The steamers, which are constantly smoking their pipes up and down the Thames, offer much the most agreeable mode of getting to London. At least, it might be exceedingly agreeable, except for the myriad10 floating particles of soot11 from the stove-pipe, and the heavy heat of midsummer sunshine on the unsheltered deck, or the chill, misty12 air draught13 of a cloudy day, and the spiteful little showers of rain that may spatter down upon you at any moment, whatever the promise of the sky; besides which there is some slight inconvenience from the inexhaustible throng14 of passengers, who scarcely allow you standing15-room, nor so much as a breath of unappropriated air, and never a chance to sit down. If these difficulties, added to the possibility of getting your pocket picked, weigh little with you, the panorama16 along the shores of the memorable17 river, and the incidents and shows of passing life upon its bosom18, render the trip far preferable to the brief yet tiresome19 shoot along the railway track. On one such voyage, a regatta of wherries raced past us, and at once involved every soul on board our steamer in the tremendous excitement of the struggle. The spectacle was but a moment within our view, and presented nothing more than a few light skiffs, in each of which sat a single rower, bare-armed, and with little apparel, save a shirt and drawers, pale, anxious, with every muscle on the stretch, and plying21 his oars22 in such fashion that the boat skimmed along with the aerial celerity of a swallow. I wondered at myself for so immediately catching24 an interest in the affair, which seemed to contain no very exalted25 rivalship of manhood; but, whatever the kind of battle or the prize of victory, it stirs one's sympathy immensely, and is even awful, to behold26 the rare sight of a man thoroughly27 in earnest, doing his best, putting forth28 all there is in him, and staking his very soul (as these rowers appeared willing to do) on the issue of the contest. It was the seventy-fourth annual regatta of the Free Watermen of Greenwich, and announced itself as under the patronage30 of the Lord Mayor and other distinguished31 individuals, at whose expense, I suppose, a prize-boat was offered to the conqueror32, and some small amounts of money to the inferior competitors.
The aspect of London along the Thanes, below Bridge, as it is called, is by no means so impressive as it ought to be, considering what peculiar2 advantages are offered for the display of grand and stately architecture by the passage of a river through the midst of a great city. It seems, indeed, as if the heart of London had been cleft33 open for the mere34 purpose of showing how rotten and drearily35 mean it had become. The shore is lined with the shabbiest, blackest, and ugliest buildings that can be imagined, decayed warehouses36 with blind windows, and wharves37 that look ruinous; insomuch that, had I known nothing more of the world's metropolis38, I might have fancied that it had already experienced the downfall which I have heard commercial and financial prophets predict for it, within the century. And the muddy tide of the Thames, reflecting nothing, and hiding a million of unclean secrets within its breast,—a sort of guilty conscience, as it were, unwholesome with the rivulets40 of sin that constantly flow into it,—is just the dismal41 stream to glide42 by such a city. The surface, to be sure, displays no lack of activity, being fretted43 by the passage of a hundred steamers and covered with a good deal of shipping44, but mostly of a clumsier build than I had been accustomed to see in the Mersey: a fact which I complacently45 attributed to the smaller number of American clippers in the Thames, and the less prevalent influence of American example in refining away the broad-bottomed capacity of the old Dutch or English models.
About midway between Greenwich and London Bridge, at a rude landing-place on the left bank of the river, the steamer rings its bell and makes a momentary46 pause in front of a large circular structure, where it may be worth our while to scramble47 ashore48. It indicates the locality of one of those prodigious49 practical blunders that would supply John Bull with a topic of inexhaustible ridicule50, if his cousin Jonathan had committed them, but of which he himself perpetrates ten to our one in the mere wantonness of wealth that lacks better employment. The circular building covers the entrance to the Thames Tunnel, and is surmounted51 by a dome52 of glass, so as to throw daylight down into the great depth at which the passage of the river commences. Descending53 a wearisome succession of staircases, we at last find ourselves, still in the broad noon, standing before a closed door, on opening which we behold the vista54 of an arched corridor that extends into everlasting55 midnight. In these days, when glass has been applied56 to so many new purposes, it is a pity that the architect had not thought of arching portions of his abortive57 tunnel with immense blocks of the lucid58 substance, over which the dusky Thames would have flowed like a cloud, making the sub-fluvial avenue only a little gloomier than a street of upper London. At present, it is illuminated60 at regular intervals61 by jets of gas, not very brilliantly, yet with lustre62 enough to show the damp plaster of the ceiling and walls, and the massive stone pavement, the crevices63 of which are oozy64 with moisture, not from the incumbent65 river, but from hidden springs in the earth's deeper heart. There are two parallel corridors, with a wall between, for the separate accommodation of the double throng of foot-passengers, equestrians66, and vehicles of all kinds, which was expected to roll and reverberate67 continually through the Tunnel. Only one of them has ever been opened, and its echoes are but feebly awakened68 by infrequent footfalls.
Yet there seem to be people who spend their lives here, and who probably blink like owls69, when, once or twice a year, perhaps, they happen to climb into the sunshine. All along the corridor, which I believe to be a mile in extent, we see stalls or shops in little alcoves71, kept principally by women; they were of a ripe age, I was glad to observe, and certainly robbed England of none of its very moderate supply of feminine loveliness by their deeper than tomb-like interment. As you approach (and they are so accustomed to the dusky gaslight that they read all your characteristics afar off), they assail72 you with hungry entreaties73 to buy some of their merchandise, holding forth views of the Tunnel put up in cases of Derbyshire spar, with a magnifying-glass at one end to make the vista more effective. They offer you, besides, cheap jewelry74, sunny topazes and resplendent emeralds for sixpence, and diamonds as big as the Kohi-i-noor at a not much heavier cost, together with a multifarious trumpery75 which has died out of the upper world to reappear in this Tartarean bazaar76. That you may fancy yourself still in the realms of the living, they urge you to partake of cakes, candy, ginger-beer, and such small refreshment77, more suitable, however, for the shadowy appetite of ghosts than for the sturdy stomachs of Englishmen. The most capacious of the shops contains a dioramic exhibition of cities and scenes in the daylight world, with a dreary78 glimmer79 of gas among them all; so that they serve well enough to represent the dim, unsatisfactory remembrances that dead people might be supposed to retain from their past lives, mixing them up with the ghastliness of their unsubstantial state. I dwell the more upon these trifles, and do my best to give them a mockery of importance, because, if these are nothing, then all this elaborate contrivance and mighty80 piece of work has been wrought81 in vain. The Englishman has burrowed82 under the bed of his great river, and set ships of two or three thousand tons a-rolling over his head, only to provide new sites for a few old women to sell cakes and ginger-beer!
Yet the conception was a grand one; and though it has proved an absolute failure, swallowing an immensity of toil83 and money, with annual returns hardly sufficient to keep the pavement free from the ooze84 of subterranean85 springs, yet it needs, I presume, only an expenditure86 three or four (or, for aught I know, twenty) times as large, to make the enterprise brilliantly successful. The descent is so great from the bank of the river to its surface, and the Tunnel dips so profoundly under the river's bed, that the approaches on either side must commence a long way off, in order to render the entrance accessible to horsemen or vehicles; so that the larger part of the cost of the whole affair should have been expended87 on its margins88. It has turned out a sublime89 piece of folly90; and when the New-Zealander of distant ages shall have moralized sufficiently91 among the ruins of London Bridge, he will bethink himself that somewhere thereabout was the marvellous Tunnel, the very existence of which will seem to him as incredible as that of the hanging gardens of Babylon. But the Thames will long ago have broken through the massive arch, and choked up the corridors with mud and sand and with the large stones of the structure itself, intermixed with skeletons of drowned people, the rusty92 ironwork of sunken vessels93, and the great many such precious and curious things as a river always contrives94 to hide in its bosom; the entrance will have been obliterated95, and its very site forgotten beyond the memory of twenty generations of men, and the whole neighborhood be held a dangerous spot on account of the malaria97; insomuch that the traveller will make but a brief and careless inquisition for the traces of the old wonder, and will stake his credit before the public, in some Pacific Monthly of that day, that the story of it is but a myth, though enriched with a spiritual profundity98 which he will proceed to unfold.
Yet it is impossible (for a Yankee, at least) to see so much magnificent ingenuity99 thrown away, without trying to endow the unfortunate result with some kind of use, fulness, though perhaps widely different from the purpose of its original conception. In former ages, the mile-long corridors, with their numerous alcoves, might have been utilized100 as a series of dungeons101, the fittest of all possible receptacles for prisoners of state. Dethroned monarchs102 and fallen statesmen would not have needed to remonstrate104 against a domicile so spacious105, so deeply secluded106 from the world's scorn, and so admirably in accordance with their thenceforward sunless fortunes. An alcove70 here might have suited Sir Walter Raleigh better than that darksome hiding-place communicating with the great chamber107 in the Tower, pacing from end to end of which he meditated108 upon his "History of the World." His track would here have been straight and narrow, indeed, and would therefore have lacked somewhat of the freedom that his intellect demanded; and yet the length to which his footsteps might have travelled forth and retraced109 themselves would partly have harmonized his physical movement with the grand curves and planetary returns of his thought, through cycles of majestic110 periods. Having it in his mind to compose the world's history, methinks he could have asked no better retirement111 than such a cloister112 as this, insulated from all the seductions of mankind and womankind, deep beneath their mysteries and motives113, down into the heart of things, full of personal reminiscences in order to the comprehensive measurement and verification of historic records, seeing into the secrets of human nature,—secrets that daylight never yet revealed to mortal,—but detecting their whole scope and purport114 with the infallible eyes of unbroken solitude115 and night. And then the shades of the old mighty men might have risen from their still profounder abodes116 and joined him in the dim corridor, treading beside him with an antique stateliness of mien118, telling him in melancholy119 tones, grand, but always melancholy, of the greater ideas and purposes which their most renowned121 performances so imperfectly carried out, that, magnificent successes in the view of all posterity123, they were but failures to those who planned them. As Raleigh was a navigator, Noah would have explained to him the peculiarities of construction that made the ark so seaworthy; as Raleigh was a statesman, Moses would have discussed with him the principles of laws and government; as Raleigh was a soldier, Caesar and Hannibal would have held debate in his presence, with this martial125 student for their umpire; as Raleigh was a poet, David, or whatever most illustrious bard126 he might call up, would have touched his harp127, and made manifest all the true significance of the past by means of song and the subtle intelligences of music.
Meanwhile, I had forgotten that Sir Walter Raleigh's century knew nothing of gaslight, and that it would require a prodigious and wasteful128 expenditure of tallow-candles to illuminate59 the Tunnel sufficiently to discern even a ghost. On this account, however, it would be all the more suitable place of confinement129 for a metaphysician, to keep him from bewildering mankind with his shadowy speculations130; and, being shut off from external converse131, the dark corridor would help him to make rich discoveries in those cavernous regions and mysterious by-paths of the intellect, which he had so long accustomed himself to explore. But how would every successive age rejoice in so secure a habitation for its reformers, and especially for each best and wisest man that happened to be then alive! He seeks to burn up our whole system of society, under pretence132 of purifying it from its abuses! Away with him into the Tunnel, and let him begin by setting the Thames on fire, if he is able!
If not precisely133 these, yet akin29 to these were some of the fantasies that haunted me as I passed under the river: for the place is suggestive of such idle and irresponsible stuff by its own abortive character, its lack of whereabout on upper earth, or any solid foundation of realities. Could I have looked forward a few years, I might have regretted that American enterprise had not provided a similar tunnel, under the Hudson or the Potomac, for the convenience of our National Government in times hardly yet gone by. It would be delightful134 to clap up all the enemies of our peace and union in the dark together, and there let them abide135, listening to the monotonous136 roll of the river above their heads, or perhaps in a state of miraculously137 suspended animation138, until,—be it after months, years, or centuries,—when the turmoil139 shall be all over, the Wrong washed away in blood (since that must needs be the cleansing140 fluid), and the Right firmly rooted in the soil which that blood will have enriched, they might crawl forth again and catch a single glimpse at their redeemed141 country, and feel it to be a better land than they deserve, and die!
I was not sorry when the daylight reached me after a much briefer abode117 in the nether142 regions than, I fear, would await the troublesome personages just hinted at. Emerging on the Surrey side of the Thames, I found myself in Rotherhithe, a neighborhood not unfamiliar143 to the readers of old books of maritime144 adventure. There being a ferry hard by the mouth of the Tunnel, I recrossed the river in the primitive145 fashion of an open boat, which the conflict of wind and tide, together with the swash and swell146 of the passing steamers, tossed high and low rather tumultuously. This inquietude of our frail147 skiff (which, indeed, bobbed up and down like a cork) so much alarmed an old lady, the only other passenger, that the boatmen essayed to comfort her. "Never fear, mother!" grumbled148 one of them, "we'll make the river as smooth as we can for you. We'll get a plane, and plane down the waves!" The joke may not read very brilliantly; but I make bold to record it as the only specimen149 that reached my ears of the old, rough water-wit for which the Thames used to be so celebrated150. Passing directly along the line of the sunken Tunnel, we landed in Wapping, which I should have presupposed to be the most tarry and pitchy spot on earth, swarming151 with old salts, and full of warm, bustling153, coarse, homely154, and cheerful life. Nevertheless, it turned out to be a cold and torpid155 neighborhood, mean, shabby, and unpicturesque, both as to its buildings and inhabitants: the latter comprising (so far as was visible to me) not a single unmistakable sailor, though plenty of land-sharks, who get a half-dishonest livelihood157 by business connected with the sea. Ale and spirit vaults158 (as petty drinking-establishments are styled in England, pretending to contain vast cellars full of liquor within the compass of ten feet square above ground) were particularly abundant, together with apples, oranges, and oysters159, the stalls of fishmongers and butchers, and slop-shops, where blue jackets and duck trousers swung and capered160 before the doors. Everything was on the poorest scale, and the place bore an aspect of unredeemable decay. From this remote point of London, I strolled leisurely161 towards the heart of the city; while the streets, at first but thinly occupied by man or vehicle, got more and more thronged162 with foot-passengers, carts, drays, cabs, and the all-pervading and all-accommodating omnibus. But I lack courage, and feel that I should lack perseverance163, as the gentlest reader would lack patience, to undertake a descriptive stroll through London streets; more especially as there would be a volume ready for the printer before we could reach a midway resting-place at Charing164 Cross. It will be the easier course to step aboard another passing steamer, and continue our trip up the Thames.
The next notable group of objects is an assemblage of ancient walls, battlements, and turrets166, out of the midst of which rises prominently one great square tower, of a grayish line, bordered with white stone, and having a small turret165 at each corner of the roof. This central structure is the White Tower, and the whole circuit of ramparts and enclosed edifices168 constitutes what is known in English history, and still more widely and impressively in English poetry, as the Tower. A crowd of rivercraft are generally moored169 in front of it; but, if we look sharply at the right moment under the base of the rampart, we may catch a glimpse of an arched water-entrance, half submerged, past which the Thames glides170 as indifferently as if it were the mouth of a city-kennel. Nevertheless, it is the Traitor's Gate, a dreary kind of triumphal passageway (now supposed to be shut up and barred forever), through which a multitude of noble and illustrious personages have entered the Tower and found it a brief resting-place on their way to heaven. Passing it many times, I never observed that anybody glanced at this shadowy and ominous171 trap-door, save myself. It is well that America exists, if it were only that her vagrant172 children may be impressed and affected173 by the historical monuments of England in a degree of which the native inhabitants are evidently incapable174. These matters are too familiar, too real, and too hopelessly built in amongst and mixed up with the common objects and affairs of life, to be easily susceptible175 of imaginative coloring in their minds; and even their poets and romancers feel it a toil, and almost a delusion176, to extract poetic177 material out of what seems embodied178 poetry itself to an American. An Englishman cares nothing about the Tower, which to us is a haunted castle in dreamland. That honest and excellent gentleman, the late Mr. G. P. R. James (whose mechanical ability, one might have supposed, would nourish itself by devouring179 every old stone of such a structure), once assured me that he had never in his life set eyes upon the Tower, though for years an historic novelist in London.
Not to spend a whole summer's day upon the voyage, we will suppose ourselves to have reached London Bridge, and thence to have taken another steamer for a farther passage up the river. But here the memorable objects succeed each other so rapidly that I can spare but a single sentence even for the great Dome, through I deem it more picturesque156, in that dusky atmosphere, than St. Peter's in its clear blue sky. I must mention, however (since everything connected with royalty180 is especially interesting to my dear countrymen), that I once saw a large and beautiful barge181, splendidly gilded182 and ornamented183, and overspread with a rich covering, lying at the pier184 nearest to St. Paul's Cathedral; it had the royal banner of Great Britain displayed, besides being decorated with a number of other flags; and many footmen (who are universally the grandest and gaudiest185 objects to be seen in England at this day, and these were regal ones, in a bright scarlet186 livery bedizened with gold-lace, and white silk stockings) were in attendance. I know not what festive187 or ceremonial occasion may have drawn188 out this pageant189; after all, it might have been merely a city-spectacle, appertaining to the Lord Mayor; but the sight had its value in bringing vividly190 before me the grand old times when the sovereign and nobles were accustomed to use the Thames as the high street of the metropolis, and join in pompous191 processions upon it; whereas, the desuetude192 of such customs, nowadays, has caused the whole show of river-life to consist in a multitude of smoke-begrimed steamers. An analogous193 change has taken place in the streets, where cabs and the omnibus have crowded out a rich variety of vehicles; and thus life gets more monotonous in hue194 from age to age, and appears to seize every opportunity to strip off a bit of its gold-lace among the wealthier classes, and to make itself decent in the lower ones.
Yonder is Whitefriars, the old rowdy Alsatia, now wearing as decorous a face as any other portion of London; and, adjoining it, the avenues and brick squares of the Temple, with that historic garden, close upon the river-side, and still rich in shrubbery and flowers, where the partisans195 of York and Lancaster plucked the fatal roses, and scattered196 their pale and bloody197 petals198 over so many English battle-fields. Hard by, we see tine long white front or rear of Somerset House, and, farther on, rise the two new Houses of Parliament, with a huge unfinished tower already hiding its imperfect summit in the smoky canopy199,—the whole vast and cumbrous edifice167 a specimen of the best that modern architecture can effect, elaborately imitating the masterpieces of those simple ages when men "builded better than they knew." Close by it, we have a glimpse of the roof and upper towers of the holy Abbey; while that gray, ancestral pile on the opposite side of the river is Lambeth Palace, a venerable group of halls and turrets, chiefly built of brick, but with at least one large tower of stone. In our course, we have passed beneath half a dozen bridges, and, emerging out of the black heart of London, shall soon reach a cleanly suburb, where old Father Thames, if I remember, begins to put on an aspect of unpolluted innocence200. And now we look back upon the mass of innumerable roofs, out of which rise steeples, towers, columns, and the great crowning Dome,—look back, in short, upon that mystery of the world's proudest city, amid which a man so longs and loves to be; not, perhaps, because it contains much that is positively201 admirable and enjoyable, but because, at all events, the world has nothing better. The cream of external life is there; and whatever merely intellectual or material good we fail to find perfect in London, we may as well content ourselves to seek that unattainable thing no farther on this earth.
The steamer terminates its trip at Chelsea, an old town endowed with a prodigious number of pothouses, and some famous gardens, called the Cremorne, for public amusement. The most noticeable thing, however, is Chelsea Hospital, which, like that of Greenwich, was founded, I believe, by Charles II. (whose bronze statue, in the guise202 of an old Roman, stands in the centre of the quadrangle,) and appropriated as a home for aged203 and infirm soldiers of the British army. The edifices are of three stories with windows in the high roofs, and are built of dark, sombre brick, with stone edgings and facings. The effect is by no means that of grandeur204 (which is somewhat disagreeably an attribute of Greenwich Hospital), but a quiet and venerable neatness. At each extremity205 of the street-front there is a spacious and hospitably206 open gateway207, lounging about which I saw some gray veterans in long scarlet coats of an antique fashion, and the cocked hats of a century ago, or occasionally a modern foraging-cap. Almost all of them moved with a rheumatic gait, two or three stumped208 on wooden legs, and here and there an arm was missing. Inquiring of one of these fragmentary heroes whether a stranger could be admitted to see the establishment, he replied most cordially, "O yes, sir,—anywhere! Walk in and go where you please,—up stairs, or anywhere!" So I entered, and, passing along the inner side of the quadrangle, came to the door of the chapel209, which forms a part of the contiguity210 of edifices next the street. Here another pensioner211, an old warrior212 of exceedingly peaceable and Christian213 demeanor214, touched his three-cornered hat and asked if I wished to see the interior; to which I assenting215, he unlocked the door, and we went in.
The chapel consists of a great hall with a vaulted216 roof, and over the altar is a large painting in fresco217, the subject of which I did not trouble myself to make out. More appropriate adornments of the place, dedicated219 as well to martial reminiscences as religious worship, are the long ranges of dusty and tattered220 banners that hang from their staves all round the ceiling of the chapel. They are trophies221 of battles fought and won in every quarter of the world, comprising the captured flags of all the nations with whom the British lion has waged war since James II.'s time,—French, Dutch, East Indian, Prussian, Russian, Chinese, and American,—collected together in this consecrated222 spot, not to symbolize224 that there shall be no more discord225 upon earth, but drooping226 over the aisle227 in sullen228, though peaceable humiliation229. Yes, I said "American" among the rest; for the good old pensioner mistook me for an Englishman, and failed not to point out (and, methought, with an especial emphasis of triumph) some flags that had been taken at Bladensburg and Washington. I fancied, indeed, that they hung a little higher and drooped230 a little lower than any of their companions in disgrace. It is a comfort, however, that their proud devices are already indistinguishable, or nearly so, owing to dust and tatters and the kind offices of the moths231, and that they will soon rot from the banner-staves and be swept out in unrecognized fragments from the chapel-door.
It is a good method of teaching a man how imperfectly cosmopolitan232 he is, to show him his country's flag occupying a position of dishonor in a foreign land. But, in truth, the whole system of a people crowing over its military triumphs had far better he dispensed233 with, both on account of the ill-blood that it helps to keep fermenting234 among the nations, and because it operates as an accumulative inducement to future generations to aim at a kind of glory, the gain of which has generally proved more ruinous than its loss. I heartily235 wish that every trophy236 of victory might crumble237 away, and that every reminiscence or tradition of a hero, from the beginning of the world to this day, could pass out of all men's memories at once and forever. I might feel very differently, to be sure, if we Northerners had anything especially valuable to lose by the fading of those illuminated names.
I gave the pensioner (but I am afraid there may have been a little affectation in it) a magnificent guerdon of all the silver I had in my pocket, to requite238 him for having unintentionally stirred up my patriotic239 susceptibilities. He was a meek-looking, kindly240 old man, with a humble241 freedom and affability of manner that made it pleasant to converse with him. Old soldiers, I know not why, seem to be more accostable than old sailors. One is apt to hear a growl242 beneath the smoothest courtesy of the latter. The mild veteran, with his peaceful voice, and gentle reverend aspect, told me that he had fought at a cannon243 all through the Battle of Waterloo, and escaped unhurt; he had now been in the hospital four or five years, and was married, but necessarily underwent a separation from his wife, who lived outside of the gates. To my inquiry244 whether his fellow-pensioners were comfortable and happy, he answered, with great alacrity245, "O yes, sir!" qualifying his evidence, after a moment's consideration, by saying in an undertone, "There are some people, your Honor knows, who could not be comfortable anywhere." I did know it, and fear that the system of Chelsea Hospital allows too little of that wholesome39 care and regulation of their own occupations and interests which might assuage246 the sting of life to those naturally uncomfortable individuals by giving them something external to think about. But my old friend here was happy in the hospital, and by this time, very likely, is happy in heaven, in spite of the bloodshed that he may have caused by touching247 off a cannon at Waterloo.
Crossing Battersea Bridge, in the neighborhood of Chelsea, I remember seeing a distant gleam of the Crystal Palace, glimmering248 afar in the afternoon sunshine like an imaginary structure,—an air-castle by chance descended249 upon earth, and resting there one instant before it vanished, as we sometimes see a soap-bubble touch unharmed on the carpet,—a thing of only momentary visibility and no substance, destined250 to be overburdened and crushed down by the first cloud-shadow that might fall upon that spot. Even as I looked, it disappeared. Shall I attempt a picture of this exhalation of modern ingenuity, or what else shall I try to paint? Everything in London and its vicinity has been depicted251 innumerable times, but never once translated into intelligible252 images; it is an "old, old story," never yet told, nor to be told. While writing these reminiscences, I am continually impressed with the futility253 of the effort to give any creative truth to ink sketch254, so that it might produce such pictures in the reader's mind as would cause the original scenes to appear familiar when afterwards beheld255. Nor have other writers often been more successful in representing definite objects prophetically to my own mind. In truth, I believe that the chief delight and advantage of this kind of literature is not for any real information that it supplies to untravelled people, but for reviving the recollections and reawakening the emotions of persons already acquainted with the scenes described. Thus I found an exquisite257 pleasure, the other day, in reading Mr. Tuckerman's "Month in England," fine example of the way in which a refined and cultivated American looks at the Old Country, the things that he naturally seeks there, and the modes of feeling and reflection which they excite. Correct outlines avail little or nothing, though truth of coloring may be somewhat more efficacious. Impressions, however, states of mind produced by interesting and remarkable258 objects, these, if truthfully and vividly recorded, may work a genuine effect, and, though lint261 the result, of what we see, go further towards representing the actual scene than any direct effort to paint it. Give the emotions that cluster about it, and, without being able to analyze262 the spell by which it is summoned up, you get something like a simulacre of the object in the midst of them. From some of the above reflections I draw the comfortable inference, that, the longer and better known a thing may be, so much the more eligible263 is it as the subject of a descriptive sketch.
On a Sunday afternoon, I passed through a side-entrance in the time-blackened wall of a place of worship, and found myself among a congregation assembled in one of the transepts and the immediately contiguous portion of the nave264. It was a vast old edifice, spacious enough, within the extent covered by its pillared roof and overspread by its stone pavement, to accommodate the whole of church-going London, and with a far wider and loftier concave than any human power of lungs could fill with audible prayer. Oaken benches were arranged in the transept, on one of which I seated myself, and joined, as well as I knew how, in the sacred business that was going forward. But when it came to the sermon, the voice of the preacher was puny265, and so were his thoughts, and both seemed impertinent at such a time and place, where he and all of us were bodily included within a sublime act of religion, which could be seen above and around us and felt beneath our feet. The structure itself was the worship of the devout266 men of long ago, miraculously preserved in stone without losing an atom of its fragrance267 and fervor268; it was a kind of anthem-strain that they had sung and poured out of the organ in centuries gone by; and being so grand and sweet, the Divine benevolence269 had willed it to be prolonged for the behoof of auditors270 unborn. I therefore came to the conclusion, that, in my individual case, it would be better and more reverent271 to let my eyes wander about the edifice than to fasten them and my thoughts on the evidently uninspired mortal who was venturing—and felt it no venture at all—to speak here above his breath.
The interior of Westminster Abbey (for the reader recognized it, no doubt, the moment we entered) is built of rich brown stone; and the whole of it—the lofty roof, the tall, clustered pillars, and the pointed272 arches—appears to be in consummate273 repair. At all points where decay has laid its finger, the structure is clamped with iron or otherwise carefully protected; and being thus watched over,—whether as a place of ancient sanctity, a noble specimen of Gothic art, or an object of national interest and pride,—it may reasonably be expected to survive for as many ages as have passed over it already. It was sweet to feel its venerable quietude, its long-enduring peace, and yet to observe how kindly and even cheerfully it received the sunshine of to-day, which fell from the great windows into the fretted aisles274 and arches that laid aside somewhat of their aged gloom to welcome it. Sunshine always seems friendly to old abbeys, churches, and castles, kissing them, as it were, with a more affectionate, though still reverential familiarity, than it accords to edifices of later date. A square of golden light lay on the sombre pavement of the nave, afar off, falling through the grand western entrance, the folding leaves of which were wide open, and afforded glimpses of people passing to and fro in the outer world, while we sat dimly enveloped275 in the solemnity of antique devotion. In the south transept, separated from us by the full breadth of the minster, there were painted glass windows of which the uppermost appeared to be a great orb276 of many-colored radiance, being, indeed, a cluster of saints and angels whose glorified277 bodies formed the rays of an aureole emanating278 from a cross in the midst. These windows are modern, but combine softness with wonderful brilliancy of effect. Through the pillars and arches, I saw that the walls in that distant region of the edifice were almost wholly incrusted with marble, now grown yellow with time, no blank, unlettered slabs279, but memorials of such men as their respective generations deemed wisest and bravest. Some of them were commemorated280 merely by inscriptions282 on mural tablets, others by sculptured bas-reliefs, others (once famous, but now forgotten generals or admirals, these) by ponderous284 tombs that aspired285 towards the roof of the aisle, or partly curtained the immense arch of a window. These mountains of marble were peopled with the sisterhood of Allegory, winged trumpeters, and classic figures in full-bottomed wigs286; but it was strange to observe how the old Abbey melted all such absurdities288 into the breadth of its own grandeur, even magnifying itself by what would elsewhere have been ridiculous. Methinks it is the test of Gothic sublimity289 to overpower the ridiculous without deigning290 to hide it; and these grotesque291 monuments of the last century answer a similar purpose with the grinning faces which, the old architects scattered among their most solemn conceptions.
From these distant wanderings (it was my first visit to Westminster Abbey, and I would gladly have taken it all in at a glance) my eyes came back and began to investigate what was immediately about me in the transept. Close at my elbow was the pedestal of Canning's statue. Next beyond it was a massive tomb, on the spacious tablet of which reposed292 the full-length figures of a marble lord and lady, whom an inscription283 announced to be the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle,—the historic Duke of Charles I.'s time, and the fantastic Duchess, traditionally remembered by her poems and plays. She was of a family, as the record on her tomb proudly informed us, of which all the brothers had been valiant293 and all the sisters virtuous294. A recent statue of Sir John Malcolm, the new marble as white as snow, held the next place; and near by was a mural monument and bust152 of Sir Peter Warren. The round visage of this old British admiral has a certain interest for a New-Englander, because it was by no merit of his own (though he took care to assume it as such), but by the valor295 and warlike enterprise of our colonial forefathers296, especially the stout297 men of Massachusetts, that he won rank and renown120, and a tomb in Westminster Abbey. Lord Mansfield, a huge mass of marble done into the guise of a judicial298 gown and wig287, with a stern face in the midst of the latter, sat on the other side of the transept; and on the pedestal beside him was a figure of Justice, holding forth, instead of the customary grocer's scales, an actual pair of brass299 steelyards. It is an ancient and classic instrument, undoubtedly300; but I had supposed that Portia (when Shylock's pound of flesh was to be weighed) was the only judge that ever really called for it in a court of justice. Pitt and Fox were in the same distinguished company; and John Kemble, in Roman costume, stood not far off, but strangely shorn of the dignity that is said to have enveloped him like a mantle301 in his lifetime. Perhaps the evanescent majesty302 of the stage is incompatible303 with the long endurance of marble and the solemn reality of the tomb; though, on the other hand, almost every illustrious personage here represented has been invested with more or less of stage-trickery by his sculptor304. In truth, the artist (unless there be a divine efficacy in his touch, making evident a heretofore hidden dignity in the actual form) feels it—an imperious law to remove his subject as far from the aspect of ordinary life as may be possible without sacrificing every trace of resemblance. The absurd effect of the contrary course is very remarkable in the statue of Mr. Wilberforce, whose actual self, save for the lack of color, I seemed to behold, seated just across the aisle.
This excellent man appears to have sunk into himself in a sitting posture305, with a thin leg crossed over his knee, a book in one hand, and a finger of the other under his chin, I believe, or applied to the side of his nose, or to some equally familiar purpose; while his exceedingly homely and wrinkled face, held a little on one side, twinkles at you with the shrewdest complacency, as if he were looking right into your eyes, and twigged306 something there which you had half a mind to conceal307 from him. He keeps this look so pertinaciously308 that you feel it to be insufferably impertinent, and bethink yourself what common ground there may be between yourself and a stone image, enabling you to resent it. I have no doubt that the statue is as like Mr. Wilberforce as one pea to another, and you might fancy, that, at some ordinary moment, when he least expected it, and before he had time to smooth away his knowing complication of wrinkles, he had seen the Gorgon's head, and whitened into marble,—not only his personal self, but his coat and small-clothes, down to a button and the minutest crease309 of the cloth. The ludicrous result marks the impropriety of bestowing311 the age-long duration of marble upon small, characteristic individualities, such as might come within the province of waxen imagery. The sculptor should give permanence to the figure of a great man in his mood of broad and grand composure, which would obliterate96 all mean peculiarities; for, if the original were unaccustomed to such a mood, or if his features were incapable of assuming the guise, it seems questionable312 whether he could really have been entitled to a marble immortality313. In point of fact, however, the English face and form are seldom statuesque, however illustrious the individual.
It ill becomes me, perhaps, to have lapsed315 into this mood of half-jocose criticism in describing my first visit to Westminster Abbey, a spot which I had dreamed about more reverentially, from my childhood upward, than any other in the world, and which I then beheld, and now look back upon, with profound gratitude316 to the men who built it, and a kindly interest, I may add, in the humblest personage that has contributed his little all to its impressiveness, by depositing his dust or his memory there. But it is a characteristic of this grand edifice that it permits you to smile as freely under the roof of its central nave as if you stood beneath the yet grander canopy of heaven. Break into laughter, if you feel inclined, provided the vergers do not hear it echoing among the arches. In an ordinary church you would keep your countenance317 for fear of disturbing the sanctities or proprieties318 of the place; but you need leave no honest and decorous portion of your human nature outside of these benign319 and truly hospitable320 walls. Their mild awfulness will take care of itself. Thus it does no harm to the general impression, when you come to be sensible that many of the monuments are ridiculous, and commemorate281 a mob of people who are mostly forgotten in their graves, and few of whom ever deserved any better boon321 from posterity. You acknowledge the force of Sir Godfrey Kneller's objection to being buried in Westminster Abbey, because "they do bury fools there!" Nevertheless, these grotesque carvings322 of marble, that break out in dingy-white blotches323 on the old freestone of the interior walls, have come there by as natural a process as might cause mosses324 and ivy325 to cluster about the external edifice; for they are the historical and biographical record of each successive age, written with its own hand, and all the truer for the inevitable326 mistakes, and none the less solemn for the occasional absurdity327. Though you entered the Abbey expecting to see the tombs only of the illustrious, you are content at last to read many names, both in literature and history, that have now lost the reverence328 of mankind, if indeed they ever really possessed329 it.
Let these men rest in peace. Even if you miss a name or two that you hoped to find there, they may well be spared. It matters little a few more or less, or whether Westminster Abbey contains or lacks any one man's grave, so long as the Centuries, each with the crowd of personages that it deemed memorable, have chosen it as their place of honored sepulture, and laid themselves down under its pavement. The inscriptions and devices on the walls are rich with evidences of the fluctuating tastes, fashions, manners, opinions, prejudices, follies330, wisdoms of the past, and thus they combine into a more truthful259 memorial of their dead times than any individual epitaph-maker ever meant to write.
When the services were over, many of the audience seemed inclined to linger in the nave or wander away among the mysterious aisles; for there is nothing in this world so fascinating as a Gothic minster, which always invites you deeper and deeper into its heart both by vast revelations and shadowy concealments. Through the open-work screen that divides the nave from the chancel and choir331, we could discern the gleam of a marvellous window, but were debarred from entrance into that more sacred precinct of the Abbey by the vergers. These vigilant332 officials (doing their duty all the more strenuously333 because no fees could be exacted from Sunday visitors) flourished their staves, and drove us towards the grand entrance like a flock of sheep. Lingering through one of the aisles, I happened to look down, and found my foot upon a stone inscribed334 with this familiar exclamation335, "O rare Ben Jonson!" and remembered the story of stout old Ben's burial in that spot, standing upright,—not, I presume, on account of any unseemly reluctance336 on his part to lie down in the dust, like other men, but because standing-room was all that could reasonably be demanded for a poet among the slumberous337 notabilities of his age. It made me weary to think of it!—such a prodigious length of time to keep one's feet!—apart from the honor of the thing, it would certainly have been better for Ben to stretch himself at ease in some country churchyard. To this day, however, I fancy that there is a contemptuous alloy338 mixed up with the admiration339 which the higher classes of English society profess340 for their literary men.
Another day—in truth, many other days—I sought out Poets' Corner, and found a sign-board and pointed finger, directing the visitor to it, on the corner house of a little lane leading towards the rear of the Abbey. The entrance is at the southeastern end of the south transept, and it is used, on ordinary occasions, as the only free mode of access to the building. It is no spacious arch, but a small, lowly door, passing through which, and pushing aside an inner screen that partly keeps out an exceedingly chill wind, you find yourself in a dim nook of the Abbey, with the busts341 of poets gazing at you from the otherwise bare stone-work of the walls. Great poets, too; for Ben Jenson is right behind the door, and Spenser's tablet is next, and Butler's on the same side of the transept, and Milton's (whose bust you know at once by its resemblance to one of his portraits, though older, more wrinkled, and sadder than that) is close by, and a profile-medallion of Gray beneath it. A window high aloft sheds down a dusky daylight on these and many other sculptured marbles, now as yellow as old parchment, that cover the three walls of the nook up to an elevation342 of about twenty feet above the pavement. It seemed to me that I had always been familiar with the spot. Enjoying a humble intimacy—and how much of my life had else been a dreary solitude!—with many of its inhabitants, I could not feel myself a stranger there. It was delightful to be among them. There was a genial343 awe20, mingled344 with a sense of kind and friendly presences about me; and I was glad, moreover, at finding so many of them there together, in fit companionship, mutually recognized and duly honored, all reconciled now, whatever distant generations, whatever personal hostility345 or other miserable346 impediment, had divided them far asunder347 while they lived. I have never felt a similar interest in any other tombstones, nor have I ever been deeply moved by the imaginary presence of other famous dead people. A poet's ghost is the only one that survives for his fellow-mortals, after his bones are in the dust,—and be not ghostly, but cherishing many hearts with his own warmth in the chillest atmosphere of life. What other fame is worth aspiring348 for? Or, let me speak it more boldly, what other long-enduring fame can exist? We neither remember nor care anything for the past, except as the poet has made it intelligibly349 noble and sublime to our comprehension. The shades of the mighty have no substance; they flit ineffectually about the darkened stage where they performed their momentary parts, save when the poet has thrown his own creative soul into them, and imparted a more vivid life than ever they were able to manifest to mankind while they dwelt in the body. And therefore—though he cunningly disguises himself in their armor, their robes of state, or kingly purple—it is not the statesman, the warrior, or the monarch103 that survives, but the despised poet, whom they may have fed with their crumbs350, and to whom they owe all that they now are or have,—a name!
In the foregoing paragraph I seem to have been betrayed into a flight above or beyond the customary level that best agrees with me; but it represents fairly enough the emotions with which I passed from Poets' Corner into the chapels351, which contain the sepulchres of kings and great people. They are magnificent even now, and must have been inconceivably so when the marble slabs and pillars wore their new polish, and the statues retained the brilliant colors with which they were originally painted, and the shrines352 their rich gilding354, of which the sunlight still shows a glimmer or a streak355, though the sunbeam itself looks tarnished356 with antique dust. Yet this recondite357 portion of the Abbey presents few memorials of personages whom we care to remember. The shrine353 of Edward the Confessor has a certain interest, because it was so long held in religious reverence, and because the very dust that settled upon it was formerly358 worth gold. The helmet and war-saddle of Henry V., worn at Agincourt, and now suspended above his tomb, are memorable objects, but more for Shakespeare's sake than the victor's own. Rank has been the general passport to admission here. Noble and regal dust is as cheap as dirt under the pavement. I am glad to recollect256, indeed (and it is too characteristic of the right English spirit not to be mentioned), one or two gigantic statues of great mechanicians, who contributed largely to the material welfare of England, sitting familiarly in their marble chairs among forgotten kings and queens. Otherwise, the quaintness359 of the earlier monuments, and the antique beauty of some of them, are what chiefly gives them value. Nevertheless, Addison is buried among the men of rank; not on the plea of his literary fame, however, but because he was connected with nobility by marriage, and had been a Secretary of State. His gravestone is inscribed with a resounding360 verse from Tickell's lines to his memory, the only lines by which Tickell himself is now remembered, and which (as I discovered a little while ago) he mainly filched361 from an obscure versifier of somewhat earlier date.
Returning to Poets' Corner, I looked again at the walls, and wondered how the requisite362 hospitality can be shown to poets of our own and the succeeding ages. There is hardly a foot of space left, although room has lately been found for a bust of Southey and a full-length statue of Campbell. At best, only a little portion of the Abbey is dedicated to poets, literary men, musical composers, and others of the gentle artist breed, and even into that small nook of sanctity men of other pursuits have thought it decent to intrude363 themselves. Methinks the tuneful throng, being at home here, should recollect how they were treated in their lifetime, and turn the cold shoulder, looking askance at nobles and official personages, however worthy124 of honorable intercourse364 elsewhere. Yet it shows aptly and truly enough what portion of the world's regard and honor has heretofore been awarded to literary eminence365 in comparison with other modes of greatness,—this dimly lighted corner (nor even that quietly to themselves) in the vast minster, the walls of which are sheathed366 and hidden under marble that has been wasted upon the illustrious obscure. Nevertheless, it may not be worth while to quarrel with the world on this account; for, to confess the very truth, their own little nook contains more than one poet whose memory is kept alive by his monument, instead of imbuing367 the senseless stone with a spiritual immortality,—men of whom you do not ask, "Where is he?" but, "Why is he here?" I estimate that all the literary people who really make an essential part of one's inner life, including the period since English literature first existed, might have ample elbow-room to sit down and quaff368 their draughts369 of Castaly round Chaucer's broad, horizontal tombstone. These divinest poets consecrate223 the spot, and throw a reflected glory over the humblest of their companions. And as for the latter, it is to be hoped that they may have long outgrown370 the characteristic jealousies371 and morbid372 sensibilities of their craft, and have found out the little value (probably not amounting to sixpence in immortal314 currency) of the posthumous373 renown which they once aspired to win. It would be a poor compliment to a dead poet to fancy him leaning out of the sky and snuffing up the impure374 breath of earthly praise.
Yet we cannot easily rid ourselves of the notion that those who have bequeathed us the inheritance of an undying song would fain be conscious of its endless reverberations in the hearts of mankind, and would delight, among sublimer375 enjoyments377, to see their names emblazoned in such a treasure-place of great memories as Westminster Abbey. There are some men, at all events,—true and tender poets, moreover, and fully260 deserving of the honor,—whose spirits, I feel certain, would linger a little while about Poets' Corner for the sake of witnessing their own apotheosis378 among their kindred. They have had a strong natural yearning379, not so much for applause as sympathy, which the cold fortune of their lifetime did but scantily380 supply; so that this unsatisfied appetite may make itself felt upon sensibilities at once so delicate and retentive381, even a step or two beyond the grave. Leigh Hunt, for example, would be pleased, even now, if he could learn that his bust had been reposited in the midst of the old poets whom he admired and loved; though there is hardly a man among the authors of to-day and yesterday whom the judgment382 of Englishmen would be less likely to place there. He deserves it, however, if not for his verse (the value of which I do not estimate, never having been able to read it), yet for his delightful prose, his unmeasured poetry, the inscrutable happiness of his touch, working soft miracles by a life-process like the growth of grass and flowers. As with all such gentle writers, his page sometimes betrayed a vestige383 of affectation, but, the next moment, a rich, natural luxuriance overgrew and buried it out of sight. I knew him a little, and (since, Heaven be praised, few English celebrities384 whom I chanced to meet have enfranchised385 my pen by their decease, and as I assume no liberties with living men) I will conclude this rambling386 article by sketching387 my first interview with Leigh Hunt.
He was then at Hammersmith, occupying a very plain and shabby little house, in a contiguous range of others like it, with no prospect388 but that of an ugly village street, and certainly nothing to gratify his craving389 for a tasteful environment, inside or out. A slatternly maid-servant opened the door for us, and he himself stood in the entry, a beautiful and venerable old man, buttoned to the chin in a black dress-coat, tall and slender, with a countenance quietly alive all over, and the gentlest and most naturally courteous390 manner. He ushered391 us into his little study, or parlor392, or both,—a very forlorn room, with poor paper-hangings and carpet, few books, no pictures that I remember, and an awful lack of upholstery. I touch distinctly upon these external blemishes393 and this nudity of adornment218, not that they would be worth mentioning in a sketch of other remarkable persons, but because Leigh Hunt was born with such a faculty394 of enjoying all beautiful things that it seemed as if Fortune, did him as much wrong in not supplying them as in withholding395 a sufficiency of vital breath from ordinary men. All kinds of mild magnificence, tempered by his taste, would have become him well; but he had not the grim dignity that assumes nakedness as the better robe.
I have said that he was a beautiful old man. In truth, I never saw a finer countenance, either as to the mould of features or the expression, nor any that showed the play of feeling so perfectly122 without the slightest theatrical396 emphasis. It was like a child's face in this respect. At my first glimpse of him, when he met us in the entry, I discerned that he was old, his long hair being white and his wrinkles many; it was an aged visage, in short, such as I had not at all expected to see, in spite of dates, because his books talk to the reader with the tender vivacity397 of youth. But when he began to speak, and as he grew more earnest in conversation, I ceased to be sensible of his age; sometimes, indeed, its dusky shadow darkened through the gleam which his sprightly398 thoughts diffused399 about his face, but then another flash of youth came out of his eyes and made an illumination again. I never witnessed such a wonderfully illusive400 transformation401, before or since; and, to this day, trusting only to my recollection, I should find it difficult to decide which was his genuine and stable predicament,—youth or age. I have met no Englishman whose manners seemed to me so agreeable, soft, rather than polished, wholly unconventional, the natural growth of a kindly and sensitive disposition402 without any reference to rule, or else obedient to some rule so subtile that the nicest observer could not detect the application of it.
His eyes were dark and very fine, and his delightful voice accompanied their visible language like music. He appeared to be exceedingly appreciative403 of whatever was passing among those who surrounded him, and especially of the vicissitudes404 in the consciousness of the person to whom he happened to be addressing himself at the moment. I felt that no effect upon my mind of what he uttered, no emotion, however transitory, in myself, escaped his notice, though not from any positive vigilance on his part, but because his faculty of observation was so penetrative and delicate; and to say the truth, it a little confused me to discern always a ripple405 on his mobile face, responsive to any slightest breeze that passed over the inner reservoir of my sentiments, and seemed thence to extend to a similar reservoir within himself. On matters of feeling, and within a certain depth, you might spare yourself the trouble of utterance406, because he already knew what you wanted to say, and perhaps a little more than you would have spoken. His figure was full of gentle movement, though, somehow, without disturbing its quietude; and as he talked, he kept folding his hands nervously407, and betokened408 in many ways a fine and immediate23 sensibility, quick to feel pleasure or pain, though scarcely capable, I should imagine, of a passionate409 experience in either direction. There was not am English trait in him from head to foot, morally, intellectually, or physically410. Beef, ale, or stout, brandy or port-wine, entered not at all into his composition. In his earlier life, he appears to have given evidences of courage and sturdy principle, and of a tendency to fling himself into the rough struggle of humanity on the liberal side. It would be taking too much upon myself to affirm that this was merely a projection411 of his fancy world into the actual, and that he never could have hit a downright blow, and was altogether an unsuitable person to receive one. I beheld him not in his armor, but in his peacefulest robes. Nevertheless, drawing my conclusion merely from what I saw, it would have occurred to me that his main deficiency was a lack of grit412. Though anything but a timid man, the combative413 and defensive414 elements were not prominently developed in his character, and could have been made available only when he put an unnatural415 force upon his instincts. It was on this account, and also because of the fineness of his nature generally, that the English appreciated him no better, and left this sweet and delicate poet poor, and with scanty416 laurels417 in his declining age.
It was not, I think, from his American blood that Leigh Hunt derived418 either his amiability419 or his peaceful inclinations420; at least, I do not see how we can reasonably claim the former quality as a national characteristic, though the latter might have been fairly inherited from his ancestors on the mother's side, who were Pennsylvania Quakers. But the kind of excellence421 that distinguished him—his fineness, subtilty, and grace—was that which the richest cultivation422 has heretofore tended to develop in the happier examples of American genius, and which (though I say it a little reluctantly) is perhaps what our future intellectual advancement423 may make general among us. His person, at all events, was thoroughly American, and of the best type, as were likewise his manners; for we are the best as well as the worst mannered people in the world.
Leigh Hunt loved dearly to be praised. That is to say, he desired sympathy as a flower seeks sunshine, and perhaps profited by it as much in the richer depth of coloring that it imparted to his ideas. In response to all that we ventured to express about his writings (and, for my part, I went quite to the extent of my conscience, which was a long way, and there left the matter to a lady and a young girl, who happily were with me), his face shone, and he manifested great delight, with a perfect, and yet delicate, frankness for which I loved him. He could not tell us, he said, the happiness that such appreciation424 gave him; it always took him by surprise, he remarked, for—perhaps because he cleaned his own boots, and performed other little ordinary offices for himself— he never had been conscious of anything wonderful in his own person. And then he smiled, making himself and all the poor little parlor about him beautiful thereby425. It is usually the hardest thing in the world to praise a man to his face; but Leigh Hunt received the incense426 with such gracious satisfaction (feeling it to be sympathy, not vulgar praise), that the only difficulty was to keep the enthusiasm of the moment within the limit of permanent opinion. A storm had suddenly come up while we were talking; the rain poured, the lightning flashed, and the thunder broke; but I hope, and have great pleasure in believing, that it was a sunny hour for Leigh Hunt. Nevertheless, it was not to my voice that he most favorably inclined his ear, but to those of my companions. Women are the fit ministers at such a shrine.
He must have suffered keenly in his lifetime, and enjoyed keenly, keeping his emotions so much upon the surface as he seemed to do, and convenient for everybody to play upon. Being of a cheerful temperament427, happiness had probably the upper hand. His was a light, mildly joyous428 nature, gentle, graceful429, yet seldom attaining430 to that deepest grace which results from power; for beauty, like woman, its human representative, dallies431 with the gentle, but yields its consummate favor only to the strong. I imagine that Leigh Bunt may have been more beautiful when I met him, both in person and character, than in his earlier days. As a young man, I could conceive of his being finical in certain moods, but not now, when the gravity of age shed a venerable grace about him. I rejoiced to hear him say that he was favored with most confident and cheering anticipations432 in respect to a future life; and there were abundant proofs, throughout our interview, of an unrepining spirit, resignation, quiet, relinquishment433 of the worldly benefits that were denied him, thankful enjoyment376 of whatever he had to enjoy, and piety434, and hope shining onward435 into the dusk,—all of which gave a reverential cast to the feeling with which we parted from him. I wish that he could have had one full draught of prosperity before he died. As a matter of artistic436 propriety310, it would have been delightful to see him inhabiting a beautiful house of his own, in an Italian climate, with all sorts of elaborate upholstery and minute elegances437 about him, and a succession of tender and lovely women to praise his sweet poetry from morning to night. I hardly know whether it is my fault, or the effect of a weakness in Leigh Haunt's character, that I should be sensible of a regret of this nature, when, at the same time, I sincerely believe that he has found an infinity438 of better things in the world whither he has gone.
At our leave-taking he grasped me warmly by both hands, and seemed as much interested in our whole party as if he had known us for years. All this was genuine feeling, a quick, luxuriant growth out of his heart, which was a soil for flower-seeds of rich and rare varieties, not acorns439, but a true heart, nevertheless. Several years afterwards I met him for the last time at a London dinner-party, looking sadly broken down by infirmities; and my final recollection of the beautiful old man presents him arm in arm with, nay440, if I mistake not, partly embraced and supported by, another beloved and honored poet, whose minstrel-name, since he has a week-day one for his personal occasions, I will venture to speak. It was Barry Cornwall, whose kind introduction had first made me known to Leigh Hunt.
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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4
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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5
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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8
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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9
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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14
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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15
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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16
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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18
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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19
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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20
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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21
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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22
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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24
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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25
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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26
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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27
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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28
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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29
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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30
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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31
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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32
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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33
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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36
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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37
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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38
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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39
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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40
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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41
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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42
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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43
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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44
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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45
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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46
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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47
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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48
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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49
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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50
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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51
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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52
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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53
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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54
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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55
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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56
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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57
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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58
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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59
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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60
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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61
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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62
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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63
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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64
oozy
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| adj.软泥的 | |
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65
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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66
equestrians
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| n.骑手（equestrian的复数形式） | |
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67
reverberate
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| v.使回响，使反响 | |
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68
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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69
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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70
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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71
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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72
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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73
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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74
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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75
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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76
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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77
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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78
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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79
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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80
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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81
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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82
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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83
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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84
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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85
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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86
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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87
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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88
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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89
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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90
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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91
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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92
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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93
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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94
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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95
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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96
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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97
malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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98
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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99
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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100
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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102
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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103
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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104
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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105
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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106
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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107
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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108
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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109
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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110
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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111
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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112
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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113
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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114
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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115
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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116
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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117
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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118
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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119
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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120
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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121
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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122
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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123
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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126
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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127
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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128
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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129
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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130
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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131
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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132
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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133
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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134
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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135
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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136
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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137
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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138
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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139
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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140
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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141
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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142
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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143
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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144
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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145
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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146
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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147
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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148
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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149
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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150
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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151
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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152
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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153
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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154
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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155
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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156
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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157
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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158
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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159
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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160
capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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162
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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164
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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165
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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166
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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167
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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168
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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169
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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170
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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171
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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172
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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173
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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174
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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175
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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176
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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177
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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178
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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179
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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180
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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181
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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182
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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183
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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184
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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185
gaudiest
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的最高级 ) | |
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186
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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187
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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188
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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189
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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190
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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191
pompous
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|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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192
desuetude
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| n.废止，不用 | |
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193
analogous
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|
| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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194
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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195
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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196
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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197
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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198
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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199
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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200
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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201
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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202
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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203
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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204
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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205
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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206
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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207
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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208
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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209
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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210
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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211
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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212
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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213
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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214
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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215
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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216
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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217
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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218
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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219
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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220
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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221
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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222
consecrated
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|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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223
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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224
symbolize
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| vt.作为...的象征，用符号代表 | |
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225
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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226
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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227
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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228
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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229
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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230
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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232
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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233
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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234
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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235
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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236
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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237
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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238
requite
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| v.报酬，报答 | |
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239
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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240
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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241
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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242
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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243
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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244
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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245
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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246
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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247
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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248
glimmering
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|
| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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249
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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250
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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251
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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252
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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253
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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254
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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255
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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256
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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257
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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258
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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259
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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260
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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261
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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262
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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263
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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264
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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265
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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266
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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267
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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268
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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269
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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270
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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271
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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272
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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273
consummate
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|
| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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274
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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275
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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276
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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277
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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278
emanating
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|
| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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279
slabs
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|
| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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280
commemorated
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|
| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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281
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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282
inscriptions
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|
| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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283
inscription
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|
| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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284
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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285
aspired
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|
| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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286
wigs
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|
| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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287
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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288
absurdities
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|
| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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289
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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290
deigning
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|
| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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291
grotesque
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|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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292
reposed
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|
| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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293
valiant
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|
| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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294
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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295
valor
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|
| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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296
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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298
judicial
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|
| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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299
brass
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|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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300
undoubtedly
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|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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301
mantle
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|
| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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302
majesty
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|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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303
incompatible
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|
| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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304
sculptor
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|
| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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305
posture
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|
| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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306
twigged
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| 有细枝的，有嫩枝的 | |
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307
conceal
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|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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308
pertinaciously
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|
| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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309
crease
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|
| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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310
propriety
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|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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311
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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312
questionable
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|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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313
immortality
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|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
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314
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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315
lapsed
|
|
| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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316
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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317
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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318
proprieties
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|
| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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319
benign
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|
| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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320
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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321
boon
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|
| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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322
carvings
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|
| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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323
blotches
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|
| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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324
mosses
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|
| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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325
ivy
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|
| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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326
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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327
absurdity
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|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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328
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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329
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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330
follies
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|
| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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331
choir
|
|
| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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332
vigilant
|
|
| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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333
strenuously
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|
| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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334
inscribed
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|
| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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335
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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336
reluctance
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|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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337
slumberous
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|
| a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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338
alloy
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|
| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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339
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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340
profess
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|
| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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341
busts
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|
| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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342
elevation
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|
| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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343
genial
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|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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344
mingled
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|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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345
hostility
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|
| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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346
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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347
asunder
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|
| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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348
aspiring
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|
| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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349
intelligibly
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|
| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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350
crumbs
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|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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351
chapels
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|
| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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352
shrines
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|
| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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353
shrine
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|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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354
gilding
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|
| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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355
streak
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|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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356
tarnished
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|
| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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357
recondite
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|
| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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358
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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359
quaintness
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|
| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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360
resounding
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|
| adj. 响亮的 | |
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361
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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362
requisite
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|
| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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363
intrude
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|
| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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364
intercourse
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|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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365
eminence
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|
| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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366
sheathed
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|
| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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367
imbuing
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|
| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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368
quaff
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|
| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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369
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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370
outgrown
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|
| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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371
jealousies
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|
| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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372
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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373
posthumous
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|
| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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374
impure
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|
| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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375
sublimer
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|
| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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376
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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377
enjoyments
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|
| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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378
apotheosis
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|
| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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379
yearning
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|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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380
scantily
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|
| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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381
retentive
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|
| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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382
judgment
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|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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383
vestige
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|
| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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384
celebrities
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|
| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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385
enfranchised
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的过去式和过去分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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386
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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387
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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388
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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389
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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390
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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391
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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392
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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393
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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394
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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395
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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396
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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397
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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398
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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399
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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400
illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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401
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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402
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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403
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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404
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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405
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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406
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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407
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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408
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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409
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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410
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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411
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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412
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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413
combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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414
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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415
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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416
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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417
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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418
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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419
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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420
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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421
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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422
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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423
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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424
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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425
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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426
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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427
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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428
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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429
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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430
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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431
dallies
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的第三人称单数 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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432
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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433
relinquishment
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| n.放弃；撤回；停止 | |
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434
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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435
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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436
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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437
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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438
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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439
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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440
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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