Within so trifling22 a distance of the central spot of all the world (which, as Americans have at present no centre of their own, we may allow to be somewhere in the vicinity, we will say, of St. Paul's Cathedral), it might have seemed natural that I should be tossed about by the turbulence23 of the vast London whirlpool. But I had drifted into a still eddy24, where conflicting movements made a repose25, and, wearied with a good deal of uncongenial activity, I found the quiet of my temporary haven26 more attractive than anything that the great town could offer. I already knew London well; that is to say, I had long ago satisfied (so far as it was capable of satisfaction) that mysterious yearning—the magnetism27 of millions of hearts operating upon one—which impels28 every man's individuality to mingle29 itself with the immensest mass of human life within his scope. Day alter day, at an earlier period, I had trodden the thronged30 thoroughfares, the broad, lonely squares, the lanes, alleys32, and strange labyrinthine33 courts, the parks, the gardens and enclosures of ancient studious societies, so retired34 and silent amid the city uproar35, the markets, the foggy streets along the river-side, the bridges,—I had sought all parts of the metropolis36, in short, with an unweariable and indiscriminating curiosity; until few of the native inhabitants, I fancy, had turned so many of its corners as myself. These aimless wanderings (in which my prime purpose and achievement were to lose my way, and so to find it the more surely) had brought one, at one time or another, to the sight and actual presence of almost all the objects and renowned37 localities that I had read about, and which had made London the dream-city of my youth. I had found it better than my dream; for there is nothing else in life comparable (in that species of enjoyment38, I mean) to the thick, heavy, oppressive, sombre delight which an American is sensible of, hardly knowing whether to call it a pleasure or a pain, in the atmosphere of London. The result was, that I acquired a home-feeling there, as nowhere else in the world,—though afterwards I came to have a somewhat similar sentiment in regard to Rome; and as long as either of those two great cities shall exist, the cities of the Past and of the Present, a man's native soil may crumble39 beneath his feet without leaving him altogether homeless upon earth.
Thus, having once fully40 yielded to its influence, I was in a manner free of the city, and could approach or keep away from it as I pleased. Hence it happened, that, living within a quarter of an hour's rush of the London Bridge Terminus, I was oftener tempted41 to spend a whole summer-day in our garden than to seek anything new or old, wonderful or commonplace, beyond its precincts. It was a delightful garden, of no great extent, but comprising a good many facilities for repose and enjoyment, such as arbors and garden-seats, shrubbery, flower-beds, rose-bushes in a profusion42 of bloom, pinks, poppies, geraniums, sweet-peas, and a variety of other scarlet43, yellow, blue, and purple blossoms, which I did not trouble myself to recognize individually, yet had always a vague sense of their beauty about me. The dim sky of England has a most happy effect on the coloring of flowers, blending richness with delicacy44 in the same texture45; but in this garden, as everywhere else, the exuberance46 of English verdure had a greater charm than any tropical splendor47 or diversity of hue48. The hunger for natural beauty might be satisfied with grass and green leaves forever. Conscious of the triumph of England in this respect, and loyally anxious for the credit of my own country, it gratified me to observe what trouble and pains the English gardeners are fain to throw away in producing a few sour plums and abortive49 pears and apples,—as, for example, in this very garden, where a row of unhappy trees were spread out perfectly50 flat against a brick wall, looking as if impaled51 alive, or crucified, with a cruel and unattainable purpose of compelling them to produce rich fruit by torture. For my part, I never ate an English fruit, raised in the open air, that could compare in flavor with a Yankee turnip52.
The garden included that prime feature of English domestic scenery, a lawn. It had been levelled, carefully shorn, and converted into a bowling-green, on which we sometimes essayed to practise the time-honored game of bowls, most unskilfully, yet not without a perception that it involves a very pleasant mixture of exercise and ease, as is the case with most of the old English pastimes. Our little domain55 was shut in by the house on one side, and in other directions by a hedge-fence and a brick wall, which last was concealed56 or softened57 by shrubbery and the impaled fruit-trees already mentioned. Over all the outer region, beyond our immediate58 precincts, there was an abundance of foliage59, tossed aloft from the near or distant trees with which that agreeable suburb is adorned60. The effect was wonderfully sylvan61 and rural, insomuch that we might have fancied ourselves in the depths of a wooded seclusion62; only that, at brief intervals, we could hear the galloping63 sweep of a railway-train passing within a quarter of a mile, and its discordant64 screech65, moderated by a little farther distance, as it reached the Blackheath Station. That harsh, rough sound, seeking me out so inevitably66, was the voice of the great world summoning me forth67. I know not whether I was the more pained or pleased to be thus constantly put in mind of the neighborhood of London; for, on the one hand, my conscience stung me a little for reading a book, or playing with children in the grass, when there were so many better things for an enlightened traveller to do,—while, at the same time, it gave a deeper delight to my luxurious68 idleness, to contrast it with the turmoil69 which I escaped. On the whole, however, I do not repent70 of a single wasted hour, and only wish that I could have spent twice as many in the same way; for the impression on my memory is, that I was as happy in that hospitable71 garden as the English summer-day was long.
One chief condition of my enjoyment was the weather. Italy has nothing like it, nor America. There never was such weather except in England, where, in requital72 of a vast amount of horrible east-wind between February and June, and a brown October and black November, and a wet, chill, sunless winter, there are a few weeks of incomparable summer, scattered73 through July and August, and the earlier portion of September, small in quantity, but exquisite74 enough to atone75 for the whole year's atmospherical76 delinquencies. After all, the prevalent sombreness may have brought out those sunny intervals in such high relief, that I see them, in my recollection, brighter than they really were: a little light makes a glory for people who live habitually77 in a gray gloom. The English, however, do not seem to know how enjoyable the momentary78 gleams of their summer are; they call it broiling79 weather, and hurry to the seaside with red, perspiring80 faces, in a state of combustion81 and deliquescence; and I have observed that even their cattle have similar susceptibilities, seeking the deepest shade, or standing82 midleg deep in pools and streams to cool themselves, at temperatures which our own cows would deem little more than barely comfortable. To myself, after the summer heats of my native land had somewhat effervesced83 out of my blood and memory, it was the weather of Paradise itself. It might be a little too warm; but it was that modest and inestimable superabundance which constitutes a bounty84 of Providence85, instead of just a niggardly86 enough. During my first year in England, residing in perhaps the most ungenial part of the kingdom, I could never be quite comfortable without a fire on the hearth15; in the second twelvemonth, beginning to get acclimatized, I became sensible of an austere87 friendliness88, shy, but sometimes almost tender, in the veiled, shadowy, seldom smiling summer; and in the succeeding years,—whether that I had renewed my fibre with English beef and replenished89 my blood with English ale, or whatever were the cause,—I grew content with winter and especially in love with summer, desiring little more for happiness than merely to breathe and bask90. At the midsummer which we are now speaking of, I must needs confess that the noontide sun came down more fervently91 than I found altogether tolerable; so that I was fain to shift my position with the shadow of the shrubbery, making myself the movable index of a sundial that reckoned up the hours of an almost interminable day.
For each day seemed endless, though never wearisome. As far as your actual experience is concerned, the English summer-day has positively92 no beginning and no end. When you awake, at any reasonable hour, the sun is already shining through the curtains; you live through unnumbered hours of Sabbath quietude, with a calm variety of incident softly etched upon their tranquil93 lapse94; and at length you become conscious that it is bedtime again, while there is still enough daylight in the sky to make the pages of your book distinctly legible. Night, if there be any such season, hangs down a transparent95 veil through which the bygone day beholds97 its successor; or, if not quite true of the latitude98 of London, it may be soberly affirmed of the more northern parts of the island, that To-morrow is born before its Yesterday is dead. They exist together in the golden twilight, where the decrepit99 old day dimly discerns the face of the ominous100 infant; and you, though a more mortal, may simultaneously101 touch them both with one finger of recollection and another of prophecy. I cared not how long the day might be, nor how many of them. I had earned this repose by a long course of irksome toil102 and perturbation, and could have been content never to stray out of the limits of that suburban villa103 and its garden. If I lacked anything beyond, it would have satisfied me well enough to dream about it, instead of struggling for its actual possession. At least, this was the feeling of the moment; although the transitory, flitting, and irresponsible character of my life there was perhaps the most enjoyable element of all, as allowing me much of the comfort of house and home without any sense of their weight upon my back. The nomadic104 life has great advantages, if we can find tents ready pitched for us at every stage.
So much for the interior of our abode,—a spot of deepest quiet, within reach of the intensest activity. But, even when we stopped beyond our own gate, we were not shocked with any immediate presence of the great world. We were dwelling in one of those oases105 that have grown up (in comparatively recent years, I believe) on the wide waste of Blackheath, which otherwise offers a vast extent of unoccupied ground in singular proximity106 to the metropolis. As a general thing, the proprietorship107 of the soil seems to exist in everybody and nobody; but exclusive rights have been obtained, here and there, chiefly by men whose daily concerns link them with London, so that you find their villas108 or boxes standing along village streets which have often more of an American aspect than the elder English settlements. The scene is semi-rural. Ornamental109 trees overshadow the sidewalks, and grassy111 margins112 border the wheel-tracks. The houses, to be sure, have certain points of difference from those of an American village, bearing tokens of architectural design, though seldom of individual taste; and, as far as possible, they stand aloof113 from the street, and separated each from its neighbor by hedge or fence, in accordance with the careful exclusiveness of the English character, which impels the occupant, moreover, to cover the front of his dwelling with as much concealment114 of shrubbery as his limits will allow. Through the interstices, you catch glimpses of well-kept lawns, generally ornamented115 with flowers, and with what the English call rock-work, being heaps of ivy-grown stones and fossils, designed for romantic effect in a small way. Two or three of such village streets as are here described take a collective name,—as, for instance, Blackheath Park,—and constitute a kind of community of residents, with gateways116, kept by a policeman, and a semi-privacy, stepping beyond which, you find yourself on the breezy heath.
On this great, bare, dreary common I often went astray, as I afterwards did on the Campagna of Rome, and drew the air (tainted with London smoke though it might be) into my lungs by deep inspirations, with a strange and unexpected sense of desert freedom. The misty117 atmosphere helps you to fancy a remoteness that perhaps does not quite exist. During the little time that it lasts, the solitude118 is as impressive as that of a Western prairie or forest; but soon the railway shriek119, a mile or two away, insists upon informing you of your whereabout; or you recognize in the distance some landmark120 that you may have known,—an insulated villa, perhaps, with its garden-wall around it, or the rudimental street of a new settlement which is sprouting121 on this otherwise barren soil. Half a century ago, the most frequent token of man's beneficent contiguity122 might have been a gibbet, and the creak, like a tavern123 sign, of a murderer swinging to and fro in irons. Blackheath, with its highwaymen and footpads, was dangerous in those days; and even now, for aught I know, the Western prairie may still compare favorably with it as a safe region to go astray in. When I was acquainted with Blackheath, the ingenious device of garroting had recently come into fashion; and I can remember, while crossing those waste places at midnight, and hearing footsteps behind me, to have been sensibly encouraged by also hearing, not far off, the clinking hoof-tramp of one of the horse-patrols who do regular duty there. About sunset, or a little later, was the time when the broad and somewhat desolate125 peculiarity126 of the heath seemed to me to put on its utmost impressiveness. At that hour, finding myself on elevated ground, I once had a view of immense London, four or five miles off, with the vast Dome54 in the midst, and the towers of the two Houses of Parliament rising up into the smoky canopy127, the thinner substance of which obscured a mass of things, and hovered128 about the objects that were most distinctly visible,—a glorious and sombre picture, dusky, awful, but irresistibly129 attractive, like a young man's dream of the great world, foretelling130 at that distance a grandeur131 never to be fully realized.
While I lived in that neighborhood, the tents of two or three sets of cricket-players were constantly pitched on Blackheath, and matches were going forward that seemed to involve the honor and credit of communities or counties, exciting an interest in everybody but myself, who cared not what part of England might glorify132 itself at the expense of another. It is necessary to be born an Englishman, I believe, in order to enjoy this great national game; at any rate, as a spectacle for an outside observer, I found it lazy, lingering, tedious, and utterly133 devoid134 of pictorial135 effects. Choice of other amusements was at hand. Butts136 for archery were established, and bows and arrows were to be let, at so many shots for a penny,—there being abundance of space for a farther flight-shot than any modern archer137 can lend to his shaft138. Then there was an absurd game of throwing a stick at crockery-ware, which I have witnessed a hundred times, and personally engaged in once or twice, without ever having the satisfaction to see a bit of broken crockery. In other spots you found donkeys for children to ride, and ponies139 of a very meek140 and patient spirit, on which the Cockney pleasure-seekers of both sexes rode races and made wonderful displays of horsemanship. By way of refreshment141 there was gingerbread (but, as a true patriot142, I must pronounce it greatly interior to our native dainty), and ginger-beer, and probably stauncher liquor among the booth-keeper's hidden stores. The frequent railway-trains, as well as the numerous steamers to Greenwich, have made the vacant portions of Blackheath a play-ground and breathing-place for the Londoners, readily and very cheaply accessible; so that, in view of this broader use and enjoyment, I a little grudged143 the tracts144 that have been filched145 away, so to speak, and individualized by thriving citizens. One sort of visitors especially interested me: they were schools of little boys or girls, under the guardianship146 of their instructors148,— charity schools, as I often surmised149 from their aspect, collected among dark alleys and squalid courts; and hither they were brought to spend a summer afternoon, these pale little progeny150 of the sunless nooks of London, who had never known that the sky was any broader than that narrow and vapory strip above their native lane. I fancied that they took but a doubtful pleasure, being half affrighted at the wide, empty space overhead and round about them, finding the air too little medicated with smoke, soot151, and graveyard152 exhalations, to be breathed with comfort, and feeling shelterless and lost because grimy London, their slatternly and disreputable mother, had suffered them to stray out of her arms.
Passing among these holiday people, we come to one of the gateways of Greenwich Park, opening through an old brick wall. It admits us from the bare heath into a scene of antique cultivation153 and woodland ornament110, traversed in all directions by avenues of trees, many of which bear tokens of a venerable age. These broad and well-kept pathways rise and decline over the elevations154 and along the bases of gentle hills which diversify155 the whole surface of the Park. The loftiest, and most abrupt156 of them (though but of very moderate height) is one of the earth's noted157 summits, and may hold up its head with Mont Blanc and Chimborazo, as being the site of Greenwich Observatory158, where, if all nations will consent to say so, the longitude159 of our great globe begins. I used to regulate my watch by the broad dial-plate against the Observatory wall, and felt it pleasant to be standing at the very centre of Time and Space.
There are lovelier parks than this in the neighborhood of London, richer scenes of greensward and cultivated trees; and Kensington, especially, in a summer afternoon, has seemed to me as delightful as any place can or ought to be, in a world which, some time or other, we must quit. But Greenwich, too, is beautiful,—a spot where the art of man has conspired160 with Nature, as if he and the great mother had taken counsel together how to make a pleasant scene, and the longest liver of the two had faithfully carried out their mutual161 design. It has, likewise, an additional charm of its own, because, to all appearance, it is the people's property and play-ground in a much more genuine way than the aristocratic resorts in closer vicinity to the metropolis. It affords one of the instances in which the monarch's property is actually the people's, and shows how much more natural is their relation to the sovereign than to the nobility, which pretends to hold the intervening space between the two: for a nobleman makes a paradise only for himself, and fills it with his own pomp and pride; whereas the people are sooner or later the legitimate162 inheritors of whatever beauty kings and queens create, as now of Greenwich Park. On Sundays, when the sun shone, and even on those grim and sombre days when, if it do not actually rain, the English persist in calling it fine weather, it was too good to see how sturdily the plebeians163 trod under their own oaks, and what fulness of simple enjoyment they evidently found there. They were the people,—not the populace,— specimens164 of a class whose Sunday clothes are a distinct kind of garb166 from their week-day ones; and this, in England, implies wholesome167 habits of life, daily thrift168, and a rank above the lowest. I longed to be acquainted with them, in order to investigate what manner of folks they were, what sort of households they kept, their politics, their religion, their tastes, and whether they were as narrow-minded as their betters. There can be very little doubt of it: an Englishman is English, in whatever rank of life, though no more intensely so, I should imagine, as an artisan or petty shopkeeper, than as a member of Parliament.
The English character, as I conceive it, is by no means a very lofty one; they seem to have a great deal of earth and grimy dust clinging about them, as was probably the case with the stalwart and quarrelsome people who sprouted169 up out of the soil, after Cadmus had sown the dragon's teeth. And yet, though the individual Englishman is sometimes preternaturally disagreeable, an observer standing aloof has a sense of natural kindness towards them in the lump. They adhere closer to the original simplicity170 in which mankind was created than we ourselves do; they love, quarrel, laugh, cry, and turn their actual selves inside out, with greater freedom than any class of Americans would consider decorous. It was often so with these holiday folks in Greenwich Park; and, ridiculous as it may sound, I fancy myself to have caught very satisfactory glimpses of Arcadian life among the Cockneys there, hardly beyond the scope of Bow-Bells, picnicking in the grass, uncouthly171 gambolling172 on the broad slopes, or straying in motley groups or by single pairs of love-making youths and maidens174, along the sun-streaked avenues. Even the omnipresent policemen or park-keepers could not disturb the beatific175 impression on my mind. One feature, at all events, of the Golden Age was to be seen in the herds176 of deer that encountered you in the somewhat remoter recesses177 of the Park, and were readily prevailed upon to nibble178 a bit of bread out of your hand. But, though no wrong had ever been done them, and no horn had sounded nor hound bayed at the heels of themselves or their antlered progenitors179 for centuries past, there was still an apprehensiveness180 lingering in their hearts; so that a slight movement of the hand or a step too near would send a whole squadron of them scampering181 away, just as a breath scatters182 the winged seeds of a dandelion.
The aspect of Greenwich Park, with all those festal people wandering through it, resembled that of the Borghese Gardens under the walls of Rome, on a Sunday or Saint's day; but, I am not ashamed to say, it a little disturbed whatever grim ghost of Puritanic strictness might be lingering in the sombre depths of a New England heart, among severe and sunless remembrances of the Sabbaths of childhood, and pangs183 of remorse184 for ill-gotten lessons in the catechism, and for erratic185 fantasies or hardly suppressed laughter in the middle of long sermons. Occasionally, I tried to take the long-hoarded sting out of these compunctious smarts by attending divine service in the open air. On a cart outside of the Park-wall (and, if I mistake not, at two or three corners and secluded186 spots within the Park itself) a Methodist preacher uplifts his voice and speedily gathers a congregation, his zeal187 for whose religious welfare impels the good man to such earnest vociferation and toilsome gesture that his perspiring face is quickly in a stew188. His inward flame conspires189 with the too fervid190 sun and makes a positive martyr191 of him, even in the very exercise of his pious192 labor193; insomuch that he purchases every atom of spiritual increment194 to his hearers by loss of his own corporeal195 solidity, and, should his discourse196 last long enough, must finally exhale197 before their eyes. If I smile at him, be it understood, it is not in scorn; he performs his sacred office more acceptably than many a prelate. These wayside services attract numbers who would not otherwise listen to prayer, sermon, or hymn198, from one year's end to another, and who, for that very reason, are the auditors199 most likely to be moved by the preacher's eloquence200. Yonder Greenwich pensioner201, too,— in his costume of three-cornered hat, and old-fashioned, brass-buttoned blue coat with ample skirts, which makes him look like a contemporary of Admiral Benbow,—that tough old mariner202 may hear a word or two which will go nearer his heart than anything that the chaplain of the Hospital can be expected to deliver. I always noticed, moreover, that a considerable proportion of the audience were soldiers, who came hither with a day's leave from Woolwich,—hardy veterans in aspect, some of whom wore as many as four or five medals, Crimean or East Indian, on the breasts of their scarlet coats. The miscellaneous congregation listen with every appearance of heartfelt interest; and, for my own part, I must frankly203 acknowledge that I never found it possible to give five minutes' attention to any other English preaching: so cold and commonplace are the homilies that pass for such, under the aged124 roofs of churches. And as for cathedrals, the sermon is an exceedingly diminutive204 and unimportant part of the religious services,—if, indeed, it be considered a part,— among the pompous205 ceremonies, the intonations206, and the resounding207 and lofty-voiced strains of the choristers. The magnificence of the setting quite dazzles out what we Puritans look upon as the jewel of the whole affair; for I presume that it was our forefathers208, the Dissenters209 in England and America, who gave the sermon its present prominence210 in the Sabbath exercises.
The Methodists are probably the first and only Englishmen who have worshipped in the open air since the ancient Britons listened to the preaching of the Druids; and it reminded me of that old priesthood, to see certain memorials of their dusky epoch211—not religious, however, but warlike—in the neighborhood of the spot where the Methodist was holding forth. These were some ancient barrows, beneath or within which are supposed to be buried the slain212 of a forgotten or doubtfully remembered battle, fought on the site of Greenwich Park as long ago as two or three centuries after the birth of Christ. Whatever may once have been their height and magnitude, they have now scarcely more prominence in the actual scene than the battle of which they are the sole monuments retains in history,—being only a few mounds213 side by side, elevated a little above the surface of the ground, ten or twelve feet in diameter, with a shallow depression in their summits. When one of them was opened, not long since, no bones, nor armor, nor weapons were discovered, nothing but some small jewels, and a tuft of hair,—perhaps from the head of a valiant214 general, who, dying on the field of his victory, bequeathed this lock, together with his indestructible fame, to after ages. The hair and jewels are probably in the British Museum, where the potsherds and rubbish of innumerable generations make the visitor wish that each passing century could carry off all its fragments and relics215 along with it, instead of adding them to the continually accumulating burden which human knowledge is compelled to lug216 upon its back. As for the fame, I know not what has become of it.
After traversing the Park, we come into the neighborhood of Greenwich Hospital, and will pass through one of its spacious217 gateways for the sake of glancing at an establishment which does more honor to the heart of England than anything else that I am acquainted with, of a public nature. It is very seldom that we can be sensible of anything like kindliness218 in the acts or relations of such an artificial thing as a National Government. Our own government, I should conceive, is too much an abstraction ever to feel any sympathy for its maimed sailors and soldiers, though it will doubtless do then a severe kind of justice, as chilling as the touch of steel. But it seemed to me that the Greenwich pensioners219 are the petted children of the nation, and that the government is their dry-nurse, and that the old men themselves have a childlike consciousness of their position. Very likely, a better sort of life might have been arranged, and a wiser care bestowed220 on them; but, such as it is, it enables them to spend a sluggish221, careless, comfortable old age, grumbling222, growling224, gruff, as if all the foul225 weather of their past years were pent up within them, yet not much more discontented than such weather-beaten and battle-battered fragments of human kind must inevitably be. Their home, in its outward form, is on a very magnificent plan. Its germ was a royal palace, the full expansion of which has resulted in a series of edifices226 externally more beautiful than any English palace that I have seen, consisting of several quadrangles of stately architecture, united by colonnades227 and gravel-walks, and enclosing grassy squares, with statues in the centre, the whole extending along the Thames. It is built of marble, or very light-colored stone, in the classic style, with pillars and porticos, which (to my own taste, and, I fancy, to that of the old sailors) produce but a cold and shivery effect in the English climate. Had I been the architect, I would have studied the characters, habits, and predilections228 of nautical229 people in Wapping, Hotherhithe, and the neighborhood of the Tower (places which I visited in affectionate remembrance of Captain Lemuel Gulliver, and other actual or mythological230 navigators), and would have built the hospital in a kind of ethereal similitude to the narrow, dark, ugly, and inconvenient231, but snug9 and cosey homeliness232 of the sailor boarding-houses there. There can be no question that all the above attributes, or enough of then to satisfy an old sailor's heart, might be reconciled with architectural beauty and the wholesome contrivances of modern dwellings233, and thus a novel and genuine style of building be given to the world.
But their countrymen meant kindly234 by the old fellows in assigning them the ancient royal site where Elizabeth held her court and Charles II. began to build his palace. So far as the locality went, it was treating them like so many kings; and, with a discreet235 abundance of grog, beer, and tobacco, there was perhaps little more to be accomplished in behalf of men whose whole previous lives have tended to unfit them for old age. Their chief discomfort236 is probably for lack of something to do or think about. But, judging by the few whom I saw, a listless habit seems to have crept over them, a dim dreaminess of mood, in which they sit between asleep and awake, and find the long day wearing towards bedtime without its having made any distinct record of itself upon their consciousness. Sitting on stone benches in the sunshine, they subside237 into slumber238, or nearly so, and start at the approach of footsteps echoing under the colonnades, ashamed to be caught napping, and rousing themselves in a hurry, as formerly239 on the midnight watch at sea. In their brightest moments, they gather in groups and bore one another with endless sea-yarns about their voyages under famous admirals, and about gale240 and calm, battle and chase, and all that class of incident that has its sphere on the deck and in the hollow interior of a ship, where their world has exclusively been. For other pastime, they quarrel among themselves, comrade with comrade, and perhaps shake paralytic241 fists in furrowed242 faces. If inclined for a little exercise, they can bestir their wooden legs on the long esplanade that borders by the Thames, criticising the rig of passing ships, and firing off volleys of malediction243 at the steamers, which have made the sea another element than that they used to be acquainted with. All this is but cold comfort for the evening of life, yet may compare rather favorably with the preceding portions of it, comprising little save imprisonment244 on shipboard, in the course of which they have been tossed all about the world and caught hardly a glimpse of it, forgetting what grass and trees are, and never finding out what woman is, though they may have encountered a painted spectre which they took for her. A country owes much to human beings whose bodies she has worn out and whose immortal245 part she has left undeveloped or debased, as we tied them here; and having wasted an idle paragraph upon them, let me now suggest that old men have a kind of susceptibility to moral impressions, and even (up to an advanced period) a receptivity of truth, which often appears to come to them after the active time of life is past. The Greenwich pensioners might prove better subjects for true education now than in their school-boy days; but then where is the Normal School that could educate instructors for such a class?
There is a beautiful chapel246 for the pensioners, in the classic style, over the altar of which hangs a picture by West. I never could look at it long enough to make out its design; for this artist (though it pains me to say it of so respectable a countryman) had a gift of frigidity247, a knack248 of grinding ice into his paint, a power of stupefying the spectator's perceptions and quelling249 his sympathy, beyond any other limner that ever handled a brush. In spite of many pangs of conscience, I seize this opportunity to wreak250 a lifelong abhorrence251 upon the poor, blameless man, for the sake of that dreary picture of Lear, an explosion of frosty fury, that used to be a bugbear to me in the Athenaeum Exhibition. Would fire burn it, I wonder?
The principal thing that they have to show you, at Greenwich Hospital, is the Painted Hall. It is a splendid and spacious room, at least a hundred feet long and half as high, with a ceiling painted in fresco252 by Sir James Thornhill. As a work of art, I presume, this frescoed253 canopy has little merit, though it produces an exceedingly rich effect by its brilliant coloring and as a specimen165 of magnificent upholstery. The walls of the grand apartment are entirely254 covered with pictures, many of them representing battles and other naval255 incidents that were once fresher in the world's memory than now, but chiefly portraits of old admirals, comprising the whole line of heroes who have trod the quarter-decks of British ships for more than two hundred years back. Next to a tomb in Westminster Abbey, which was Nelson's most elevated object of ambition, it would seem to be the highest need of a naval warrior256 to have his portrait hung up in the Painted Hall; but, by dint257 of victory upon victory, these illustrious personages have grown to be a mob, and by no means a very interesting one, so far as regards the character of the faces here depicted258. They are generally commonplace, and often singularly stolid259; and I have observed (both in the Painted Hall and elsewhere, and not only in portraits, but in the actual presence of such renowned people as I have caught glimpses of) that the countenances260 of heroes are not nearly so impressive as those of statesmen,—except, of course, in the rare instances where warlike ability has been but the one-sided manifestation261 of a profound genius for managing the world's affairs. Nine tenths of these distinguished262 admirals, for instance, if their faces tell truth, must needs have been blockheads, and might have served better, one would imagine, as wooden figure-heads for their own ships than to direct any difficult and intricate scheme of action from the quarter-deck. It is doubtful whether the same kind of men will hereafter meet with a similar degree of success; for they were victorious263 chiefly through the old English hardihood, exercised in a field of which modern science had not yet got possession. Rough valor264 has lost something of its value, since their days, and must continue to sink lower and lower in the comparative estimate of warlike qualities. In the next naval war, as between England and France, I would bet, methinks, upon the Frenchman's head.
It is remarkable265, however, that the great naval hero of England—the greatest, therefore, in the world, and of all time—had none of the stolid characteristics that belong to his class, and cannot fairly be accepted as their representative man. Foremost in the roughest of professions, he was as delicately organized as a woman, and as painfully sensitive as a poet. More than any other Englishman he won the love and admiration266 of his country, but won them through the efficacy of qualities that are not English, or, at all events, were intensified267 in his case and made poignant268 and powerful by something morbid269 in the man, which put him otherwise at cross-purposes with life. He was a man of genius; and genius in an Englishman (not to cite the good old simile270 of a pearl in the oyster) is usually a symptom of a lack of balance in the general making-up of the character; as we may satisfy ourselves by running over the list of their poets, for example, and observing how many of them have been sickly or deformed271, and how often their lives have been darkened by insanity272. An ordinary Englishman is the healthiest and wholesomest of human beings; an extraordinary one is almost always, in one way or another, a sick man. It was so with Lord Nelson. The wonderful contrast or relation between his personal qualities, the position which he held, and the life that he lived, makes him as interesting a personage as all history has to show; and it is a pity that Southey's biography—so good in its superficial way, and yet so inadequate273 as regards any real delineation274 of the man—should have taken the subject out of the hands of some writer endowed with more delicate appreciation275 and deeper insight than that genuine Englishman possessed276. But Southey accomplished his own purpose, which, apparently277, was to present his hero as a pattern for England's young midshipmen.
But the English capacity for hero-worship is full to the brim with what they are able to comprehend of Lord Nelson's character. Adjoining the Painted Hall is a smaller room, the walls of which are completely and exclusively adorned with pictures of the great Admiral's exploits. We see the frail278, ardent279 man in all the most noted events of his career, from his encounter with a Polar bear to his death at Trafalgar, quivering here and there about the room like a blue, lambent flame. No Briton ever enters that apartment without feeling the beef and ale of his composition stirred to its depths, and finding himself changed into a Hero for the notice, however stolid his brain, however tough his heart, however unexcitable his ordinary mood. To confess the truth, I myself, though belonging to another parish, have been deeply sensible to the sublime281 recollections there aroused, acknowledging that Nelson expressed his life in a kind of symbolic282 poetry which I had as much right to understand as these burly islanders. Cool and critical observer as I sought to be, I enjoyed their burst of honest indignation when a visitor (not an American, I am glad to say) thrust his walking-stick almost into Nelson's face, in one of the pictures, by way of pointing a remark; and the bystanders immediately glowed like so many hot coals, and would probably have consumed the offender283 in their wrath284, had he not effected his retreat. But the most sacred objects of all are two of Nelson's coats, under separate glass cases. One is that which he wore at the Battle of the Nile, and it is now sadly injured by moths285, which will quite destroy it in a few years, unless its guardians147 preserve it as we do Washington's military suit, by occasionally baking it in an oven. The other is the coat in which he received his death-wound at Trafalgar. On its breast are sewed three or four stars and orders of knighthood, now much dimmed by time and damp, but which glittered brightly enough on the battle-day to draw the fatal aim of a French marksman. The bullet-hole is visible on the shoulder, as well as a part of the golden tassels286 of an epaulet, the rest of which was shot away. Over the coat is laid a white waistcoat with a great blood-stain on it, out of which all the redness has utterly faded, leaving it of a dingy287 yellow line, in the threescore years since that blood gushed288 out. Yet it was once the reddest blood in England,— Nelson's blood!
The hospital stands close adjacent to the town of Greenwich, which will always retain a kind of festal aspect in my memory, in consequence of my having first become acquainted with it on Easter Monday. Till a few years ago, the first three days of Easter were a carnival289 season in this old town, during which the idle and disreputable part of London poured itself into the streets like an inundation290 of the Thames, as unclean as that turbid291 mixture of the offscourings of the vast city, and overflowing292 with its grimy pollution whatever rural innocence293, if any, might be found in the suburban neighborhood. This festivity was called Greenwich Fair, the final one of which, in an immemorial succession, it was my fortune to behold96.
If I had bethought myself of going through the fair with a note-book and pencil, jotting294 down all the prominent objects, I doubt not that the result might have been a sketch295 of English life quite as characteristic and worthy296 of historical preservation297 as an account of the Roman Carnival. Having neglected to do so, I remember little more than a confusion of unwashed and shabbily dressed people, intermixed with some smarter figures, but, on the whole, presenting a mobbish appearance such as we never see in our own country. It taught me to understand why Shakespeare, in speaking of a crowd, so often alludes298 to its attribute of evil odor. The common people of England, I am afraid, have no daily familiarity with even so necessary a thing as a wash-bowl, not to mention a bathing-tub. And furthermore, it is one mighty299 difference between them and us, that every man and woman on our side of the water has a working-day suit and a holiday suit, and is occasionally as fresh as a rose, whereas, in the good old country, the griminess of his labor or squalid habits clings forever to the individual, and gets to be a part of his personal substance. These are broad facts, involving great corollaries and dependencies. There are really, if you stop to think about it, few sadder spectacles in the world than a ragged300 coat, or a soiled and shabby gown, at a festival.
This unfragrant crowd was exceedingly dense301, being welded together, as it were, in the street through which we strove to make our way. On either side were oyster-stands, stalls of oranges (a very prevalent fruit in England, where they give the withered302 ones a guise303 of freshness by boiling them), and booths covered with old sail-cloth, in which the commodity that most attracted the eye was gilt304 gingerbread. It was so completely enveloped305 in Dutch gilding306 that I did not at first recognize an old acquaintance, but wondered what those golden crowns and images could be. There were likewise drums and other toys for small children, and a variety of showy and worthless articles for children of a larger growth; though it perplexed307 me to imagine who, in such a mob, could have the innocent taste to desire playthings, or the money to pay for them. Not that I have a right to license308 the mob, on my own knowledge, of being any less innocent than a set of cleaner and better dressed people might have been; for, though one of them stole my pocket-handkerchief, I could not but consider it fair game, under the circumstances, and was grateful to the thief for sparing me my purse. They were quiet, civil, and remarkably309 good-humored, making due allowance for the national gruffness; there was no riot, no tumultuous swaying to and fro of the mass, such as I have often noted in an American crowd, no noise of voices, except frequent bursts of laughter, hoarse310 or shrill311, and a widely diffused312, inarticulate murmur313, resembling nothing so much as the rumbling223 of the tide among the arches of London Bridge. What immensely perplexed me was a sharp, angry sort of rattle314, in all quarters, far off and close at hand, and sometimes right at my own back, where it sounded as if the stout315 fabric316 of my English surtout had been ruthlessly rent in twain; and everybody's clothes, all over the fair, were evidently being torn asunder317 in the same way. By and by, I discovered that this strange noise was produced by a little instrument called "The Fun of the Fair,"—a sort of rattle, consisting of a wooden wheel, the cogs of which turn against a thin slip of wood, and so produce a rasping sound when drawn318 smartly against a person's back. The ladies draw their rattles319 against the backs of their male friends (and everybody passes for a friend at Greenwich Fair), and the young men return the compliment on the broad British backs of the ladies; and all are bound by immemorial custom to take it in good part and be merry at the joke. As it was one of my prescribed official duties to give an account of such mechanical contrivances as might be unknown in my own country, I have thought it right to be thus particular in describing the Fun of the Fair.
But this was far from being the sole amusement. There were theatrical320 booths, in front of which were pictorial representations of the scenes to be enacted321 within; and anon a drummer emerged from one of them, thumping322 on a terribly lax drum, and followed by the entire dramatis personae, who ranged themselves on a wooden platform in front of the theatre. They were dressed in character, but wofully shabby, with very dingy and wrinkled white tights, threadbare cotton-velvets, crumpled324 silks, and crushed muslin, and all the gloss325 and glory gone out of their aspect and attire326, seen thus in the broad daylight and after a long series of performances. They sang a song together, and withdrew into the theatre, whither the public were invited to follow them at the inconsiderable cost of a penny a ticket. Before another booth stood a pair of brawny327 fighting-men, displaying their muscle, and soliciting328 patronage329 for an exhibition of the noble British art of pugilism. There were pictures of giants, monsters, and outlandish beasts, most prodigious330, to be sure, and worthy of all admiration, unless the artist had gone incomparably beyond his subject. Jugglers proclaimed aloud the miracles which they were prepared to work; and posture-makers dislocated every joint331 of their bodies and tied their limbs into inextricable knots, wherever they could find space to spread a little square of carpet on the ground. In the midst of the confusion, while everybody was treading on his neighbor's toes, some little boys were very solicitous332 to brush your boots. These lads, I believe, are a product of modern society,—at least, no older than the time of Gay, who celebrates their origin in his "Trivia"; but in most other respects the scene reminded me of Bunyan's description of Vanity Fair,—nor is it at all improbable that the Pilgrim may have been a merry-maker here, in his wild youth.
It seemed very singular—though, of course, I immediately classified it as an English characteristic—to see a great many portable weighing-machines, the owners of which cried out, continually and amain, "Come, know your weight! Come, come, know your weight to-day! Come, know your weight!" and a multitude of people, mostly large in the girth, were moved by this vociferation to sit down in the machines. I know not whether they valued themselves on their beef, and estimated their standing as members of society at so much a pound; but I shall set it down as a national peculiarity, and a symbol of the prevalence of the earthly over the spiritual element, that Englishmen are wonderfully bent280 on knowing how solid and physically333 ponderous334 they are.
On the whole, having an appetite for the brown bread and the tripe335 and sausages of life, as well as for its nicer cates and dainties, I enjoyed the scene, and was amused at the sight of a gruff old Greenwich pensioner, who, forgetful of the sailor-frolics of his young days, stood looking with grim disapproval336 at all these vanities. Thus we squeezed our way through the mob-jammed town, and emerged into the Park, where, likewise, we met a great many merry-makers, but with freer space for their gambols337 than in the streets. We soon found ourselves the targets for a cannonade with oranges (most of them in a decayed condition), which went humming past our ears from the vantage-ground of neighboring hillocks, sometimes hitting our sacred persons with an inelastic thump323. This was one of the privileged freedoms of the time, and was nowise to be resented, except by returning the salute338. Many persons were running races, hand in hand, down the declivities, especially that steepest one on the summit of which stands the world-central Observatory, and (as in the race of life) the partners were usually male and female, and often caught a tumble together before reaching the bottom of the hill. Hereabouts we were pestered339 and haunted by two young girls, the eldest340 not more than thirteen, teasing us to buy matches; and finding no market for their commodity, the taller one suddenly turned a somerset before our faces, and rolled heels over head from top to bottom of the hill on which we stood. Then, scrambling341 up the acclivity, the topsy-turvy trollop offered us her matches again, as demurely342 as if she had never flung aside her equilibrium343; so that, dreading344 a repetition of the feat53, we gave her sixpence and an admonition, and enjoined345 her never to do so any more.
The most curious amusement that we witnessed here—or anywhere else, indeed—was an ancient and hereditary346 pastime called "Kissing in the Ring." I shall describe the sport exactly as I saw it, although an English friend assures me that there are certain ceremonies with a handkerchief, which make it much more decorous and graceful347. A handkerchief, indeed! There was no such thing in the crowd, except it were the one which they had just filched out of my pocket. It is one of the simplest kinds of games, needing little or no practice to make the player altogether perfect; and the manner of it is this. A ring is formed (in the present case, it was of large circumference348 and thickly gemmed349 around with faces, mostly on the broad grin), into the centre of which steps an adventurous350 youth, and, looking round the circle, selects whatever maiden173 may most delight his eye. He presents his hand (which she is bound to accept), leads her into the centre, salutes351 her on the lips, and retires, taking his stand in the expectant circle. The girl, in her turn, throws a favorable regard on some fortunate young man, offers her hand to lead him forth, makes him happy with a maidenly352 kiss, and withdraws to hide her blushes, if any there be, among the simpering faces in the ring; while the favored swain loses no time in transferring her salute to the prettiest and plumpest among the many mouths that are primming353 themselves in anticipation354. And thus the thing goes on, till all the festive355 throng31 are inwreathed and intertwined into an endless and inextricable chain of kisses; though, indeed, it smote356 me with compassion357 to reflect that some forlorn pair of lips might be left out, and never know the triumph of a salute, after throwing aside so many delicate reserves for the sake of winning it. If the young men had any chivalry358, there was a fair chance to display it by kissing the homeliest damsel in the circle.
To be frank, however, at the first glance, and to my American eye, they looked all homely359 alike, and the chivalry that I suggest is more than I could have been capable of, at any period of my life. They seemed to be country-lasses, of sturdy and wholesome aspect, with coarse-grained, cabbage-rosy cheeks, and, I am willing to suppose, a stout texture of moral principle, such as would bear a good deal of rough usage without suffering much detriment360. But how unlike the trim little damsels of my native land! I desire above all things to be courteous361; but, since the plain truth must be told, the soil and climate of England produce feminine beauty as rarely as they do delicate fruit, and though admirable specimens of both are to be met with, they are the hot-house ameliorations of refined society, and apt, moreover, to relapse into the coarseness of the original stock. The men are manlike, but the women are not beautiful, though the female Bull be well enough adapted to the male. To return to the lasses of Greenwich Fair, their charms were few, and their behavior, perhaps, not altogether commendable362; and yet it was impossible not to feel a degree of faith in their innocent intentions, with such a half-bashful zest363 and entire simplicity did they keep up their part of the game. It put the spectator in good-humor to look at them, because there was still something of the old Arcadian life, the secure freedom of the antique age, in their way of surrendering their lips to strangers, as if there were no evil or impurity364 in the world. As for the young men, they were chiefly specimens of the vulgar sediment365 of London life, often shabbily genteel, rowdyish, pale, wearing the unbrushed coat, unshifted linen366, and unwashed faces of yesterday, as well as the haggardness of last night's jollity in a gin-shop. Gathering367 their character from these tokens, I wondered whether there were any reasonable prospect368 of their fair partners returning to their rustic369 homes with as much innocence (whatever were its amount or quality) as they brought, to Greenwich Fair, in spite of the perilous370 familiarity established by Kissing in the Ring.
The manifold disorders371 resulting from the fair, at which a vast city was brought into intimate relations with a comparatively rural district, have at length led to its suppression; this was the very last celebration of it, and brought to a close the broad-mouthed merriment of many hundred years. Thus my poor sketch, faint as its colors are, may acquire some little value in the reader's eyes from the consideration that no observer of the coming time will ever have an opportunity to give a better. I should find it difficult to believe, however, that the queer pastime just described, or any moral mischief372 to which that and other customs might pave the way, can have led to the overthrow373 of Greenwich Fair; for it has often seemed to me that Englishmen of station and respectability, unless of a peculiarly philanthropic turn, have neither any faith in the feminine purity of the lower orders of their countrywomen, nor the slightest value for it, allowing its possible existence. The distinction of ranks is so marked, that the English cottage damsel holds a position somewhat analogous374 to that of the negro girl in our Southern States. Hence cones375 inevitable376 detriment to the moral condition of those men themselves, who forget that the humblest woman has a right and a duty to hold herself in the same sanctity as the highest. The subject cannot well be discussed in these pages; but I offer it as a serious conviction, from what I have been able to observe, that the England of to-day is the unscrupulous old England of Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, Humphrey Clinker and Roderick Random377; and in our refined era, just the same as at that more free-spoken epoch, this singular people has a certain contempt for any fine-strained purity, any special squeamishness, as they consider it, on the part of an ingenuous378 youth. They appear to look upon it as a suspicious phenomenon in the masculine character.
Nevertheless, I by no means take upon me to affirm that English morality, as regards the phase here alluded379 to, is really at a lower point than our own. Assuredly, I hope so, because, making a higher pretension380, or, at all events, more carefully hiding whatever may be amiss, we are either better than they, or necessarily a great deal worse. It impressed me that their open avowal381 and recognition of immoralities served to throw the disease to the surface, where it might be more effectually dealt with, and leave a sacred interior not utterly profaned382, instead of turning its poison back among the inner vitalities of the character, at the imminent383 risk of corrupting384 them all. Be that as it may, these Englishmen are certainly a franker and simpler people than ourselves, from peer to peasant; but if we can take it as compensatory on our part (which I leave to be considered) that they owe those noble and manly385 qualities to a coarser grain in their nature, and that, with a finer one in ours, we shall ultimately acquire a marble polish of which they are unsusceptible, I believe that this may be the truth.
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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elegances
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| n.高雅( elegance的名词复数 )；（举止、服饰、风格等的）优雅；精致物品；（思考等的）简洁 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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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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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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44
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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45
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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46
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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47
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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48
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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49
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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50
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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53
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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54
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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55
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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56
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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57
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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58
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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60
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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61
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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62
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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63
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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64
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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65
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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66
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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67
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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68
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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69
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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70
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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71
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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72
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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73
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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74
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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75
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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76
atmospherical
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| adj.空气的，气压的 | |
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77
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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78
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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79
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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80
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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81
combustion
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| n.燃烧；氧化；骚动 | |
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82
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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83
effervesced
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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85
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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86
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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87
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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88
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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89
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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90
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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91
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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92
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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93
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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94
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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95
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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96
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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97
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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98
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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99
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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100
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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101
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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102
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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103
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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104
nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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105
oases
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲( oasis的名词复数 )；（困苦中）令人快慰的地方（或时刻）；乐土；乐事 | |
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106
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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107
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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108
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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109
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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110
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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111
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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112
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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113
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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114
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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115
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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117
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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118
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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119
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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120
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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121
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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122
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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123
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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124
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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125
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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126
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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127
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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128
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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129
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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130
foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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131
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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132
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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133
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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134
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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135
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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136
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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137
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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138
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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139
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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140
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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141
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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142
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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143
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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144
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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145
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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147
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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148
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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149
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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150
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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151
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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152
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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153
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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154
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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155
diversify
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| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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156
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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157
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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158
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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159
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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160
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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161
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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162
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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163
plebeians
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| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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164
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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165
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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166
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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167
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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168
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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169
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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170
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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171
uncouthly
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172
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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173
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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174
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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175
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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176
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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177
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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178
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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179
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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180
apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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181
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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182
scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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183
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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184
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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185
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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186
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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187
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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188
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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189
conspires
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| 密谋( conspire的第三人称单数 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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190
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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191
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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192
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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193
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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194
increment
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| n.增值，增价；提薪，增加工资 | |
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195
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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196
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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197
exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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198
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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199
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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200
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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201
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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202
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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203
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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204
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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205
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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206
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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207
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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208
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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209
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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210
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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211
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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212
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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213
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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214
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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215
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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216
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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217
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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218
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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219
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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220
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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222
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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223
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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224
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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225
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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226
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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227
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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228
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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229
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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230
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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231
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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232
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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233
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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234
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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235
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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236
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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237
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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238
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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239
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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240
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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241
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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242
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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244
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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245
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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246
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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247
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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248
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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249
quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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250
wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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251
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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252
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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253
frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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254
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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255
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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256
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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257
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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258
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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259
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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260
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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261
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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262
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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263
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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264
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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265
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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266
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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267
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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269
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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270
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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271
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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272
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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273
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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274
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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275
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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276
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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277
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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278
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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279
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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280
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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281
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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282
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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283
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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284
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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285
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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286
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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287
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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288
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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289
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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290
inundation
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| n.the act or fact of overflowing | |
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291
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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292
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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293
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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294
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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295
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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296
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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297
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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298
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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299
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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300
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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301
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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302
withered
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| 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 | |
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303
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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304
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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305
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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306
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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307
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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308
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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309
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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310
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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311
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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312
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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313
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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314
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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316
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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317
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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318
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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319
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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320
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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321
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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322
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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323
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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324
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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325
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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326
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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327
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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328
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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329
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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330
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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331
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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332
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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333
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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334
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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335
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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336
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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337
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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338
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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339
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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340
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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341
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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342
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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343
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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344
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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345
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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346
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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347
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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348
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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349
gemmed
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| 点缀（gem的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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350
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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351
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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352
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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353
primming
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| v.循规蹈矩的( prim的现在分词 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经；循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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354
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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355
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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356
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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357
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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358
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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359
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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360
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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361
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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362
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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363
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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364
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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365
sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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366
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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367
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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368
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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369
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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370
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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371
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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372
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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373
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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374
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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375
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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376
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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377
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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378
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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379
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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380
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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381
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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382
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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383
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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384
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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385
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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