charles and Ernest, who were of nearly the same age as sister Julia and I, were our pleasant playfellows. Speculating on their father’s height, they declared that he ought to be called Mr. Shortfellow rather than Mr. Longfellow. I do not so well recall his appearance at the “Cliff House,” but a year or so later he emerges from my childish recollections as an alert, slender and rather short man, with a cheerful expression of countenance91 and remarkably92 bright blue eyes. My uncle, Samuel Ward, declared they were like blue water-lilies. His hair was then sandy, with a dash of gray, and his sensitive mouth was not concealed93 by either beard or mustache, for he wore only side-whiskers.
In those early days he did not, to my thinking, look as poetical96 as in later years. It was customary in Boston to speak of him as Professor Longfellow, as he then filled the Harvard chair of belles-lettres. His predecessor97, George L. Ticknor, author of a history of Spanish literature, was not well pleased at giving up his office. Instead of bequeathing his Spanish library to Harvard College, he left it to the Boston Public Library, with strict injunctions that the books should not be allowed to circulate, lest they should fall into the hands of the Cambridge professors. A more amiable98 postulate99 is that he feared the books might be lost. Dr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, the first Astor librarian, administered that foundation on the same principle.
With Mr. Longfellow himself Mr. Ticknor maintained pleasant and friendly relations, as we see by the poet’s letters.
I remember very well a charming children’s party given in the pleasant grounds adjoining the old “Craigie House.”
The mansion is Colonial in style, and with its wide verandas100, has an ample front of more than eighty feet. As a child, the interior, with its spacious101 halls and rooms, impressed me more than the exterior102. The former had an aspect of comfort and of a certain elegance103 which bespoke104 the refined and scholarly tastes of its owner. This was not so common at that time as it is now, when interior decoration is so much studied.
Great clumps105 of sweet-flowered shrubs106 grew about the dear old house, as if longing107 to shield it from the dust and traffic of the wayside. Here blossomed the sweetest of old-fashioned spring flowers, the lilac, and the starry108 syringas which were so much more fragrant109 than the modern more showy variety of the same flower.
Mr. Longfellow was an extremely kind and indulgent father and his boys, like other boys whom we have all known, sometimes abused his kindness. Across the pleasant memories of the “Craigie House” party lies the shadow of our virtuous110 indignation at the conduct of the boys, who, as he thought, cheated us out of our fair share of candy. The calm reflection of later years suggests that the spirit of fun and adventure rather than mere111 rapacity112 may have influenced their conduct. The girls were too young to accept their defeat in the true sporting spirit.
The coveted113 bonbons114 were showered upon us from a scrabble-bag, to wit, a large, brown-paper bag filled with candy and hung above our heads. At some parties the scrabble-bag also contained raisins115 and popped corn, but at the “Craigie House” I can remember only great showers of candy.
The children were in turn blindfolded116, armed with a stick, then bidden to advance and bring down the contents of the bag with three blows. It was hung from the bough4 of a tree, the bonbons came down pellmell upon the grass and we all scrambled117 for them.
Mr. Longfellow, who must evidently have had assistants, was most active and energetic; I should be afraid to say how many brown-paper bags were hung up, a great number of them succumbing118 in turn to our childish onslaughts.
The boys established a sort of robbers’ den13, or retreat, in one of the lofty trees of the dear old garden; here they would fly for protection when hard pressed by the enemy, returning to the attack when the sugar-plums were about to descend25. It is but just to the Longfellow boys to say that they were usually pleasant playfellows. My sister Julia and I had many merry times with them before the dreadful catastrophe119 of Mrs. Longfellow’s death threw its dark shadow over the household.
It will be remembered that her thin summer dress caught fire while she was making seals to amuse her children. In those days of crinoline such an accident was almost certain to end fatally. The hoopskirt was a fire-trap of the most deadly sort.
We saw him occasionally in later years, when the gold of his hair had turned to silver. His beautiful snow-white hair and beard seemed almost like a halo surrounding his poetic95 face. The blue eyes retained their brightness, in spite of advancing years. It was always a red-letter day when he accepted an invitation to dine or spend an evening at our house, although he was, in the latter part of his life, rather a silent guest. But the charm of his presence was great, and what he said was, of course, well worth hearing.
Our mother always remembered his description of my sister Julia. In her beautiful young womanhood she was often tormented121 with the “Howe shyness” which seemed to form a slight but impalpable barrier between her and the world, until she became so much interested in the conversation as to forget herself. Mr. Longfellow said of her, “Julia is like a veiled lily.”
A curious myth prevailed at one time about a daughter of the poet. The artist who painted a portrait group of the three charming children placed one of them in such a position as to conceal94 both her arms. This picture was reproduced in an engraving122 which adorned the walls of many houses. Hence the fable123 arose that one of Mr. Longfellow’s daughters had no arms. Two ladies were lamenting124 this fact in a Cambridge horse-car when a Harvard professor overheard them. Thinking they would be glad to be set right, he addressed them: “Ladies, I know the Longfellow family well, and I am happy to be able to tell you that all three of the little girls have the usual number of arms.”
Rash is the man who thus seeks to overthrow125 a popular delusion126! Drawing herself up, one of the ladies replied, “Sir, we have it on the best authority that one of Mr. Longfellow’s daughters HAS NO ARMS!”
The children’s parties given at Cambridge in the days of my childhood were certainly very delightful occasions. The old régime, under which distinguished127 men were chosen as professors at Harvard College, still prevailed at that time. When President Eliot took office he is said to have chosen men rather for their ability as instructors128 than for their claims to literary or scientific distinction. Professor Child, well known for his exhaustive collection of ballads129, doubtless possessed130 both kinds of merit, since he was retained on the Harvard faculty131, as I think, throughout his life. Generations of students remember him as the stern but humorous critic whose caustic132 comments stayed the noble current of their rage and withered133 many a youthful burst of eloquence134 with the unfeeling remark “spread-eagle.”
From this accustomed severity he would unbend on a midsummer afternoon, and frolic about with the children as if he had been one of them. Full of jokes, fun and nonsense, he was the life and soul of a certain merry June day which rises before me out of the mist of childish recollections. As he tumbled about in the new-mown hay, among his little friends, or sat down on the grass while we gathered about to listen to his stories, he seemed to me a very funny man. And yet I wondered, with a certain gravity of imagination peculiar135 to early childhood, why he should bring himself down to our level. Why, being a grown man, he should find it amusing to tumble in the hay. With his short figure, close-curling yellow hair, and decidedly retroussé nose, he certainly looked like the genius of comedy; but nothing about him seemed to me half so funny as a singular, light-colored felt hat which he wore. It was nearly as tall as that of the ordinary circus clown and had a rounded or dome-shaped crown. Under the skilful136 and amusing manipulation of its owner it certainly afforded us a great deal of amusement on that festal day. Alas! In later years he wore just an ordinary hat.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
landmarks
|
|
| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
intermittent
|
|
| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bough
|
|
| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
cannon
|
|
| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
evacuate
|
|
| v.遣送；搬空；抽出；排泄；大(小)便 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
laurels
|
|
| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
ward
|
|
| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
esteemed
|
|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
circuitous
|
|
| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
primitive
|
|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
vessels
|
|
| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
seaport
|
|
| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
wharves
|
|
| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
shipping
|
|
| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
jaws
|
|
| n.口部；嘴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
vagaries
|
|
| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
adventurous
|
|
| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
lessened
|
|
| 减少的，减弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
granite
|
|
| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
desuetude
|
|
| n.废止，不用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
warfare
|
|
| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
propriety
|
|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
pariah
|
|
| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
devout
|
|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
dedicated
|
|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
irresolute
|
|
| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
pate
|
|
| n.头顶；光顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
piety
|
|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
antediluvian
|
|
| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
restive
|
|
| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
symbolized
|
|
| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
parable
|
|
| n.寓言，比喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
prodigious
|
|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
bracelet
|
|
| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
maternal
|
|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
glorified
|
|
| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
adorned
|
|
| [计]被修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
villain
|
|
| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
juvenile
|
|
| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
bustling
|
|
| adj.喧闹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
loom
|
|
| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
conversant
|
|
| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
investigation
|
|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
allotted
|
|
| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
eldest
|
|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
custody
|
|
| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
concord
|
|
| n.和谐；协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
toll
|
|
| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
bravado
|
|
| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
daguerreotype
|
|
| n.银板照相 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
pervades
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
slumbers
|
|
| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
feat
|
|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
lurking
|
|
| 潜在 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
irate
|
|
| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
espying
|
|
| v.看到( espy的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
91
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
poetical
|
|
| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
predecessor
|
|
| n.前辈，前任 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
postulate
|
|
| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
verandas
|
|
| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
spacious
|
|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
elegance
|
|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
bespoke
|
|
| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
clumps
|
|
| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
shrubs
|
|
| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
starry
|
|
| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
rapacity
|
|
| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
coveted
|
|
| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
bonbons
|
|
| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
raisins
|
|
| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
blindfolded
|
|
| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
scrambled
|
|
| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
succumbing
|
|
| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
tormented
|
|
| 饱受折磨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
engraving
|
|
| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
fable
|
|
| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
lamenting
|
|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
overthrow
|
|
| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
delusion
|
|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
instructors
|
|
| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
ballads
|
|
| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
caustic
|
|
| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
skilful
|
|
| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |