There is not much literary criticism in Longfellow’s review, and he does not “rise to the level of the accomplished3 essayist” of our own time, {Footnote: Who writes so correctly and says so little to the purpose.} but he goes to the main point with the single-mindness of the true poet. “A new star,” he says, “has appeared in the skies”—a veritable prediction. “Others will gaze at it with telescopes, and decide whether it is in the constellation4 of Orion or the Great Bear. It is enough for us to gaze at it, to admire it, and welcome it.”
“Although Hawthorne writes in prose, he belongs among the poets. To every subject he touches he gives a poetic5 personality which emanates6 from the man himself. His sympathies extend to all things living, and even to the inanimates. Another characteristic is the exceeding beauty of his style. It is as clear as running waters are. Indeed he uses words as mere7 stepping-stones, upon which, with a free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and re-crosses the bright and rushing stream of thought.”
Again he says:
“A calm, thoughtful face seems to be looking at you from every page; with now a pleasant smile, and now a shade of sadness stealing over its features. Sometimes, though not often, it glares wildly at you, with a strange and painful expression, as, in the German romance, the bronze knocker of the Archivarius Lindhorst makes up faces at the Student Anselmus.”
Here we have a portrait of Hawthorne, by one who knew him, in a few simple words; and behind a calm thoughtful face there is that mysterious unknown quantity which puzzles Longfellow here, and always perplexed8 Hawthorne’s friends. It may have been the nucleus9 or tap-root of his genius.
Longfellow seems to have felt it as a dividing line between them. He probably felt so at college; and this brings us back to an old subject. Hawthorne’s superiority to Longfellow as an artist consisted essentially10 in this, that he was never an optimist11. Puritanism looked upon human nature with a hostile eye, and was inclined to see evil in it where none existed; and Doctor Channing, who inaugurated the great moral movement which swept Puritanism away in this country, tended, as all reformers do, to the opposite extreme,—to that scepticism of evil which, as George Brandes says, is greatly to the advantage of hypocrites and sharpers. This was justifiable12 in Doctor Channing, but among his followers13 it has often degenerated14 into an inverted15 or homoeopathic kind of Puritanism,—a habit of excusing the faults of others, or of themselves, on the score of good intentions—a habit of self-justification, and even to the perverse16 belief that, as everything is for the best, whatever we do in this world must be for good. To this class of sentimentalists the most serious evil is truth-seeing and truth-speaking. It is an excellent plan to look upon the bright side of things, but one should not do this to the extent of blinding oneself to facts. Doctor Johnson once said to Boswell, “Beware, my friend, of mixing up virtue17 and vice;” but there is something worse than that, and it is, to stigmatize18 a writer as a pessimist19 or a hypochondriac for refusing to take rainbow-colored views. This, however, would never apply to Longfellow.
Hawthorne, with his eye ever on the mark, pursued a middle course. He separated himself from the Puritans without joining their opponents, and thus attained20 the most independent stand-point of any American writer of his time; and if this alienated21 him from the various humanitarian22 movements that were going forward, it was nevertheless a decided23 advantage for the work he was intended to do. In this respect he resembled Scott, Thackeray and George Eliot.
What we call evil or sin is merely the negative of civilization,—a tendency to return to the original savage24 condition. In the light of history, there is always progress or improvement, but in individual cases there is often the reverse, and so far as the individual is concerned evil is no imaginary metaphor25, but as real and absolute as what we call good. The Bulgarian massacres26 of 1877 were a historical necessity, and we console ourselves in thinking of them by the fact that they may have assisted the Bulgarians in obtaining their independence; but this was no consolation27 to the twenty or thirty thousand human beings who were ground to powder there. To them there was no comfort, no hope,—only the terrible reality. Neither can we cast the responsibility of such events on the mysterious ways of Providence28. The ways of Providence are not so mysterious to those who have eyes to read with. Take for instance one of the most notable cases of depravity, that of Nero. If we consider the conditions under which he was born and brought up, the necessity of that form of government to hold a vast empire together, and the course of history for a hundred years previous, it is not difficult to trace the genesis of Nero’s crimes to the greed of the Roman people (especially of its merchants) for conquest and plunder29; and Nero was the price which they were finally called on to pay for this. Marcus Aurelius, a noble nature reared under favorable conditions for its development, became the Washington of his time.
It is the same in private life. In many families there are evil tendencies, which if they are permitted to increase will take permanent hold, like a bad demon30, of some weak individual, and make of him a terror and a torment31 to his relatives—fortunate if he is not in a position of authority. He may serve as a warning to the general public, but in the domestic circle he is an unmitigated evil,—he or she, though it is not so likely to be a woman. When a crime is committed within the precincts of good society, we are greatly shocked; but we do not often notice the debasement of character which leads down to it, and still more rarely notice the instances in which fear or some other motive32 arrests demoralization before the final step, and leaves the delinquent33 as it were in a condition of moral suspense34.
It was in such tragic35 situations that Hawthorne found the material which was best suited to the bent36 of his genius.
In the two volumes, however, of “Twice Told Tales,”—the second published two years later,—the tragical37 element only appears as an undercurrent of pathos38 in such stories as “The Gentle Boy,” “Wakefield,” “The Maypole of Merry-mount,” and “The Haunted Mind,” but reaches a climax39 in “The Ambitious Guest” and “Lady Eleanor’s Mantle40.” There are others, like “Lights from a Steeple,” and “Little Annie’s Ramble,” that are of a more cheerful cast, but are also much less serious in their composition. “The Minister’s Black Veil,” “The Great Carbuncle,” and “The Ambitious Guest,” are Dantean allegories. We notice that each volume begins with a highly patriotic41 tale, the “Gray Champion,” and “Howe’s Masquerade,” but the patriotism42 is genuine and almost fervid43.
When I first looked upon the house in which Hawthorne lived at Sebago, I was immediately reminded of these earlier studies in human nature, which are of so simple and quiet a diction, so wholly devoid44 of rhetoric45, that Elizabeth Peabody thought they must be the work of his sister, and others supposed them to have been written by a Quaker. They resemble Dürer’s wood-cuts,—gentle and tender in line, but unswerving in their fidelity46. We sometimes wish that they were not so quiet and evenly composed, and then repent47 of our wish that anything so perfect should be different from what it is. His “Twice Told Tales” are a picture-gallery that may be owned in any house-hold. They stand alone in English, and there is not their like in any other language.
Yet Hawthorne is not a word-painter like Browning and Carlyle, but obtains his pictorial48 effect by simple accuracy of description, a more difficult process than the other, but also more satisfactory. His eyes penetrate49 the masks and wrappings which cover human nature, as the R?ntgen rays penetrate the human body. He sees a man’s heart through the flesh and bones, and knows what is concealed50 in it. He ascends51 a church-steeple, and looking down from the belfry the whole life of the town is spread out before him. Men and women come and go—Hawthorne knows the errands they are on. He sees a militia52 company parading below, and they remind him from that elevation53 of the toy soldiers in a shop-window,—which they turned out to be, pretty much, at Bull Run. A fashionable young man comes along the street escorting two young ladies, and suddenly at a crossing encounters their father, who takes them away from him; but one of them gives him a sweet parting look, which amply compensates55 him in its presage56 of future opportunities. How plainly that consolatory57 look appears between our eyes and the printed page! Then Hawthorne describes the grand march of a thunder-storm,—as in Rembrandt’s “Three Trees,”—with its rolling masses of dark vapor58, preceded by a skirmish-line of white feathery clouds. The militia company is defeated at the first onset59 of this, its meteoric60 enemy, and driven under cover. The artillery61 of the skies booms and flashes about Hawthorne himself, until finally: “A little speck62 of azure63 has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage and go rejoicing through the tempest, and on yonder darkest cloud, born like hallowed hopes of the glory of another world and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth64 the rainbow.” All this may have happened just as it is set down.
“Lady Eleanor’s Mantle” exemplifies the old proverb, “Pride goeth before destruction,” in almost too severe a manner, but the tale is said to have a legendary65 foundation; and “The Minister’s Black Veil” is an equally awful symbolism for that barrier between man and man, which we construct through suspicion and our lack of frankness in our dealings with one another. We all hide ourselves behind veils, and, as Emerson says, “Man crouches66 and blushes, absconds67 and conceals68.”
“The Ambitious Guest” allegorizes a vain imagination, and is the most important of these three. A young man suffers from a craving69 for distinction, which he believes will only come to him after this life is ended. He is walking through the White Mountains, and stops overnight at the house of the ill-fated Willey family. He talks freely on the subject of his vain expectations, when Destiny, in the shape of an avalanche70, suddenly overtakes him, and buries him so deeply that neither his body nor his name has ever been recovered. Hawthorne might have drawn71 another allegory from the same source, for if the Willey family had trusted to Providence, and remained in their house, instead of rushing out into the dark, they would not have lost their lives.
In the Democratic Review for 1834, Hawthorne published the account of a visit to Niagara Falls, one of the fruits of his expedition thither72 in September, 1832, by way of the White Mountains and Burlington, the journey from Salem to Niagara in those days being fully73 equal to going from New York to the cataracts74 of the Nile in our own time. “The Ambitious Guest” was published in the same volume with it, and “The Ontario Steamboat” first appeared in the American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge, in 1836. Hawthorne may have made other expeditions to the White Mountains, but we do not hear of them.
In addition to the three studies already mentioned, Hawthorne drew from this source the two finest of his allegories, “The Great Carbuncle” and “The Great Stone Face.”
“The Great Carbuncle” is not only one of the most beautiful of Hawthorne’s tales, but the most far-reaching in its significance. The idea of it must have originated in the Alpine75 glow, an effect of the rising or setting sun on the icy peaks of a mountain, which looks at a distance like a burning coal; an appearance only visible in the White Mountains during the winter, and there is no reason why Hawthorne should not have seen it at that season from Lake Sebago. At a distance of twenty miles or more it blazes wonderfully, but on a nearer approach it entirely76 disappears. Hawthorne could not have found a more fascinating subject, and he imagines it for us as a great carbuncle located in the upper recesses77 of the mountains.
A number of explorers for this wonderful gem78 meet together at the foot of the mountain beyond the confines of civilization, and build a hut in which to pass the night. They are recognizable, from Hawthorne’s description, as the man of one idea, who has spent his whole life seeking the gem; a scientific experimenter who wishes to grind it up for the benefit of his crucible79; a cynical80 sceptic who has come to disprove the existence of the great gem; a greedy speculator who seeks the carbuncle as he would prospect81 for a silver-mine; an English lord who wishes to add it to his hereditary82 possessions; and finally a young married couple who want to obtain it for an ornament83 to their new cottage. The interest of the reader immediately centres on these last two, and we care much more concerning their fortunes and adventures than we do about the carbuncle.
The conversation that evening between these ill-assorted companions is in Hawthorne’s most subtle vein84 of irony85, and would have delighted old Socrates himself. Meanwhile the young bride weaves a screen of twigs86 and leaves, to protect herself and her husband from the gaze of the curious.
The following morning they all set out by different paths in search of the carbuncle; but our thoughts accompany the steps of the young bride, as she makes one toilsome ascent87 after another until she feels ready to sink to the ground with fatigue88 and discouragement. They have already decided to return, when the rosy89 light of the carbuncle bursts upon them from beneath the lifting clouds; but they now feel instinctively90 that it is too great a prize for their possession. The man of one idea also sees it, and his life goes out in the exultation91 over his final success. The skeptic92 appears, but cannot discover it, although his face is illumined by its light, until he takes off his large spectacles; whereupon, he instantly becomes blind. The English nobleman and the American speculator fail to discover it; the former returns to his ancestral halls, as wise as he was before; and the latter is captured by a party of Indians and obliged to pay a heavy ransom93 to regain94 freedom. The scientific pedant95 finds a rare specimen96 of primeval granite97, which serves his purpose quite as well as the carbuncle; and the two young doves return to their cot, having learned the lesson of contentment.
How fortunate was Hawthorne at the age of thirty thus to anatomize the chief illusions of life, which so many others follow until old age!
It is an erroneous notion that Hawthorne found the chief material for his work in old New England traditions. There are some half-dozen sketches98 of this sort, but they are more formally written than the others, and remind one of those portraits by Titian which were painted from other portraits,—better than the originals, but not equal to those which he painted from Nature.
In the “Sights from a Steeple” Hawthorne exposes his methods of study and betrays the active principle of his existence. He says:
“The most desirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul Pry100 hovering101 invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into their hearths102, borrowing brightness from their felicity and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion peculiar103 to himself.”
There are those who would dislike this busybody occupation, and others, such as Emerson perhaps, might not consider it justifiable; but Hawthorne is not to be censured104 for it, for his motive was an elevated one, and without this close scrutiny105 of human nature we should have had neither a Hawthorne nor a Shakespeare. There is no quality more conspicuous106 in “Twice Told Tales” than the calm, evenly balanced mental condition of the author, who seems to look down on human life not so much from a church steeple as from the blue firmament107 itself.
Such was the Eos or dawn of Hawthorne’s literary art.
Hawthorne returned thanks to Longfellow in a gracefully108 humorous letter, to which Longfellow replied with a cordial wish to see Hawthorne in Cambridge, and by advising him to dive into deeper water and write a history of the Acadians before and after their expulsion from Nova Scotia; but this was not practicable for minds like Hawthorne’s, surcharged with poetic images, and the attempt might have proved a disturbing influence for him. He had already contributed the substance to Longfellow of “Evangeline,” and he now wrote a eulogium on the poem for a Salem newspaper, which it must be confessed did not differ essentially from other reviews of the same order. He does not give us any clear idea of how the poem actually impressed him, which is after all the best that one can do in such cases. Poetry is not like a problem in mathematics, which can be marked right or wrong according to its solution.
When a young man obtains a substantial footing in his profession or business, he looks about him for a wife—unless he happens to be already pledged in that particular; and Hawthorne was not an exception to this rule. He was not obliged to look very far, and yet the chance came to him in such an exceptional manner that it seems as if some special providence were connected with it. His position in this respect was a peculiar one. He does not appear to have been much acquainted in Salem even now; and the only son of a widow with two unmarried sisters may be said to have rather a slim chance for escaping from those strong ties which have grown up between them from childhood. Many a mother has prevented her son from getting married until it has become too late for him to change his bachelor habits. His mother and his sisters realize that he ought to be married, and that he has a right to a home of his own; but in their heart of hearts they combat the idea, and their opposition109 takes the form of an unsparing criticism of any young lady whom he follows with his eyes. This frequently happens also in a family of girls: they all remain unmarried because, if one of them shows an inclination110 in that direction, the others unite in a conspiracy111 against her. On the other hand, a family of four or five boys will marry early, if they can obtain the means of doing so, simply from the need of feminine cheer and sympathy. A devoted112 female friend will sometimes prevent a young woman from being married. Love affairs are soft earth for an intriguing113 and unprincipled woman to work in, but, fortunately, Mrs. Hawthorne did not belong in that category.
It was stout114, large-hearted Elizabeth Peabody who broke the spell of the enchanted115 castle in which Hawthorne was confined. The Peabodys were a cultivated family in Salem, who lived pretty much by themselves, as the Hawthornes and Mannings did. Doctor Nathaniel Peabody was a respectable practitioner116, but he had not succeeded in curing the headaches of his daughter Sophia, which came upon her at the close of her girlhood and still continued intermittently117 until this time. The Graces had not been bountiful the Peabody family, so, to compensate54 for this, they all cultivated the Muses118, in whose society they ascended119 no little distance on the way to Parnassus. Elizabeth Peabody was quite a feminine pundit120. She learned French and German, and studied history and archaeology121; she taught history on a large scale at Sanborn’s Concord122 School and at many others; she had a method of painting dates on squares, which fixed123 them indelibly in the minds of her pupils; she talked at Margaret Fuller’s transcendental club, and was an active member of the Radical124 or Chestnut125 Street Club, thirty years later; but her chief distinction was the introduction of Froebel’s Kindergarten teaching, by which she well-nigh revolutionized primary instruction in America. She was a most self-forgetful person, and her scholars became devotedly126 attached to her.
Her sister Mary was as much like Elizabeth mentally as she differed from her in figure and general appearance, but soon after this she was married to Horace Mann and her public activity became merged127 in that of her husband, who was the first educator of his time. Sophia Peabody read poetry and other fine writings, and acquired a fair proficiency128 in drawing and painting. They lived what was then called the “higher life,” and it certainly led them to excellent results.
Shortly before the publication of “Twice Told Tales,” Elizabeth Peabody learned that the author of “The Gentle Boy,” and other stories which she had enjoyed in the Token, lived in Salem, and that the name was Hawthorne. She immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were the work of Miss Elizabeth Hawthorne, whom she had known somewhat in earlier days, and she concluded to call upon her and offer her congratulations. When informed by Louisa Hawthorne, who came to her in the parlor129, instead of the elder sister, that “The Gentle Boy” was written by Nathaniel, Miss Peabody made the significant remark, “If your brother can do work like that, he has no right to be idle” {Footnote: Lathrop, 168. Miss Peabody would seem to have narrated130 this to him.}—to which Miss Louisa retorted, it is to be hoped with some indignation, that her brother never was idle.
It is only too evident from this that public opinion in Salem had already decided that Hawthorne was an idle fellow, who was living on his female relatives. That is the way the world judges—from external facts without any consideration of internal causes or conditions. It gratifies the vanity of those who are fortunate and prosperous, to believe that all men have an equal chance in the race of life. Emerson once blamed two young men for idleness, who were struggling against obstacles such as he could have had no conception of. Those who have been fortunate from the cradle never learn what life is really like.
The spell, however, was broken and the friendliness131 of Elizabeth Peabody found a deeply sympathetic response in the Hawthorne household. Nathaniel at last found a person who expressed a genuine and heartfelt appreciation132 of his work, and it was like the return of the sun to the Arctic explorer after his long winter night. Rather to Miss Peabody’s surprise he and his sisters soon returned her call, and visits between the two families thereafter became frequent.
Sophia Peabody belonged to the class of young women for whom Shakespeare’s Ophelia serves as a typical example. She was gentle, affectionate, refined, and amiable133 to a fault,—much too tender-hearted for this rough world, if her sister Elizabeth had not always stood like a barrier between her and it.
How Hawthorne might have acted in Hamlet’s place it is useless to surmise134, but in his true nature he was quite the opposite of Hamlet,—slow and cautious, but driven onward135 by an inexorable will. If Hamlet had possessed136 half of Hawthorne’s determination, he might have broken through the network of evil conditions which surrounded him, and lived to make Ophelia a happy woman. It was only necessary to come into Hawthorne’s presence in order to recognize the force that was in him.
Sophia Amelia Peabody was born September 21, 1811, so that at the time of which we are now writing she was twenty-five years of age. Hawthorne was then thirty-two, when a man is more attractive to the fair sex than at any other time of life, for then he unites the freshness and vigor137 of youth with sufficient maturity138 of judgment139 to inspire confidence and trust. Yet her sister Elizabeth found it difficult to persuade her to come into the parlor and meet the handsomest man in Salem. When she did come she evidently attracted Nathaniel Hawthorne’s attention, for, although she said little, he looked at her repeatedly while conversing140 with her sister. It may not have been an instance of love at first sight,—which may happen to any young man at a dancing party, and be forgotten two days later,—but it was something more than a casual interest. On his second or third call she showed him a sketch99 she had made of “the gentle boy,” according to her idea of him, and the subdued141 tone with which he received it plainly indicated that he was already somewhat under her influence. Julian Hawthorne writes of this: {Footnote: J. Hawthorne, i. 179.}
“It may be remarked here, that Mrs. Hawthorne in telling her children, many years afterwards, of these first meetings with their father, used to say that his presence, from the very beginning, exercised so strong a magnetic attraction upon her, that instinctively, and in self-defence as it were, she drew back and repelled142 him. The power which she felt in him alarmed her; she did not understand what it meant, and was only able to feel that she must resist.”
Every true woman feels this reluctance143 at first toward a suitor for her hand, but a sensitive young lady might well have a sense of awe144 on finding that she had attracted to herself such a mundane145 force as Hawthorne, and it is no wonder that this first impression was recollected146 throughout her life. There are many who would have refused Hawthorne’s suit, because they felt that he was too great and strong for them, and it is to the honor of Sophia Peabody that she was not only attracted by the magnetism147 of Hawthorne, but finally had the courage to unite herself to such an enigmatical person.
We also obtain a glimpse of Hawthorne’s side of this courtship from a letter which he wrote to Longfellow in June, 1837, and in which he says, “I have now, or shall soon have a sharper spur to exertion148, which I lacked at an earlier period;” {Footnote: Conway, 75.} and this is all the information he has vouchsafed149 us on the subject. If there is anything more in his diary, it has not been given to the public, and probably never will be. A number of letters which he wrote to Miss Sophia from Boston, or Brook150 Farm, have been published by his son, but it would be neither right nor judicious151 to introduce them here.
It is, however, evident from the above that Hawthorne was already engaged in June, 1837, but his engagement long remained a secret, for three excellent reasons; viz., his slender means of support, the delicate health of his betrothed152, and the disturbance153 which it might create in the Hawthorne family. The last did not prove so serious a difficulty as he seems to have imagined; but his apprehensiveness154 on that point many another could justify155 from personal experience. {Footnote: J. Hawthorne, i. 196.}
From this time also the health of Sophia Peabody steadily156 improved, nor is it necessary to account for it by any magical influence on the part of her lover. Her trouble was plainly some recondite157 difficulty of the circulation. The heart is supposed to be the seat of the affections because mental emotion stimulates158 the nervous system and acts upon the heart as the centre of all organic functions. A healthy natural excitement will cause the heart to vibrate more firmly and evenly; but an unhealthy excitement, like fear or anger, will cause it to beat in a rapid and uneven159 manner. Contrarily, despondency, or a lethargic160 state of mind, causes the movement of the blood to slacken. The happiness of love is thus the best of all stimulants161 and correctives for a torpid162 circulation, and it expands the whole being of a woman like the blossoming of a flower in the sunshine. From the time of her betrothal163, Sophia Peabody’s headaches became less and less frequent, until they ceased altogether. The true seat of the affections is in the mind. The first consideration proved to be a more serious matter. If Hawthorne had not succeeded in earning his own livelihood164 by literature so far, what prospect was there of supporting a wife and family in that manner? What should he do; whither should he turn? He continually turned the subject over in his mind, without, however, reaching any definite conclusion. Nor is this to be wondered at. If the ordinary avenues of human industry were not available to him as a college graduate, they were now permanently165 closed. A man in his predicament at the present time might obtain the position of librarian in one of our inland cities; but such places are few and the applications are many. Bronson Alcott once offered his services as teacher of a primary school, a position he might have filled better than most, for its one requisite166 is kindliness167, but the Concord school committee would not hear of it. If Hawthorne had attempted to turn pedagogue168 he might have met with a similar experience.
Conway remarks very justly that an American author could not be expected to earn his own living in a country where foreign books could be pirated as they were in the United States until 1890, and this was especially true during the popularity of Dickens and George Eliot. Dickens was the great humanitarian writer of the nineteenth century, but he was also a caricaturist and a bohemian. He did not represent life as it is, but with a certain comical oddity. As an author he is to Hawthorne what a peony is to a rose, or a garnet is to a ruby169; but ten, persons would purchase a novel of Dickens when one would select the “Twice Told Tales.” Scott and Tennyson are exceptional instances of a high order of literary work which also proved fairly remunerative170; but they do not equal Hawthorne in grace of diction and in the rare quality of his thought,—whatever advantages they may possess in other respects. Thackeray earned his living by his pen, but it was only in England that he could have done this.
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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constellation
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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emanates
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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mere
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perplexed
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nucleus
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essentially
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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justifiable
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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degenerated
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inverted
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perverse
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virtue
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stigmatize
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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22
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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23
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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24
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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25
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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26
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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27
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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28
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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29
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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30
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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31
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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32
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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33
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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34
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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35
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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38
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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39
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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40
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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41
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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42
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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43
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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44
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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45
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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46
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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47
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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48
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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49
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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53
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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54
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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55
compensates
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的第三人称单数 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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56
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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57
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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58
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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59
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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60
meteoric
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| adj.流星的，转瞬即逝的，突然的 | |
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61
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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62
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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63
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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64
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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65
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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66
crouches
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| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
absconds
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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70
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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72
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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73
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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74
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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75
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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78
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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79
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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80
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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81
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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82
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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83
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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84
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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85
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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86
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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87
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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88
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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89
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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90
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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91
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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92
skeptic
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| n.怀疑者，怀疑论者，无神论者 | |
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93
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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94
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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95
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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96
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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97
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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98
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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99
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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100
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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101
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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102
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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103
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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104
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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105
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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106
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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107
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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108
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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109
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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110
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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111
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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112
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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113
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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115
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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117
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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118
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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119
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
pundit
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| n.博学之人；权威 | |
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121
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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122
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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123
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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124
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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125
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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126
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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127
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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128
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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129
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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130
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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132
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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133
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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134
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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135
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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136
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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137
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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138
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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139
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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140
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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141
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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143
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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144
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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145
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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146
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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148
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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149
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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150
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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151
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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152
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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153
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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154
apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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155
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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156
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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157
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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158
stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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159
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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160
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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161
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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162
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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163
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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164
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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165
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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166
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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167
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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168
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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169
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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170
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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