We went to one of the mines which are still worked, and boys came running to meet us with specimens21 of the copper ore for sale. The miners were not now hoisting22 ore from the shaft, but were washing and selecting the valuable fragments from great heaps of crumbled23 stone and earth. All about this spot there are shafts25 and well-holes, looking fearfully deep and black, and without the slightest protection, so that we might just as easily have walked into them as not. Having examined these matters sufficiently27, we descended28 the hill towards the village, meeting parties of visitors, mounted on donkeys, which is a much more sensible way of ascending29 in a hot day than to walk. On the sides and summit of the hill we found yellow gorse,—heath of two colors, I think, and very beautiful,—and here and there a harebell. Owing to the long-continued dry weather, the grass was getting withered30 and brown, though not so much so as on American hill-pastures at this season. Returning to the village, we all went into a confectioner's shop, and made a good luncheon31. The two prettiest young ladies whom I have seen in England came into the shop and ate cakes while we were there. They appeared to be living together in a lodging-house, and ordered some of their housekeeping articles from the confectioner.
Next we went into the village bazaar,—a sort of tent or open shop, full of knick-knacks and gewgaws, and bought some playthings for the children. At half past one we took our seats in the omnibus, to return to Conway.
We had as yet only seen the castle wall and the exterior of the castle; now we were to see the inside. Right at the foot of it an old woman has her stand for the sale of lithographic views of Conway and other places; but these views are ridiculously inadequate33, so that we did not buy any of them. The admittance into the castle is by a wooden door of modern construction, and the present seneschal is, I believe, the sexton of a church. He remembered me as having been there a month or two ago; and probably, considering that I was already initiated34, or else because he had many other visitors, he left us to wander about the castle at will. It is altogether impossible to describe Conway Castle. Nothing ever can have been so perfect in its own style, and for its own purposes, when it was first built; and now nothing else can be so perfect as a picture of ivy-grown, peaceful ruin. The banqueting-hall, all open to the sky and with thick curtains of ivy tapestrying35 the walls, and grass and weeds growing on the arches that overpass37 it, is indescribably beautiful. The hearthstones of the great old fireplaces, all about the castle, seem to be favorite spots for weeds to grow. There are eight large round towers, and out of four of them, I think, rise smaller towers, ascending to a much greater height, and once containing winding38 staircases, all of which are now broken, and inaccessible39 from below, though, in at least one of the towers, the stairs seemed perfect, high aloft. It must have been the rudest violence that broke down these stairs; for each step was a thick and heavy slab40 of stone, built into the wall of the tower. There is no such thing as a roof in any part; towers, hall, kitchen, all are open to the sky. One round tower, directly overhanging the railway, is so shattered by the falling away of the lower part, that you can look quite up into it and through it, while sitting in the cars; and yet it has stood thus, without falling into complete ruin, for more than two hundred years. I think that it was in this tower that we found the castle oven, an immense cavern41, big enough to bake bread for an army. The railway passes exactly at the base of the high rock, on which this part of the castle is situated42, and goes into the town through a great arch that has been opened in the castle wall. The tubular bridge across the Conway has been built in a style that accords with the old architecture, and I observed that one little sprig of ivy had rooted itself in the new structure.
There are numberless intricate passages in the thickness of the castle walls, forming communications between tower and tower,—damp, chill passages, with rough stone on either hand, darksome, and very likely leading to dark pitfalls43. The thickness of the walls is amazing; and the people of those days must have been content with very scanty44 light, so small were the apertures,—sometimes merely slits45 and loopholes, glimmering46 through many feet of thickness of stone. One of the towers was said to have been the residence of Queen Eleanor; and this was better lighted than the others, containing an oriel-window, looking out of a little oratory47, as it seemed to be, with groined arches and traces of ornamental48 sculpture, so that we could dress up some imperfect image of a queenly chamber49, though the tower was roofless and floorless. There was another pleasant little windowed nook, close beside the oratory, where the Queen might have sat sewing or looking down the river Conway at the picturesque5 headlands towards the sea. We imagined her stately figure in antique robes, standing beneath the groined arches of the oratory. There seem to have been three chambers50, one above another, in these towers, and the one in which was the embowed window was the middle one. I suppose the diameter of each of these circular rooms could not have been more than twenty feet on the inside. All traces of wood-work and iron-work are quite gone from the whole castle. These are said to have been taken away by a Lord Conway in the reign51 of Charles II. There is a grassy52 space under the windows of Queen Eleanor's tower,—a sort of outwork of the castle, where probably, when no enemy was near, the Queen used to take the open air in summer afternoons like this. Here we sat down on the grass of the ruined wall, and agreed that nothing in the world could be so beautiful and picturesque as Conway Castle, and that never could there have been so fit a time to see it as this sunny, quiet, lovely afternoon. Sunshine adapts itself to the character of a ruin in a wonderful way; it does not "flout53 the ruins gray," as Scott says, but sympathizes with their decay, and saddens itself for their sake. It beautifies the ivy too.
We saw, at the corner of this grass-plot around Queen Eleanor's tower, a real trunk of a tree of ivy, with so stalwart a stem, and such a vigorous grasp of its strong branches, that it would be a very efficient support to the wall, were it otherwise inclined to fall. O that we could have ivy in America! What is there to beautify us when our time of ruin comes?
Before departing, we made the entire circuit of the castle on its walls, and O'Sullivan and I climbed by a ladder to the top of one of the towers. While there, we looked down into the street beneath, and saw a photographist preparing to take a view of the castle, and calling out to some little girl in some niche54 or on some pinnacle55 of the walls to stand still that he might catch her figure and face. I think it added to the impressiveness of the old castle, to see the streets and the kitchen-gardens and the homely56 dwellings57 that had grown up within the precincts of this feudal58 fortress59, and the people of to-day following their little businesses about it. This does not destroy the charm; but tourists and idle visitors do impair60 it. The earnest life of to-day, however, petty and homely as it may be, has a right to its place alongside of what is left of the life of other days; and if it be vulgar itself, it does not vulgarize the scene. But tourists do vulgarize it; and I suppose we did so, just like others.
We took the train back to Rhyl, where we arrived at about four o'clock, and, having dined, we again took the rail for Chester, and thence to Rock Park (that is, O'Sullivan and I), and reached home at about eleven o'clock.
Yesterday, September 13th, I began to wear a watch from Bennet's, 65 Cheapside, London. W. C. Bennet warrants it as the best watch which they can produce. If it prove as good and as durable61 as he prophesies62, J——- will find it a perfect time-keeper long after his father has done with Time. If I had not thought of his wearing it hereafter, I should have been content with a much inferior one. No. 39,620.
September 20th.—I went back to Rhyl last Friday in the steamer. We arrived at the landing-place at nearly four o'clock, having started at twelve, and I walked thence to our lodgings63, 18 West Parade. The children and their mother were all gone out, and I sat some time in our parlor64 before anybody came. The next morning I made an excursion in the omnibus as far as Ruthin, passing through Rhyddlan, St. Asaph, Denbigh, and reaching Ruthin at one o'clock. All these are very ancient places. St. Asaph has a cathedral which is not quite worthy65 of that name, but is a very large and stately church in excellent repair. Its square battlemented tower has a very fine appearance, crowning the clump66 of village houses on the hill-top, as you approach from Rhyddlan. The ascent67 of the hill is very steep; so it is at Denbigh and at Ruthin,—the steepest streets, indeed, that I ever climbed. Denbigh is a place of still more antique aspect than St. Asaph; it looks, I think, even older than Chester, with its gabled houses, many of their windows opening on hinges, and their fronts resting on pillars, with an open porch beneath. The castle makes an admirably ruinous figure on the hill, higher than the village. I had come hither with the purpose of inspecting it, but as it began to rain just then, I concluded to get into the omnibus and go to Ruthin. There was another steep ascent from the commencement of the long street of Ruthin, till I reached the market-place, which is of nearly triangular68 shape, and an exceedingly old-looking place. Houses of stone or plastered brick; one or two with timber frames; the roofs of an uneven69 line, and bulging70 out or sinking in; the slates71 moss72-grown. Some of them have two peaks and even three in a row, fronting on the streets, and there is a stone market-house with a table of regulations. In this market-place there is said to be a stone on which King Arthur beheaded one of his enemies; but this I did not see. All these villages were very lively, as the omnibus drove in; and I rather imagine it was market-day in each of them,—there being quite a bustle73 of Welsh people. The old women came round the omnibus courtesying and intimating their willingness to receive alms,—witch-like women, such as one sees in pictures or reads of in romances, and very unlike anything feminine in America. Their style of dress cannot have changed for centuries. It was quite unexpected to me to hear Welsh so universally and familiarly spoken. Everybody spoke74 it. The omnibus-driver could speak but imperfect English; there was a jabber75 of Welsh all through the streets and market-places; and it flowed out with a freedom quite different from the way in which they expressed themselves in English. I had had an idea that Welsh was spoken rather as a freak and in fun than as a native language; it was so strange to find another language the people's actual and earnest medium of thought within so short a distance of England. But English is scarcely more known to the body of the Welsh people than to the peasantry of France. However, they sometimes pretend to ignorance, when they might speak it fairly enough.
I took luncheon at the hotel where the omnibus stopped, and then went to search out the castle. It appears to have been once extensive, but the remains76 of it are now very few, except a part of the external wall. Whatever other portion may still exist, has been built into a modern castellated mansion77, which has risen within the wide circuit of the fortress,—a handsome and spacious78 edifice79 of red freestone, with a high tower, on which a flag was flying. The grounds were well laid out in walks, and really I think the site of the castle could not have been turned to better account. I am getting tired of antiquity80. It is certainly less interesting in the long run than novelty; and so I was well content with the fresh, warm, red hue81 of the modern house, and the unworn outline of its walls, and its cheerful, large windows; and was willing that the old ivy-grown ruins should exist now only to contrast with the modernisms. These ancient walls, by the by, are of immense thickness. There is a passage through the interior of a portion of them, the width from this interior passage to the outer one being fifteen feet on one side, and I know not how much on the other.
It continued showery all day; and the omnibus was crowded. I had chosen the outside from Rhyl to Denbigh, but, all the rest of the journey, imprisoned82 myself within. On our way home, an old lady got into the omnibus,—a lady of tremendous rotundity; and as she tumbled from the door to the farthest part of the carriage, she kept advising all the rest of the passengers to get out. "I don't think there will be much rain, gentlemen," quoth she, "you'll be much more comfortable on the outside." As none of us complied, she glanced along the seats. "What! are you all Saas'uach?" she inquired. As we drove along, she talked Welsh with great fluency83 to one of the passengers, a young woman with a baby, and to as many others as could understand her. It has a strange, wild sound, like a language half blown away by the wind. The lady's English was very good; but she probably prided herself on her proficiency84 in Welsh. My excursion to-day had been along the valley of the Clwyd, a very rich and fertile tract85 of country.
The next day we all took a long walk on the beach, picking up shells.
On Monday we took an open carriage and drove to Rhyddlan; whence we sent back the carriage, meaning to walk home along the embankment of the river Clwyd, after inspecting the castle. The fortress is very ruinous, having been dismantled86 by the Parliamentarians. There are great gaps,—two, at least, in the walls that connect the round towers, of which there were six, one on each side of a gateway14 in front, and the same at a gateway towards the river, where there is a steep descent to a wall and square tower, at the water-side. Great pains and a great deal of gunpowder87 must have been used in converting this castle into a ruin. There were one or two fragments lying where they had fallen more than two hundred years ago, which, though merely a conglomeration88 of small stones and mortar89, were just as hard as if they had been solid masses of granite90. The substantial thickness of the walls is composed of these agglomerated91 small stones and mortar, the casing being hewn blocks of red freestone. This is much worn away by the weather, wherever it has been exposed to the air; but, under shelter, it looks as if it might have been hewn only a year or two ago. Each of the round towers had formerly93 a small staircase turret94 rising beside and ascending above it, in which a warder might be posted, but they have all been so battered95 and shattered that it is impossible for an uninstructed observer to make out a satisfactory plan of then. The interior of each tower was a small room, not more than twelve or fifteen feet across; and of these there seem to have been three stories, with loop-holes for archery and not much other light than what came through them. Then there are various passages and nooks and corners and square recesses96 in the stone, some of which must have been intended for dungeons98, and the ugliest and gloomiest dungeons imaginable, for they could not have had any light or air. There is not, the least, splinter of wood-work remaining in any part of the castle,—nothing but bare stone, and a little plaster in one or two places, on the wall. In the front gateway we looked at the groove99 on each side, in which the portcullis used to rise and fall; and in each of the contiguous round towers there was a loop-hole, whence an enemy on the outer side of the portcullis might be shot through with an arrow.
The inner court-yard is a parallelogram, nearly a square, and is about forty-five of my paces across. It is entirely100 grass-grown, and vacant, except for two or three trees that have been recently set out, and which are surrounded with palings to keep away the cows that pasture in and about the place. No window looks from the walls or towers into this court-yard; nor are there any traces of buildings having stood within the enclosure, unless it be what looks something like the flue of a chimney within one of the walls. I should suppose, however, that there must have been, when the castle was in its perfect state, a hall, a kitchen, and other commodious101 apartments and offices for the King and his train, such as there were at Conway and Beaumaris. But if so, all fragments have been carried away, and all hollows of the old foundations scrupulously103 filled up. The round towers could not have comprised all the accommodation of the castle. There is nothing more striking in these ruins than to look upward from the crumbling104 base, and see flights of stairs, still comparatively perfect, by which you might securely ascend17 to the upper heights of the tower, although all traces of a staircase have disappeared below, and the upper portion cannot be attained105. On three sides of the fortress is a moat, about sixty feet wide, and cased with stone. It was probably of great depth in its day, but it is now partly filled up with earth, and is quite dry and grassy throughout its whole extent. On the inner side of the moat was the outer wall of the castle, portions of which still remain. Between the outer wall and the castle itself the space is also about sixty feet.
The day was cloudy and lowering, and there were several little spatterings of rain, while we rambled106 about. The two children ran shouting hither and thither107, and were continually clambering into dangerous places, racing108 along ledges109 of broken wall. At last they altogether disappeared for a good while; their voices, which had heretofore been plainly audible, were hushed, nor was there any answer when we began to call them, while making ready for our departure. But they finally appeared, coming out of the moat, where they had been picking and eating blackberries,—which, they said, grew very plentifully110 there, and which they were very reluctant to leave. Before quitting the castle, I must not forget the ivy, which makes a perfect tapestry36 over a large portion of the walls.
We walked about the village, which is old and ugly; small, irregular streets, contriving111 to be intricate, though there are few of them; mean houses, joining to each other. We saw, in the principal one, the parliament house in which Edward I. gave a Charter, or allowed rights of some kind to his Welsh subjects. The ancient part of its wall is entirely distinguishable from what has since been built upon it.
Thence we set out to walk along the embankment, although the sky looked very threatening. The wind, however, was so strong, and had such a full sweep at us, on the top of the bank, that we decided112 on taking a path that led from it across the moor113. But we soon had cause to repent114 of this; for, which way soever we turned, we found ourselves cut off by a ditch or a little stream; so that here we were, fairly astray on Rhyddlan moor, the old battle-field of the Saxons and Britons, and across which, I suppose, the fiddlers and mountebanks had marched to the relief of the Earl of Chester. Anon, too, it began to shower; and it was only after various leaps and scramblings that we made our way to a large farm-house, and took shelter under a cart-shed. The back of the house to which we gained access was very dirty and ill-kept; some dirty children peeped at us as we approached, and nobody had the civility to ask us in; so we took advantage of the first cessation of the shower to resume our way. We were shortly overtaken by a very intelligent-looking and civil man, who seemed to have come from Rhyddlan, and said he was going to Rhyl. We followed his guidance over stiles and along hedge-row paths which we never could have threaded rightly by ourselves.
By and by our kind guide had to stop at an intermediate farm; but he gave us full directions how to proceed, and we went on till it began to shower again pretty briskly, and we took refuge in a little bit of old stone cottage, which, small as it was, had a greater antiquity than any mansion in America. The door was open, and as we approached, we saw several children gazing at us; and their mother, a pleasant-looking woman, who seemed rather astounded115 at the visit that was about to befall her, tried to draw a tattered116 curtain over a part of her interior, which she fancied even less fit to be seen than the rest. To say the truth, the house was not at all better than a pigsty117; and while we sat there, a pig came familiarly to the door, thrust in his snout, and seemed surprised that he should be driven away, instead of being admitted as one of the family. The floor was of brick; there was no ceiling, but only the peaked gable overhead. The room was kitchen, parlor, and, I suppose, bedroom for the whole family; at all events, there was only the tattered curtain between us and the sleeping accommodations. The good woman either could not or would not speak a word of English, only laughing when S——- said, "Dim Sassenach?" but she was kind and hospitable118, and found a chair for each of us. She had been making some bread, and the dough119 was on the dresser. Life with these people is reduced to its simplest elements. It is only a pity that they cannot or do not choose to keep themselves cleaner. Poverty, except in cities, need not be squalid. When the shower abated120 a little, we gave all the pennies we had to the children, and set forth121 again. By the by, there were several colored prints stuck up against the walls, and there was a clock ticking in a corner and some paper-hangings pinned upon the slanting122 roof.
It began to rain again before we arrived at Rhyl, and we were driven into a small tavern123. After staying there awhile, we set forth between the drops; but the rain fell still heavier, so that we were pretty well damped before we got to our lodgings. After dinner, I took the rail for Chester and Rock Park, and S——- and the children and maid followed the next day.
September 22d.—I dined on Wednesday evening at Mr. John Heywood's, Norris Green. Mr. Mouckton Mimes124 and lady were of the company. Mr. Mimes is a very agreeable, kindly125 man, resembling Longfellow a good deal in personal appearance; and he promotes, by his genial126 manners, the same pleasant intercourse127 which is so easily established with Longfellow. He is said to be a very kind patron of literary men, and to do a great deal of good among young and neglected people of that class. He is considered one of the best conversationists at present in society: it may very well be so; his style of talking being very simple and natural, anything but obtrusive128, so that you might enjoy its agreeableness without suspecting it. He introduced me to his wife (a daughter of Lord Crewe), with whom and himself I had a good deal of talk. Mr. Milnes told me that he owns the land in Yorkshire, whence some of the pilgrims of the Mayflower emigrated to Plymouth, and that Elder Brewster was the Postmaster of the village. . . . He also said that in the next voyage of the Mayflower, after she carried the Pilgrims, she was employed in transporting a cargo129 of slaves from Africa,—to the West Indies, I suppose. This is a queer fact, and would be nuts for the Southerners.
Mem.—An American would never understand the passage in Bunyan about Christian130 and Hopeful going astray along a by-path into the grounds of Giant Despair,—from there being no stiles and by-paths in our country.
September 26th.—On Saturday evening my wife and I went to a soiree given by the Mayor and Mrs. Lloyd at the Town Hall to receive the Earl of Harrowby. It was quite brilliant, the public rooms being really magnificent, and adorned131 for the occasion with a large collection of pictures, belonging to Mr. Naylor. They were mostly, if not entirely, of modern artists,—of Turner, Wilkie, Landseer, and others of the best English painters. Turner's seemed too ethereal to have been done by mortal hands.
The British Scientific Association being now in session here, many distinguished132 strangers were present.
September 29th.—Mr. Monekton Milnes called on me at the Consulate134 day before yesterday. He is pleasant and sensible. Speaking of American politicians, I remarked that they were seldom anything but politicians, and had no literary or other culture beyond their own calling. He said the case was the same in England, and instanced Sir ———, who once called on him for information when an appeal had been made to him respecting two literary gentlemen. Sir ——— had never heard the names of either of these gentlemen, and applied135 to Mr. Milnes as being somewhat conversant136 with the literary class, to know whether they were distinguished and what were their claims. The names of the two literary men were James Sheridan Knowles and Alfred Tennyson.
October 5th.—Yesterday I was present at a dejeuner on board the James Barnes, on occasion of her coming under the British flag, having been built for the Messrs. Barnes by Donald McKay of Boston. She is a splendid vessel137, and magnificently fitted up, though not with consummate138 taste. It would be worth while that ornamental architects and upholsterers should study this branch of art, since the ship-builders seem willing to expend140 a good deal of money on it. In fact, I do not see that there is anywhere else so much encouragement to the exercise of ornamental art. I saw nothing to criticise141 in the solid and useful details of the ship; the ventilation, in particular, being free and abundant, so that the hundreds of passengers who will have their berths142 between decks, and at a still lower depth, will have good air and enough of it.
There were four or five hundred persons, principally Liverpool merchants and their wives, invited to the dejeuner; and the tables were spread between decks, the berths for passengers not being yet put in. There was not quite light enough to make the scene cheerful, it being an overcast143 day; and, indeed, there was an English plainness in the arrangement of the festal room, which might have been better exchanged for the flowery American taste, which I have just been criticising. With flowers, and the arrangement of flags, we should have made something very pretty of the space between decks; but there was nothing to hide the fact that in a few days hence there would be crowded berths and sea-sick steerage passengers where we were now feasting. The cheer was very good,—cold fowl144 and meats; cold pies of foreign manufacture very rich, and of mysterious composition; and champagne145 in plenty, with other wines for those who liked them.
I sat between two ladies, one of them Mrs. ———, a pleasant young woman, who, I believe, is of American provincial146 nativity, and whom I therefore regarded as half a countrywoman. We talked a good deal together, and I confided147 to her my annoyance148 at the prospect149 of being called up to answer a toast; but she did not pity me at all, though she felt, much alarm about her husband, Captain ———, who was in the same predicament. Seriously, it is the most awful part of my official duty,— this necessity of making dinner-speeches at the Mayor's, and other public or semi-public tables. However, my neighborhood to Mrs. ——— was good for me, inasmuch as by laughing over the matter with her came to regard it in a light and ludicrous way; and so, when the time actually came, I stood up with a careless dare-devil feeling. The chairman toasted the president immediately after the Queen, and did me the honor to speak of myself in a most flattering manner, something like this: "Great by his position under the Republic,—greater still, I am bold to say, in the Republic of letters!" I made no reply at all to this; in truth, I forgot all about it when I began to speak, and merely thanked the company in behalf of the President, and my countrymen, and made a few remarks with no very decided point to them. However, they cheered and applauded, and I took advantage of the applause to sit down, and Mrs. ——— informed me that I had succeeded admirably. It was no success at all, to be sure; neither was it a failure, for I had aimed at nothing, and I had exactly hit it. But after sitting down, I was conscious of an enjoyment151 in speaking to a public assembly, and felt as if I should like to rise again. It is something like being under fire,—a sort of excitement, not exactly pleasure, but more piquant152 than most pleasures. I have felt this before, in the same circumstances; but, while on my legs, my impulse is to get through with my remarks and sit down again as quickly as possible. The next speech, I think, was by Rev92. Dr. ———, the celebrated153 Arctic gentleman, in reply to a toast complimentary154 to the clergy155. He turned aside from the matter in hand, to express his kind feelings towards America, where he said he had been most hospitably156 received, especially at Cambridge University. He also made allusions157 to me, and I suppose it would have been no more than civil in me to have answered with a speech in acknowledgment, but I did not choose to make another venture, so merely thanked him across the corner of the table, for he sat near me. He is a venerable-looking, white-haired gentleman, tall and slender, with a pale, intelligent, kindly face.
Other speeches were made; but from beginning to end there was not one breath of eloquence159, nor even one neat sentence; and I rather think that Englishmen would purposely avoid eloquence or neatness in after-dinner speeches. It seems to be no part of their object. Yet any Englishman almost, much more generally than Americans, will stand up and talk on in a plain way, uttering one rough, ragged160, and shapeless sentence after another, and will have expressed himself sensibly, though in a very rude manner, before he sits down. And this is quite satisfactory to his audience, who, indeed, are rather prejudiced against the man who speaks too glibly161.
The guests began to depart shortly after three o'clock. This morning I have seen two reports of my little speech,—one exceedingly incorrect; another pretty exact, but not much to my taste, for I seem to have left out everything that would have been fittest to say.
October 6th.—The people, for several days, have been in the utmost anxiety, and latterly in the highest exultation162 about Sebastopol,—and all England, and Europe to boot, have been fooled by the belief that it had fallen. This, however, now turns out to be incorrect; and the public visage is somewhat grim, in consequence. I am glad of it. In spite of his actual sympathies, it is impossible for a true American to be otherwise than glad. Success makes an Englishman intolerable; and, already, on the mistaken idea that the way was open to a prosperous conclusion of the war, The Times had begun to throw out menaces against America. I shall never love England till she sues to us for help, and, in the mean time, the fewer triumphs she obtains, the better for all parties. An Englishman in adversity is a very respectable character; he does not lose his dignity, but merely comes to a proper conception of himself. It is rather touching163 to an observer to see how much the universal heart is in this matter,—to see the merchants gathering164 round the telegraphic messages, posted on the pillars of the Exchange news-room, the people in the street who cannot afford to buy a paper clustering round the windows of the news-offices, where a copy is pinned up,—the groups of corporals and sergeants165 at the recruiting rendezvous166, with a newspaper in the midst of them and all earnest and sombre, and feeling like one man together, whatever their rank. I seem to myself like a spy or a traitor167 when I meet their eyes, and am conscious that I neither hope nor fear in sympathy with them, although they look at me in full confidence of sympathy. Their heart "knoweth its own bitterness," and as for me, being a stranger and all alien, I "intermeddle not with their joy."
October 9th.—My ancestor left England in 1630. I return in 1853. I sometimes feel as if I myself had been absent these two hundred and twenty-three years, leaving England just emerging from the feudal system, and finding it, on my return, on the verge168 of republicanism. It brings the two far-separated points of time very closely together, to view the matter thus.
October 16th.—A day or two ago arrived the sad news of the loss of the Arctic by collision with a French steamer off Newfoundland, and the loss also of three or four hundred people. I have seldom been more affected169 by anything quite alien from my personal and friendly concerns, than by the death of Captain Luce and his son. The boy was a delicate lad, and it is said that he had never been absent from his mother till this time, when his father had taken him to England to consult a physician about a complaint in his hip139. So his father, while the ship was sinking, was obliged to decide whether he would put the poor, weakly, timorous170 child on board the boat, to take his hard chance of life there, or keep him to go down with himself and the ship. He chose the latter; and within half an hour, I suppose, the boy was among the child-angels. Captain Luce could not do less than die, for his own part, with the responsibility of all those lost lives upon him. He may not have been in the least to blame for the calamity171, but it was certainly too heavy a one for him to survive. He was a sensible man, and a gentleman, courteous172, quiet, with something almost melancholy173 in his address and aspect. Oftentimes he has come into my inner office to say good-by before his departures, but I cannot precisely174 remember whether or no he took leave of me before this latest voyage. I never exchanged a great many words with him; but those were kind ones.
October 19th.—It appears to be customary for people of decent station, but in distressed176 circumstances, to go round among their neighbors and the public, accompanied by a friend, who explains the case. I have been accosted177 in the street in regard to one of these matters; and to-day there came to my office a grocer, who had become security for a friend, and who was threatened with an execution,—with another grocer for supporter and advocate. The beneficiary takes very little active part in the affair, merely looking careworn178, distressed, and pitiable, and throwing in a word of corroboration179, or a sigh, or an acknowledgment, as the case may demand. In the present instance, the friend, a young, respectable-looking tradesman, with a Lancashire accent, spoke freely and simply of his client's misfortunes, not pressing the case unduly181, but doing it full justice, and saying, at the close of the interview, that it was no pleasant business for himself. The broken grocer was an elderly man, of somewhat sickly aspect. The whole matter is very foreign to American habits. No respectable American would think of retrieving182 his affairs by such means, but would prefer ruin ten times over; no friend would take up his cause; no public would think it worth while to prevent the small catastrophe183. And yet the custom is not without its good side as indicating a closer feeling of brotherhood184, a more efficient sense of neighborhood, than exists among ourselves, although, perhaps, we are more careless of a fellow-creature's ruin, because ruin with us is by no means the fatal and irretrievable event that it is in England.
I am impressed with the ponderous185 and imposing186 look of an English legal document,—an assignment of real estate in England, for instance,— engrossed187 on an immense sheet of thickest paper, in a formal hand, beginning with "This Indenture188" in German text, and with occasional phrases of form, breaking out into large script,—very long and repetitious, fortified189 with the Mayor of Manchester's seal, two or three inches in diameter, which is certified190 by a notary-public, whose signature, again, is to have my consular191 certificate and official seal.
November 2d.—A young Frenchman enters, of gentlemanly aspect, with a grayish cloak or paletot overspreading his upper person, and a handsome and well-made pair of black trousers and well-fitting boots below. On sitting down, he does not throw off nor at all disturb the cloak. Eying him more closely, one discerns that he has no shirt-collar, and that what little is visible of his shirt-bosom seems not to be of to-day nor of yesterday,—perhaps not even of the day before. His manner is not very good; nevertheless, he is a coxcomb192 and a jackanapes. He avers193 himself a naturalized citizen of America, where he has been tutor in several families of distinction, and has been treated like a son. He left America on account of his health, and came near being tutor in the Duke of Norfolk's family, but failed for lack of testimonials; he is exceedingly capable and accomplished194, but reduced in funds, and wants employment here, of the means of returning to America, where he intends to take a situation under government, which he is sure of obtaining. He mentioned a quarrel which he had recently had with an Englishman in behalf of America, and would have fought a duel195 had such been the custom of the country. He made the Englishman foam196 at the mouth, and told him that he had been twelve years at a military school, and could easily kill him. I say to him that I see little or no prospect of his getting employment here, but offer to inquire whether any situation, as clerk or otherwise, can be obtained for him in a vessel returning to America, and ask his address. He has no address. Much to my surprise, he takes his leave without requesting pecuniary197 aid, but hints that he shall call again. He is a very disagreeable young fellow, like scores of others who call on me in the like situation. His English is very good for a Frenchman, and he says he speaks it the least well of five languages. He has been three years in America, and obtained his naturalization papers, he says, as a special favor, and by means of strong interest. Nothing is so absolutely odious102 as the sense of freedom and equality pertaining198 to an American grafted199 on the mind of a native of any other country in the world. A naturalized citizen is HATEFUL. Nobody has a right to our ideas, unless born to them.
November 9th.—I lent the above Frenchman a small sum; he advertised for employment as a teacher; and he called this morning to thank me for my aid, and says Mr. C——— has engaged him for his children, at a guinea a week, and that he has also another engagement. The poor fellow seems to have been brought to a very low ebb201. He has pawned202 everything, even to his last shirt, save the one he had on, and had been living at the rate of twopence a day. I had procured203 him a chance to return to America, but he was ashamed to go back in such poor circumstances, and so determined205 to seek better fortune here. I like him better than I did,—partly, I suppose, because I have helped him.
November 14th.—The other day I saw an elderly gentleman walking in Dale Street, apparently206 in a state of mania207; for as he limped along (being afflicted208 with lameness) he kept talking to himself, and sometimes breaking out into a threat against some casual passenger. He was a very respectable-looking man; and I remember to have seen him last summer, in the steamer, returning from the Isle209 of Man, where he had been staying at Castle Mona. What a strange and ugly predicament it would be for a person of quiet habits to be suddenly smitten210 with lunacy at noonday in a crowded street, and to walk along through a dim maze211 of extravagances,— partly conscious of then, but unable to resist the impulse to give way to them! A long-suppressed nature might be represented as bursting out in this way, for want of any other safety-valve.
In America, people seem to consider the government merely as a political administration; and they care nothing for the credit of it, unless it be the administration of their own political party. In England, all people, of whatever party, are anxious for the credit of their rulers. Our government, as a knot of persons, changes so entirely every four years, that the institution has come to be considered a temporary thing.
Looking at the moon the other evening, little R——- said, "It blooms out in the morning!" taking the moon to be the bud of the sun.
The English are a most intolerant people. Nobody is permitted, nowadays, to have any opinion but the prevalent one. There seems to be very little difference between their educated and ignorant classes in this respect; if any, it is to the credit of the latter, who do not show tokens of such extreme interest in the war. It is agreeable, however, to observe how all Englishmen pull together,—how each man comes forward with his little scheme for helping212 on the war,—how they feel themselves members of one family, talking together about their common interest, as if they were gathered around one fireside; and then what a hearty213 meed of honor they award to their soldiers! It is worth facing death for. Whereas, in America, when our soldiers fought as good battles, with as great proportionate loss, and far more valuable triumphs, the country seemed rather ashamed than proud of them.
Mrs. Heywood tells me that there are many Catholics among the lower classes in Lancashire and Cheshire,—probably the descendants of retainers of the old Catholic nobility and gentry214, who are more numerous in these shires than in other parts of England. The present Lord Sefton's grandfather was the first of that race who became Protestant.
December 25th.—Commodore P——— called to see me this morning,—a brisk, gentlemanly, offhand215, but not rough, unaffected and sensible man, looking not so elderly as he ought, on account of a very well made wig216. He is now on his return from a cruise in the East Indian seas, and goes home by the Baltic, with a prospect of being very well received on account of his treaty with Japan. I seldom meet with a man who puts himself more immediately on conversable terms than the Commodore. He soon introduced his particular business with me,—it being to inquire whether I would recommend some suitable person to prepare his notes and materials for the publication of an account of his voyage. He was good enough to say that he had fixed217 upon me, in his own mind, for this office; but that my public duties would of course prevent me from engaging in it. I spoke of Herman Melville, and one or two others; but he seems to have some acquaintance with the literature of the day, and did not grasp very cordially at any name that I could think of; nor, indeed, could I recommend any one with full confidence. It would be a very desirable task for a young literary man, or, for that matter, for an old one; for the world can scarcely have in reserve a less hackneyed theme than Japan.
This is a most beautiful day of English winter; clear and bright, with the ground a little frozen, and the green grass along the waysides at Rock Ferry sprouting219 up through the frozen pools of yesterday's rain. England is forever green. On Christmas day, the children found wall-flowers, pansies, and pinks in the garden; and we had a beautiful rose from the garden of the hotel grown in the open air. Yet one is sensible of the cold here, as much as in the zero atmosphere of America. The chief advantage of the English climate is that we are not tempted220 to heat our rooms to so unhealthy a degree as in New England.
I think I have been happier this Christmas than ever before,—by my own fireside, and with my wife and children about me,—more content to enjoy what I have,—less anxious for anything beyond it in this life.
My early life was perhaps a good preparation for the declining half of life; it having been such a blank that any thereafter would compare favorably with it. For a long, long while, I have occasionally been visited with a singular dream; and I have an impression that I have dreamed it ever since I have been in England. It is, that I am still at college,—or, sometimes, even at school,—and there is a sense that I have been there unconscionably long, and have quite failed to make such progress as my contemporaries have done; and I seem to meet some of them with a feeling of shame and depression that broods over me as I think of it, even when awake. This dream, recurring221 all through these twenty or thirty years, must be one of the effects of that heavy seclusion222 in which I shut myself up for twelve years after leaving college, when everybody moved onward223, and left me behind. How strange that it should come now, when I may call myself famous and prosperous!—when I am happy, too!
January 3d, 1855.—The progress of the age is trampling224 over the aristocratic institutions of England, and they crumble24 beneath it. This war has given the country a vast impulse towards democracy. The nobility will never hereafter, I think, assume or be permitted to rule the nation in peace, or command armies in war, on any ground except the individual ability which may appertain to one of their number, as well as to a commoner. And yet the nobles were never positively225 more noble than now; never, perhaps, so chivalrous226, so honorable, so highly cultivated; but, relatively227 to the rest of the world, they do not maintain their old place. The pressure of the war has tested and proved this fact, at home and abroad. At this moment it would be an absurdity228 in the nobles to pretend to the position which was quietly conceded to them a year ago. This one year has done the work of fifty ordinary ones; or, more accurately229, it has made apparent what has long been preparing itself.
January 6th.—The American ambassador called on me to-day and stayed a good while,—an hour or two. He is visiting at Mr. William Browne's, at Richmond Hill, having come to this region to bring his niece, who is to be bride's-maid at the wedding of an American girl. I like Mr. ———. He cannot exactly be called gentlemanly in his manners, there being a sort of rusticity230 about him; moreover, he has a habit of squinting231 one eye, and an awkward carriage of his head; hut, withal, a dignity in his large person, and a consciousness of high position and importance, which gives him ease and freedom. Very simple and frank in his address, he may be as crafty232 as other diplomatists are said to be; but I see only good sense and plainness of speech,—appreciative, too, and genial enough to make himself conversable. He talked very freely of himself and of other public people, and of American and English affairs. He returns to America, he says, next October, and then retires forever from public life, being sixty-four years of age, and having now no desire except to write memoirs233 of his times, and especially of the administration of Mr. Polk. I suggested a doubt whether the people would permit him to retire; and he immediately responded to my hint as regards his prospects234 for the Presidency235. He said that his mind was fully26 made up, and that he would never be a candidate, and that he had expressed this decision to his friends in such a way as to put it out of his own power to change it. He acknowledged that he should have been glad of the nomination236 for the Presidency in 1852, but that it was now too late, and that he was too old,—and, in short, he seemed to be quite sincere in his nolo episcopari; although, really, he is the only Democrat237, at this moment, whom it would not be absurd to talk of for the office. As he talked, his face flushed, and he seemed to feel inwardly excited. Doubtless, it was the high vision of half his lifetime which he here relinquished238. I cannot question that he is sincere; but, of course, should the people insist upon having him for President, he is too good a patriot239 to refuse. I wonder whether he can have had any object in saying all this to me. He might see that it would be perfectly240 natural for me to tell it to General Pierce. But it is a very vulgar idea,—this of seeing craft and subtlety241, when there is a plain and honest aspect.
January 9th.—I dined at Mr. William Browne's (M. P.) last, evening with a large party. The whole table and dessert service was of silver. Speaking of Shakespeare, Mr. ——— said that the Duke of Somerset, who is now nearly fourscore, told him that the father of John and Charles Kemble had made all possible research into the events of Shakespeare's life, and that he had found reason to believe that Shakespeare attended a certain revel242 at Stratford, and, indulging too much in the conviviality243 of the occasion, he tumbled into a ditch on his way home, and died there! The Kemble patriarch was an aged200 man when he communicated this to the Duke; and their ages, linked to each other; would extend back a good way; scarcely to the beginning of the last century, however. If I mistake not, it was from the traditions of Stratford that Kemble had learned the above. I do not remember ever to have seen it in print,—which is most singular.
Miss L—— has an English rather than an American aspect,—being of stronger outline than most of our young ladies, although handsomer than English women generally, extremely self-possessed244 and well poised245 without affectation or assumption, but quietly conscious of rank, as much so as if she were an Earl's daughter. In truth, she felt pretty much as an Earl's daughter would do towards the merchants' wives and daughters who made up the feminine portion of the party.
I talked with her a little, and found her sensible, vivacious246, and firm-textured, rather than soft and sentimental247. She paid me some compliments; but I do not remember paying her any.
Mr. J——-'s daughters, two pale, handsome girls, were present. One of them is to be married to a grandson of Mr. ———, who was also at the dinner. He is a small young man, with a thin and fair mustache, . . . . and a lady who sat next me whispered that his expectations are 6,000 pounds per annum. It struck me, that, being a country gentleman's son, he kept himself silent and reserved, as feeling himself too good for this commercial dinner-party; but perhaps, and I rather think so, he was really shy and had nothing to say, being only twenty-one, and therefore quite a boy among Englishmen. The only man of cognizable rank present, except Mr. ——— and the Mayor of Liverpool, was a Baronet, Sir Thomas Birch.
January 17th.—S—— and I were invited to be present at the wedding of Mr. J———-'s daughter this morning, but we were also bidden to the funeral services of Mrs. G———, a young American lady; and we went to the "house of mourning," rather than to the "house of feasting." Her death was very sudden. I crossed to Rock Ferry on Saturday, and met her husband in the boat. He said his wife was rather unwell, and that he had just been sent for to see her; but he did not seem at all alarmed. And yet, on reaching home, he found her dead! The body is to be conveyed to America, and the funeral service was read over her in her house, only a few neighbors and friends being present. We were shown into a darkened room, where there was a dim gaslight burning, and a fire glimmering, and here and there a streak248 of sunshine struggling through the drawn249 curtains. Mr. G——— looked pale, and quite overcome with grief,—this, I suppose, being his first sorrow,—and he has a young baby on his hands, and no doubt, feels altogether forlorn in this foreign land. The clergyman entered in his canonicals, and we walked in a little procession into another room, where the coffin250 was placed.
Mr. G——— sat down and rested his head on the coffin: the clergyman read the service; then knelt down, as did most of the company, and prayed with great propriety251 of manner, but with no earnestness,—and we separated.
Mr. G——— is a small, smooth, and pretty young man, not emphasized in any way; but grief threw its awfulness about him to-day in a degree which I should not have expected.
January 20th.—Mr. Steele, a gentleman of Rock Ferry, showed me this morning a pencil-case formerly belonging to Dr. Johnson. It is six or seven inches long, of large calibre, and very clumsily manufactured of iron, perhaps plated in its better days, but now quite bare. Indeed, it looks as rough as an article of kitchen furniture. The intaglio252 on the end is a lion rampant253. On the whole, it well became Dr. Johnson to have used such a stalwart pencil-case. It had a six-inch measure on a part of it, so that it must have been at least eight inches long. Mr. Steele says he has seen a cracked earthen teapot, of large size, in which Miss Williams used to make tea for Dr. Johnson.
God himself cannot compensate254 us for being born for any period short of eternity255. All the misery256 endured here constitutes a claim for another life, and, still more, all the happiness; because all true happiness involves something more than the earth owns, and needs something more than a mortal capacity for the enjoyment of it.
After receiving an injury on the head, a person fancied all the rest of his life that he heard voices flouting257, jeering258, and upbraiding259 him.
February 19th.—I dined with the Mayor at the Town Hall last Friday evening. I sat next to Mr. W. J———, an Irish-American merchant, who is in very good standing here. He told me that he used to be very well acquainted with General Jackson, and that he was present at the street fight between him and the Bentons, and helped to take General Jackson off the ground. Colonel Benton shot at him from behind; but it was Jesse Benton's ball that hit him and broke his arm. I did not understand him to infer any treachery or cowardice260 from the circumstance of Colonel Benton's shooting at Jackson from behind, but, suppose it occurred in the confusion and excitement of a street fight. Mr. W. J——— seems to think that, after all, the reconciliation261 between the old General and Benton was merely external, and that they really hated one another as before. I do not think so.
These dinners of the Mayors are rather agreeable than otherwise, except for the annoyance, in my case, of being called up to speak to a toast, and that is less disagreeable than at first. The suite262 of rooms at the Town House is stately and splendid, and all the Mayors, as far as I have seen, exercise hospitality in a manner worthy of the chief magistrates263 of a great city. They are supposed always to spend much more than their salary (which is 2,000 pounds) in these entertainments. The town provides the wines, I am told, and it might be expected that they should be particularly good,—at least, those which improve by age, for a quarter of a century should be only a moderate age for wine from the cellars of centuries-long institutions, like a corporate265 borough266. Each Mayor might lay in a supply of the best vintage he could find, and trust his good name to posterity267 to the credit of that wine; and so he would be kindly and warmly remembered long after his own nose had lost its rubicundity268. In point of fact, the wines seem to be good, but not remarkable269. The dinner was good, and very handsomely served, with attendance enough, both in the hall below—where the door was wide open at the appointed hour, notwithstanding the cold—and at table; some being in the rich livery of the borough, and some in plain clothes. Servants, too, were stationed at various points from the hall to the reception-room; and the last one shouted forth the name of the entering guest. There were, I should think, about fifty guests at this dinner. Two bishops271 were present. The Bishops of Chester and New South Wales, dressed in a kind of long tunics272, with black breeches and silk stockings, insomuch that I first fancied they were Catholics. Also Dr. McNeil, in a stiff-collared coat, looking more like a general than a divine. There were two officers in blue uniforms; and all the rest of us were in black, with only two white waistcoats,—my own being one,—and a rare sprinkling of white cravats273. How hideously274 a man looks in them! I should like to have seen such assemblages as must have gathered in that reception-room, and walked with stately tread to the dining-hall, in times past, the Mayor and other civic275 dignitaries in their robes, noblemen in their state dresses, the Consul133 in his olive-leaf embroidery276, everybody in some sort of bedizenment,—and then the dinner would have been a magnificent spectacle, worthy of the gilded277 hall, the rich table-service, and the powdered and gold-laced servitors. At a former dinner I remember seeing a gentleman in small-clothes, with a dress-sword; but all formalities of the kind are passing away. The Mayor's dinners, too, will no doubt be extinct before many years go by. I drove home from the Woodside Ferry in a cab with Bishop270 Burke and two other gentlemen. The Bishop is nearly seven feet high.
After writing the foregoing account of a civic banquet, where I ate turtle-soup, salmon278, woodcock, oyster279 patties, and I know not what else, I have been to the News-room and found the Exchange pavement densely280 thronged282 with people of all ages and of all manner of dirt and rags. They were waiting for soup-tickets, and waiting very patiently too, without outcry or disturbance283, or even sour looks,—only patience and meekness284 in their faces. Well, I don't know that they have a right to be impatient of starvation; but, still there does seem to be an insolence285 of riches and prosperity, which one day or another will have a downfall. And this will be a pity, too.
On Saturday I went with my friend Mr. Bright to Otterpool and to Larkhill to see the skaters on the private waters of those two seats of gentlemen; and it is a wonder to behold—and it is always a new wonder to me—how comfortable Englishmen know how to make themselves; locating their dwellings far within private grounds, with secure gateways and porters' lodges286, and the smoothest roads and trimmest paths, and shaven lawns, and clumps287 of trees, and every bit of the ground, every hill and dell, made the most of for convenience and beauty, and so well kept that even winter cannot cause disarray288; and all this appropriated to the same family for generations, so that I suppose they come to believe it created exclusively and on purpose for them. And, really, the result is good and beautiful. It is a home,—an institution which we Americans have not; but then I doubt whether anybody is entitled to a home in this world, in so full a sense.
The day was very cold, and the skaters seemed to enjoy themselves exceedingly. They were, I suppose, friends of the owners of the grounds, and Mr. Bright said they were treated in a jolly way, with hot luncheons289. The skaters practise skating more as an art, and can perform finer manoeuvres on the ice, than our New England skaters usually can, though the English have so much less opportunity for practice. A beggar-woman was haunting the grounds at Otterpool, but I saw nobody give her anything. I wonder how she got inside of the gate.
Mr. W. J——— spoke of General Jackson as having come from the same part of Ireland as himself, and perhaps of the same family. I wonder whether he meant to say that the General was born in Ireland,—that having been suspected in America.
February 21st.—Yesterday two companies of work-people came to our house in Rock Park, asking assistance, being out of work and with no resource other than charity. There were a dozen or more in each party. Their deportment was quiet and altogether unexceptionable,—no rudeness, no gruffness, nothing of menace. Indeed, such demonstrations290 would not have been safe, as they were followed about by two policemen; but they really seem to take their distress175 as their own misfortune and God's will, and impute291 it to nobody as a fault. This meekness is very touching, and makes one question the more whether they have all their rights. There have been disturbances292, within a day or two, in Liverpool, and shops have been broken open and robbed of bread and money; but this is said to have been done by idle vagabonds, and not by the really hungry work-people. These last submit to starvation gently and patiently, as if it were an every-day matter with them, or, at least, nothing but what lay fairly within their horoscope. I suppose, in fact, their stomachs have the physical habit that makes hunger not intolerable, because customary. If they had been used to a full meat diet, their hunger would be fierce, like that of ravenous293 beasts; but now they are trained to it.
I think that the feeling of an American, divided, as I am, by the ocean from his country, has a continual and immediate150 correspondence with the national feeling at home; and it seems to be independent of any external communication. Thus, my ideas about the Russian war vary in accordance with the state of the public mind at home, so that I am conscious whereabouts public sympathy is.
March 7th.—J——- and I walked to Tranmere, and passed an old house which I suppose to be Tranmere Hall. Our way to it was up a hollow lane, with a bank and hedge on each side, and with a few thatched stone cottages, centuries old, their ridge-poles crooked294 and the stones time-worn, scattered295 along. At one point there was a wide, deep well, hewn out of the solid red freestone, and with steps, also hewn in solid rock, leading down to it. These steps were much hollowed by the feet of those who had come to the well; and they reach beneath the water, which is very high. The well probably supplied water to the old cotters and retainers of Tranmere Hall five hundred years ago. The Hall stands on the verge of a long hill which stretches behind Tranmere and as far as Birkenhead.
It is an old gray stone edifice, with a good many gables, and windows with mullions, and some of them extending the whole breadth of the gable. In some parts of the house, the windows seem to have been built up; probably in the days when daylight was taxed. The form of the Hall is multiplex, the roofs sloping down and intersecting one another, so as to make the general result indescribable. There were two sun-dials on different sides of the house, both the dial-plates of which were of stone; and on one the figures, so far as I could see, were quite worn off, but the gnomon still cast a shadow over it in such a way that I could judge that it was about noon. The other dial had some half-worn hour-marks, but no gnomon. The chinks of the stones of the house were very weedy, and the building looked quaint218 and venerable; but it is now converted into a farm-house, with the farm-yard and outbuildings closely appended. A village, too, has grown up about it, so that it seems out of place among modern stuccoed dwellings, such as are erected296 for tradesmen and other moderate people who have their residences in the neighborhood of a great city. Among these there are a few thatched cottages, the homeliest domiciles that ever mortals lived in, belonging to the old estate. Directly across the street is a Wayside Inn, "licensed297 to sell wine, spirits, ale, and tobacco." The street itself has been laid out since the land grew valuable by the increase of Liverpool and Birkenhead; for the old Hall would never have been built on the verge of a public way.
March 27th.—I attended court to day, at St. George's Hall, with my wife, Mr. Bright, and Mr. Channing, sitting in the High Sheriff's seat. It was the civil side, and Mr. Justice Cresswell presided. The lawyers, as far as aspect goes, seemed to me inferior to an American bar, judging from their countenances298, whether as intellectual men or gentlemen. Their wigs299 and gowns do not impose on the spectator, though they strike him as an imposition. Their date is past. Mr. Warren, of the "Ten Thousand a Year," was in court,—a pale, thin, intelligent face, evidently a nervous man, more unquiet than anybody else in court,—always restless in his seat, whispering to his neighbors, settling his wig, perhaps with an idea that people single him out.
St. George's Hall—the interior hall itself, I mean—is a spacious, lofty, and most rich and noble apartment, and very satisfactory. The pavement is made of mosaic300 tiles, and has a beautiful effect.
April 7th.—I dined at Mr. J. P. Heywood's on Thursday, and met there Mr. and Mrs. ——— of Smithell's Hall. The Hall is an old edifice of some five hundred years, and Mrs. ——— says there is a bloody301 footstep at the foot of the great staircase. The tradition is that a certain martyr302, in Bloody Mary's time, being examined before the occupant of the Hall, and committed to prison, stamped his foot, in earnest protest against the injustice303 with which he was treated. Blood issued from his foot, which slid along the stone pavement, leaving a long footmark, printed in blood. And there it has remained ever since, in spite of the scrubbings of all succeeding generations. Mrs. ——— spoke of it with much solemnity, real or affected. She says that they now cover the bloody impress with a carpet, being unable to remove it. In the History of Lancashire, which I looked at last night, there is quite a different account,—according to which the footstep is not a bloody one, but is a slight cavity or inequality in the surface of the stone, somewhat in the shape of a man's foot with a peaked shoe. The martyr's name was George Marsh304. He was a curate, and was afterwards burnt. Mrs. ——— asked me to go and see the Hall and the footmark; and as it is in Lancashire, and not a great way off, and a curious old place, perhaps I may.
April 12th.—The Earl of ———, whom I saw the other day at St. George's Hall, has a somewhat elderly look,—a pale and rather thin face, which strikes one as remarkably305 short, or compressed from top to bottom. Nevertheless, it has great intelligence, and sensitiveness too, I should think, but a cold, disagreeable expression. I should take him to be a man of not very pleasant temper,—not genial. He has no physical presence nor dignity, yet one sees him to be a person of rank and consequence. But, after all, there is nothing about him which it need have taken centuries of illustrious nobility to produce, especially in a man of remarkable ability, as Lord ——— certainly is. S——-, who attended court all through the Hapgood trial, and saw Lord ——— for hours together every day, has come to conclusions quite different from mine. She thinks him a perfectly natural person, without any assumption, any self-consciousness, any scorn of the lower world. She was delighted with his ready appreciation306 and feeling of what was passing around him,— his quick enjoyment of a joke,—the simplicity307 and unaffectedness of his emotion at whatever incidents excited his interest,—the genial acknowledgment of sympathy, causing him to look round and exchange glances with those near him, who were not his individual friends, but barristers and other casual persons. He seemed to her all that a nobleman ought to be, entirely simple and free from pretence308 and self-assertion, which persons of lower rank can hardly help bedevilling themselves with. I saw him only for a very few moments, so cannot put my observation against hers, especially as I was influenced by what I had heard the Liverpool people say of him.
I do not know whether I have mentioned that the handsomest man I have seen in England was a young footman of Mr. Heywood's. In his rich livery, he was a perfect Joseph Andrews.
In my Romance, the original emigrant309 to America may have carried away with him a family secret, whereby it was in his power, had he so chosen, to have brought about the ruin of the family. This secret he transmits to his American progeny310, by whom it is inherited throughout all the intervening generations. At last, the hero of the Romance comes to England, and finds, that, by means of this secret, he still has it in his power to procure204 the downfall of the family. It would be something similar to the story of Meleager, whose fate depended on the firebrand that his mother had snatched from the flames.
April 24th.—On Saturday I was present at a dejeuner on board the Donald McKay; the principal guest being Mr. Layard, M. P. There were several hundred people, quite filling the between decks of the ship, which was converted into a saloon for the occasion. I sat next to Mr. Layard, at the head of the table, and so had a good opportunity of seeing and getting acquainted with him. He is a man in early middle age,—of middle stature311, with an open, frank, intelligent, kindly face. His forehead is not expansive, but is prominent in the perceptive312 regions, and retreats a good deal. His mouth is full,—I liked him from the first. He was very kind and complimentary to me, and made me promise to go and see him in London.
It would have been a very pleasant entertainment, only that my pleasure in it was much marred313 by having to acknowledge a toast, in honor of the President. However, such things do not trouble me nearly so much as they used to do, and I came through it tolerably enough. Mr. Layard's speech was the great affair of the day. He speaks with much fluency (though he assured me that he had to put great force upon himself to speak publicly), and, as he warms up, seems to engage with his whole moral and physical man,—quite possessed with what he has to say. His evident earnestness and good faith make him eloquent314, and stand him instead of oratorical315 graces. His views of the position of England and the prospects of the war were as dark as well could be; and his speech was exceedingly to the purpose, full of common-sense, and with not one word of clap-trap. Judging from its effect upon the audience, he spoke the voice of the whole English people,—although an English Baronet, who sat next below me, seemed to dissent316, or at least to think that it was not exactly the thing for a stranger to hear. It concluded amidst great cheering. Mr. Layard appears to be a true Englishman, with a moral force and strength of character, and earnestness of purpose, and fulness of common-sense, such as have always served England's turn in her past successes; but rather fit for resistance than progress. No doubt, he is a good and very able man; but I question whether he could get England out of the difficulties which he sees so clearly, or could do much better than Lord Palmerston, whom he so decries317.
April 25th.—Taking the deposition318 of sailors yesterday, in a case of alleged319 ill-usage by the officers of a vessel, one of the witnesses was an old seaman320 of sixty. In reply to some testimony321 of his, the captain said, "You were the oldest man in the ship, and we honored you as such." The mate also said that he never could have thought of striking an old man like that. Indeed, the poor old fellow had a kind of dignity and venerableness about him, though he confessed to having been drunk, and seems to have been a mischief322-maker, what they call a sea-preacher,— promoting discontent and grumbling323. He must have been a very handsome man in his youth, having regular features of a noble and beautiful cast. His beard was gray; but his dark hair had hardly a streak of white, and was abundant all over his head. He was deaf, and seemed to sit in a kind of seclusion, unless when loudly questioned or appealed to. Once he broke forth from a deep silence thus, "I defy any man!" and then was silent again. It had a strange effect, this general defiance324, which he meant, I suppose, in answer to some accusation325 that he thought was made against him. His general behavior throughout the examination was very decorous and proper; and he said he had never but once hitherto been before a consul, and that was in 1819, when a mate had ill-used him, and, "being a young man then, I gave him a beating,"—whereupon his face gleamed with a quiet smile, like faint sunshine on an old ruin. "By many a tempest has his beard been shook"; and I suppose he must soon go into a workhouse, and thence, shortly, to his grave. He is now in a hospital, having, as the surgeon certifies326, some ribs327 fractured; but there does not appear to have been any violence used upon him aboard the ship of such a nature as to cause this injury, though he swears it was a blow from a rope, and nothing else. What struck me in the case was the respect and rank that his age seemed to give him, in the view of the officers; and how, as the captain's expression signified, it lifted him out of his low position, and made him a person to be honored. The dignity of his manner is perhaps partly owing to the ancient mariner328, with his long experience, being an oracle329 among the forecastle men.
May 3d.—It rains to-day, after a very long period of east-wind and dry weather. The east-wind here, blowing across the island, seems to be the least damp of all the winds; but it is full of malice330 and mischief, of an indescribably evil temper, and stabs one like a cold, poisoned dagger331. I never spent so disagreeable a spring as this, although almost every day for a month has been bright.
Friday, May 11th.—A few weeks ago, a sailor, a most pitiable object, came to my office to complain of cruelty from his captain and mate. They had beaten him shamefully332, of which he bore grievous marks about his face and eyes, and bruises334 on his head and other parts of his person: and finally the ship had sailed, leaving him behind. I never in my life saw so forlorn a fellow, so ragged, so wretched; and even his wits seemed to have been beaten out of him, if perchance he ever had any. He got an order for the hospital; and there he has been, off and on, ever since, till yesterday, when I received a message that he was dying, and wished to see the Consul; so I went with Mr. Wilding to the hospital. We were ushered335 into the waiting-room,—a kind of parlor, with a fire in the grate, and a centre-table, whereon lay one or two medical journals, with wood engravings; and there was a young man, who seemed to be an official of the house, reading. Shortly the surgeon appeared,—a brisk, cheerful, kindly sort of person, whom I have met there on previous visits. He told us that the man was dying, and probably would not be able to communicate anything, but, nevertheless, ushered us up to the highest floor, and into the room where he lay. It was a large, oblong room, with ten or twelve beds in it, each occupied by a patient. The surgeon said that the hospital was often so crowded that they were compelled to lay some of the patients on the floor. The man whom we came to see lay on his bed in a little recess97 formed by a projecting window; so that there was a kind of seclusion for him to die in. He seemed quite insensible to outward things, and took no notice of our approach, nor responded to what was said to him,—lying on his side, breathing with short gasps,—his apparent disease being inflammation of the chest, although the surgeon said that he might be found to have sustained internal injury by bruises. he was restless, tossing his head continually, mostly with his eyes shut, and much compressed and screwed up, but sometimes opening them; and then they looked brighter and darker than when I first saw them. I think his face was not at any time so stupid as at his first interview with me; but whatever intelligence he had was rather inward than outward, as if there might be life and consciousness at a depth within, while as to external matters he was in a mist. The surgeon felt his wrist, and said that there was absolutely no pulsation336, and that he might die at any moment, or might perhaps live an hour, but that there was no prospect of his being able to communicate with me. He was quite restless, nevertheless, and sometimes half raised himself in bed, sometimes turned himself quite over, and then lay gasping337 for an instant. His woollen shirt being thrust up on his arm, there appeared a tattooing338 of a ship and anchor, and other nautical339 emblems340, on both of them, which another sailor-patient, on examining them, said must have been done years ago. This might be of some importance, because the dying man had told me, when I first saw him, that he was no sailor, but a farmer, and that, this being his first voyage, he had been beaten by the captain for not doing a sailor's duty, which he had had no opportunity of learning. These sea-emblems indicated that he was probably a seaman of some years' service.
While we stood in the little recess, such of the other patients as were convalescent gathered near the foot of the bed; and the nurse came and looked on, and hovered341 about us,—a sharp-eyed, intelligent woman of middle age, with a careful and kind expression, neglecting nothing that was for the patient's good, yet taking his death as coolly as any other incident in her daily business. Certainly, it was a very forlorn death-bed; and I felt—what I have heretofore been inclined to doubt— that it might, be a comfort to have persons whom one loves, to go with us to the threshold of the other world, and leave us only when we are fairly across it. This poor fellow had a wife and two children on the other side of the water.
At first he did not utter any sound; but by and by he moaned a little, and gave tokens of being more sensible to outward concerns,—not quite so misty342 and dreamy as hitherto. We had been talking all the while—myself in a whisper, but the surgeon in his ordinary tones—about his state, without his paying any attention. But now the surgeon put his mouth down to the man's face and said, "Do you know that you are dying?" At this the patient's head began to move upon the pillow; and I thought at first that it was only the restlessness that he had shown all along; but soon it appeared to be an expression of emphatic343 dissent, a negative shake of the head. He shook it with all his might, and groaned344 and mumbled345, so that it was very evident how miserably346 reluctant he was to die. Soon after this he absolutely spoke. "O, I want you to get me well! I want to get away from here!" in a groaning347 and moaning utterance348. The surgeon's question had revived him, but to no purpose; for, being told that the Consul had come to see him, and asked whether he had anything to communicate, he said only, "O, I want him to get me well!" and the whole life that was left in him seemed to be unwillingness349 to die. This did not last long; for he soon relapsed into his first state, only with his face a little more pinched and screwed up, and his eyes strangely sunken. And lost in his head; and the surgeon said that there would be no use in my remaining. So I took my leave. Mr. Wilding had brought a deposition of the man's evidence, which he had clearly made at the Consulate, for him to sign, and this we left with the surgeon, in case there should be such an interval10 of consciousness and intelligence before death as to make it possible for him to sign it. But of this there is no probability.
I have just received a note from the hospital, stating that the sailor, Daniel Smith, died about three quarters of an hour after I saw him.
May 18th.—The above-mentioned Daniel Smith had about him a bundle of letters, which I have examined. They are all very yellow, stained with sea-water, smelling of bad tobacco-smoke, and much worn at the folds. Never were such ill-written letters, nor such incredibly fantastic spelling. They seem to be from various members of his family,—most of them from a brother, who purports350 to have been a deck-hand in the coasting and steamboat trade between Charleston and other ports; others from female relations; one from his father, in which he inquires how long his son has been in jail, and when the trial is to come on,—the offence, however, of which he was accused, not being indicated. But from the tenor351 of his brother's letters, it would appear that he was a small farmer in the interior of South Carolina, sending butter, eggs, and poultry352 to be sold in Charleston by his brother, and receiving the returns in articles purchased there. This was his own account of himself; and he affirmed, in his deposition before me, that he had never had any purpose of shipping353 for Liverpool, or anywhere else; but that, going on board the ship to bring a man's trunk ashore354, he was compelled to remain and serve as a sailor. This was a hard fate, certainly, and a strange thing to happen in the United States at this day,—that a free citizen should be absolutely kidnapped, carried to a foreign country, treated with savage355 cruelty during the voyage, and left to die on his arrival. Yet all this has unquestionably been done, and will probably go unpunished.
The seed of the long-stapled cotton, now cultivated in America, was sent there in 1786 from the Bahama Islands, by some of the royalist refugees, who had settled there. The inferior short-stapled cotton had been previously356 cultivated for domestic purposes. The seeds of every other variety have been tried without success. The kind now grown was first introduced into Georgia. Thus to the refugees America owes as much of her prosperity as is due to the cotton-crops, and much of whatever harm is to result from slavery.
May 22d.—Captain J——— says that he saw, in his late voyage to Australia and India, a vessel commanded by an Englishman, who had with him his wife and thirteen children. This ship was the home of the family, and they had no other. The thirteen children had all been born on board, and had been brought up on board, and knew nothing of dry land, except by occasionally setting foot on it.
Captain J——— is a very agreeable specimen of the American shipmaster, —a pleasant, gentlemanly man, not at all refined, and yet with fine and honorable sensibilities. Very easy in his manners and conversation, yet gentle,—talking on freely, and not much minding grammar; but finding a sufficient and picturesque expression for what he wishes to say; very cheerful and vivacious; accessible to feeling, as yesterday, when talking about the recent death of his mother. His voice faltered357, and the tears came into his eyes, though before and afterwards he smiled merrily, and made us smile; fond of his wife, and carrying her about the world with him, and blending her with all his enjoyments358; an excellent and sagacious man of business; liberal in his expenditure359; proud of his ship and flag; always well dressed, with some little touch of sailor-like flashiness, but not a whit158 too much; slender in figure, with a handsome face, and rather profuse360 brown beard and whiskers; active and alert; about thirty-two. A daguerreotype361 sketch362 of any conversation of his would do him no justice, for its slang, its grammatical mistakes, its mistaken words (as "portable" for "portly"), would represent a vulgar man, whereas the impression he leaves is by no means that of vulgarity; but he is a character quite perfect within itself, fit for the deck and the cabin, and agreeable in the drawing-room, though not amenable363 altogether to its rules. Being so perfectly natural, he is more of a gentleman for those little violations364 of rule, which most men, with his opportunities, might escape.
The men whose appeals to the Consul's charity are the hardest to be denied are those who have no country,—-Hungarians, Poles, Cubans, Spanish-Americans, and French republicans. All exiles for liberty come to me, if the representative of America were their representative. Yesterday, came an old French soldier, and showed his wounds; to-day, a Spaniard, a friend of Lopez,—bringing his little daughter with him. He said he was starving, and looked so. The little girl was in good condition enough, and decently dressed.—May 23d.
May 30th.—The two past days have been Whitsuntide holidays; and they have been celebrated at Tranmere in a manner very similar to that of the old "Election" in Massachusetts, as I remember it a good many years ago, though the festival has now almost or quite died out. Whitsuntide was kept up on our side of the water, I am convinced, under pretence of rejoicings at the election of Governor. It occurred at precisely the same period of the year,—the same week; the only difference being, that Monday and Tuesday are the Whitsun festival days, whereas, in Massachusetts, Wednesday was "Election day," and the acme365 of the merry-making.
I passed through Tranmere yesterday forenoon, and lingered awhile to see the sports. The greatest peculiarity366 of the crowd, to my eye, was that they seemed not to have any best clothes, and therefore had put on no holiday suits,—a grimy people, as at all times, heavy, obtuse367, with thick beer in their blood. Coarse, rough-complexioned women and girls were intermingled, the girls with no maiden368 trimness in their attire369, large and blowsy. Nobody seemed to have been washed that day. All the enjoyment was of an exceedingly sombre character, so far as I saw it, though there was a richer variety of sports than at similar festivals in America. There were wooden horses, revolving370 in circles, to be ridden a certain number of rounds for a penny; also swinging cars gorgeously painted, and the newest named after Lord Raglan; and four cars balancing one another, and turned by a winch; and people with targets and rifles,— the principal aim being to hit an apple bobbing on a string before the target; other guns for shooting at the distance of a foot or two, for a prize of filberts; and a game much in fashion, of throwing heavy sticks at earthen mugs suspended on lines, three throws for a penny. Also, there was a posture-master, showing his art in the centre of a ring of miscellaneous spectators, and handing round his bat after going through all his attitudes. The collection amounted to only one halfpenny, and, to eke32 it out, I threw in three more. There were some large booths with tables placed the whole length, at which sat men and women drinking and smoking pipes; orange-girls, a great many, selling the worst possible oranges, which had evidently been boiled to give them a show of freshness. There were likewise two very large structures, the walls made of boards roughly patched together, and rooted with canvas, which seemed to have withstood a thousand storms. Theatres were there, and in front there were pictures of scenes which were to be represented within; the price of admission being twopence to one theatre, and a penny to the other. But, small as the price of tickets was, I could not see that anybody bought them. Behind the theatres, close to the board wall, and perhaps serving as the general dressing-room, was a large windowed wagon371, in which I suppose the company travel and live together. Never, to my imagination, was the mysterious glory that has surrounded theatrical372 representation ever since my childhood brought down into such dingy373 reality as this. The tragedy queens were the same coarse and homely women and girls that surrounded me on the green. Some of the people had evidently been drinking more than was good for them; but their drunkenness was silent and stolid374, with no madness in it. No ebullition of any sort was apparent.
May 31st.—Last Sunday week, for the first time, I heard the note of the cuckoo. "Cuck-oo—cuck-oo" it says, repeating the word twice, not in a brilliant metallic375 tone, but low and flute-like, without the excessive sweetness of the flute,—without an excess of saccharine376 juice in the sound. There are said to be always two cuckoos seen together. The note is very soft and pleasant. The larks377 I have not yet heard in the sky; though it is not infrequent to hear one singing in a cage, in the streets of Liverpool.
Brewers' draymen are allowed to drink as much of their master's beverage378 as they like, and they grow very brawny379 and corpulent, resembling their own horses in size, and presenting, one would suppose, perfect pictures of physical comfort and well-being380. But the least bruise333, or even the hurt of a finger, is liable to turn to gangrene or erysipelas, and become fatal.
When the wind blows violently, however clear the sky, the English say, "It is a stormy day." And, on the other hand, when the air is still, and it does not actually rain, however dark and lowering the sky may be, they say, "The weather is fine!"
June 2d.—The English women of the lower classes have a grace of their own, not seen in each individual, but nevertheless belonging to their order, which is not to be found in American women of the corresponding class. The other day, in the police court, a girl was put into the witness-box, whose native graces of this sort impressed me a good deal. She was coarse, and her dress was none of the cleanest, and nowise smart. She appeared to have been up all night, too, drinking at the Tranmere wake, and had since ridden in a cart, covered up with a rug. She described herself as a servant-girl, out of place; and her charm lay in all her manifestations,—her tones, her gestures, her look, her way of speaking and what she said, being so appropriate and natural in a girl of that class; nothing affected; no proper grace thrown away by attempting to appear lady-like,—which an American girl would have attempted,—and she would also have succeeded in a certain degree. If each class would but keep within itself, and show its respect for itself by aiming at nothing beyond, they would all be more respectable. But this kind of fitness is evidently not to be expected in the future; and something else must be substituted for it.
These scenes at the police court are often well worth witnessing. The controlling genius of the court, except when the stipendiary magistrate264 presides, is the clerk, who is a man learned in the law. Nominally381 the cases are decided by the aldermen, who sit in rotation382, but at every important point there comes a nod or a whisper from the clerk; and it is that whisper which sets the defendant383 free or sends him to prison. Nevertheless, I suppose the alderman's common-sense and native shrewdness are not without their efficacy in producing a general tendency towards the right; and, no doubt, the decisions of the police court are quite as often just as those of any other court whatever.
June 11th.—I walked with J——- yesterday to Bebington Church. When I first saw this church, nearly two years since, it seemed to me the fulfilment of my ideal of an old English country church. It is not so satisfactory now, although certainly a venerable edifice. There used some time ago to be ivy all over the tower; and at my first view of it, there was still a little remaining on the upper parts of the spire384. But the main roots, I believe, were destroyed, and pains were taken to clear away the whole of the ivy, so that now it is quite bare,—nothing but homely gray stone, with marks of age, but no beauty. The most curious thing about the church is the font. It is a massive pile, composed of five or six layers of freestone in an octagon shape, placed in the angle formed by the projecting side porch and the wall of the church, and standing under a stained-glass window. The base is six or seven feet across, and it is built solidly up in successive steps, to the height of about six feet,—an octagonal pyramid, with the basin of the font crowning the pile hewn out of the solid stone, and about a foot in diameter and the same in depth. There was water in it from the recent rains,—water just from heaven, and therefore as holy as any water it ever held in old Romish times. The aspect of this aged font is extremely venerable, with moss in the basin and all over the stones; grass, and weeds of various kinds, and little shrubs385, rooted in the chinks of the stones and between the successive steps.
At each entrance of Rock Park, where we live, there is a small Gothic structure of stone, each inhabited by a policeman and his family; very small dwellings indeed, with the main apartment opening directly out-of-doors; and when the door is open, one can see the household fire, the good wife at work, perhaps the table set, and a throng281 of children clustering round, and generally overflowing386 the threshold. The policeman walks about the Park in stately fashion, with his silver-laced blue uniform and snow-white gloves, touching his hat to gentlemen who reside in the Park. In his public capacity he has rather an awful aspect, but privately387 he is a humble388 man enough, glad of any little job, and of old clothes for his many children, or, I believe, for himself. One of the two policemen is a shoemaker and cobbler. His pay, officially, is somewhere about a guinea a week.
The Park, just now, is very agreeable to look at, shadowy with trees and shrubs, and with glimpses of green leaves and flower-gardens through the branches and twigs389 that line the iron fences. After a shower the hawthorn390 blossoms are delightfully391 fragrant392. Golden tassels393 of the laburnum are abundant.
I may have mentioned elsewhere the traditional prophecy, that, when the ivy should reach the top of Bebbington spire, the tower was doomed394 to fall. It lies still, therefore, a chance of standing for centuries. Mr. Turner tells me that the font now used is inside of the church, but the one outside is of unknown antiquity, and that it was customary, in papistical time, to have the font without the church.
There is a little boy often on board the Rock Ferry steamer with an accordion395,—an instrument I detest396; but nevertheless it becomes tolerable in his hands, not so much for its music, as for the earnestness and interest with which he plays it. His body and the accordion together become one musical instrument on which his soul plays tunes180, for he sways and vibrates with the music from head to foot and throughout his frame, half closing his eyes and uplifting his face, as painters represent St. Cecilia and other famous musicians; and sometimes he swings his accordion in the air, as if in a perfect rapture397. After all, my ears, though not very nice, are somewhat tortured by his melodies, especially when confined within the cabin. The boy is ten years old, perhaps, and rather pretty; clean, too, and neatly398 dressed, very unlike all other street and vagabond children whom I have seen in Liverpool. People give him their halfpence more readily than to any other musicians who infest399 the boat.
J——-, the other day, was describing a soldier-crab to his mother, he being much interested in natural history, and endeavoring to give as strong an idea as possible of its warlike characteristics, and power to harm those who molest400 it. Little R——- sat by, quietly listening and sewing, and at last, lifting her head, she remarked, "I hope God did not hurt himself, when he was making him!"
点击收听单词发音
1 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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2 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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3 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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4 doorways | |
n.门口,门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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5 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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6 picturesqueness | |
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7 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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8 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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9 intervals | |
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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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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11 pervading | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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12 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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13 gateways | |
n.网关( gateway的名词复数 );门径;方法;大门口 | |
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14 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
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15 babble | |
v.含糊不清地说,胡言乱语地说,儿语 | |
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16 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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18 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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19 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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20 slate | |
n.板岩,石板,石片,石板色,候选人名单;adj.暗蓝灰色的,含板岩的;vt.用石板覆盖,痛打,提名,预订 | |
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21 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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22 hoisting | |
起重,提升 | |
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23 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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24 crumble | |
vi.碎裂,崩溃;vt.弄碎,摧毁 | |
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25 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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26 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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27 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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28 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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29 ascending | |
adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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30 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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31 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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32 eke | |
v.勉强度日,节约使用 | |
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33 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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34 initiated | |
n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始,创始,启蒙,介绍加入 | |
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35 tapestrying | |
vt.用挂毯装饰(tapestry的现在分词形式) | |
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36 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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37 overpass | |
n.天桥,立交桥 | |
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38 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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39 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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40 slab | |
n.平板,厚的切片;v.切成厚板,以平板盖上 | |
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41 cavern | |
n.洞穴,大山洞 | |
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42 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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43 pitfalls | |
(捕猎野兽用的)陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 ); 意想不到的困难,易犯的错误 | |
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44 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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45 slits | |
n.狭长的口子,裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开,撕开( slit的第三人称单数 );在…上开狭长口子 | |
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46 glimmering | |
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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47 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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48 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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49 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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50 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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51 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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52 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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53 flout | |
v./n.嘲弄,愚弄,轻视 | |
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54 niche | |
n.壁龛;合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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55 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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56 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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57 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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58 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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59 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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60 impair | |
v.损害,损伤;削弱,减少 | |
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61 durable | |
adj.持久的,耐久的 | |
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62 prophesies | |
v.预告,预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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64 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
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65 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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66 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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67 ascent | |
n.(声望或地位)提高;上升,升高;登高 | |
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68 triangular | |
adj.三角(形)的,三者间的 | |
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69 uneven | |
adj.不平坦的,不规则的,不均匀的 | |
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70 bulging | |
膨胀; 凸出(部); 打气; 折皱 | |
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71 slates | |
(旧时学生用以写字的)石板( slate的名词复数 ); 板岩; 石板瓦; 石板色 | |
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72 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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73 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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74 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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75 jabber | |
v.快而不清楚地说;n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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76 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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77 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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78 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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79 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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80 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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81 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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82 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83 fluency | |
n.流畅,雄辩,善辩 | |
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84 proficiency | |
n.精通,熟练,精练 | |
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85 tract | |
n.传单,小册子,大片(土地或森林) | |
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86 dismantled | |
拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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87 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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88 conglomeration | |
n.团块,聚集,混合物 | |
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89 mortar | |
n.灰浆,灰泥;迫击炮;v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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90 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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91 agglomerated | |
团聚颗粒 | |
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92 rev | |
v.发动机旋转,加快速度 | |
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93 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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94 turret | |
n.塔楼,角塔 | |
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95 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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96 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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97 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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98 dungeons | |
n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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99 groove | |
n.沟,槽;凹线,(刻出的)线条,习惯 | |
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100 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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101 commodious | |
adj.宽敞的;使用方便的 | |
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102 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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103 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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104 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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105 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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106 rambled | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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107 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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108 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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109 ledges | |
n.(墙壁,悬崖等)突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 );(平窄的)壁架;横档;(尤指)窗台 | |
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110 plentifully | |
adv. 许多地,丰饶地 | |
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111 contriving | |
(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的现在分词 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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112 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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113 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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114 repent | |
v.悔悟,悔改,忏悔,后悔 | |
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115 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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116 tattered | |
adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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117 pigsty | |
n.猪圈,脏房间 | |
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118 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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119 dough | |
n.生面团;钱,现款 | |
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120 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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121 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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122 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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123 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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124 mimes | |
n.指手画脚( mime的名词复数 );做手势;哑剧;哑剧演员v.指手画脚地表演,用哑剧的形式表演( mime的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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126 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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127 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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128 obtrusive | |
adj.显眼的;冒失的 | |
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129 cargo | |
n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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130 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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131 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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132 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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133 consul | |
n.领事;执政官 | |
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134 consulate | |
n.领事馆 | |
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135 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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136 conversant | |
adj.亲近的,有交情的,熟悉的 | |
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137 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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138 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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139 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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140 expend | |
vt.花费,消费,消耗 | |
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141 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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142 berths | |
n.(船、列车等的)卧铺( berth的名词复数 );(船舶的)停泊位或锚位;差事;船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 );占铺位 | |
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143 overcast | |
adj.阴天的,阴暗的,愁闷的;v.遮盖,(使)变暗,包边缝;n.覆盖,阴天 | |
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144 fowl | |
n.家禽,鸡,禽肉 | |
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145 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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146 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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147 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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148 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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149 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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150 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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151 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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152 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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153 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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154 complimentary | |
adj.赠送的,免费的,赞美的,恭维的 | |
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155 clergy | |
n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
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156 hospitably | |
亲切地,招待周到地,善于款待地 | |
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157 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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158 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
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159 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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160 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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161 glibly | |
adv.流利地,流畅地;满口 | |
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162 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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163 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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164 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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165 sergeants | |
警官( sergeant的名词复数 ); (美国警察)警佐; (英国警察)巡佐; 陆军(或空军)中士 | |
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166 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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167 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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168 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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169 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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170 timorous | |
adj.胆怯的,胆小的 | |
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171 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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172 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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173 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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174 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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175 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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176 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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177 accosted | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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178 careworn | |
adj.疲倦的,饱经忧患的 | |
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179 corroboration | |
n.进一步的证实,进一步的证据 | |
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180 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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181 unduly | |
adv.过度地,不适当地 | |
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182 retrieving | |
n.检索(过程),取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 );恢复;寻回;检索(储存的信息) | |
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183 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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184 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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185 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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186 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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187 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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188 indenture | |
n.契约;合同 | |
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189 fortified | |
adj. 加强的 | |
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190 certified | |
a.经证明合格的;具有证明文件的 | |
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191 consular | |
a.领事的 | |
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192 coxcomb | |
n.花花公子 | |
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193 avers | |
v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 );证实;证明…属实;作为事实提出 | |
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194 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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195 duel | |
n./v.决斗;(双方的)斗争 | |
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196 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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197 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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198 pertaining | |
与…有关系的,附属…的,为…固有的(to) | |
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199 grafted | |
移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 ); 嫁接; 使(思想、制度等)成为(…的一部份); 植根 | |
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200 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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201 ebb | |
vi.衰退,减退;n.处于低潮,处于衰退状态 | |
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202 pawned | |
v.典当,抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 );以(某事物)担保 | |
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203 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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204 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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205 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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206 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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207 mania | |
n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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208 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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210 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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211 maze | |
n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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212 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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213 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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214 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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215 offhand | |
adj.临时,无准备的;随便,马虎的 | |
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216 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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217 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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218 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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219 sprouting | |
v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 );抽芽;出现;(使)涌现出 | |
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220 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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221 recurring | |
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
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222 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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223 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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224 trampling | |
踩( trample的现在分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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225 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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226 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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227 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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228 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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229 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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230 rusticity | |
n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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231 squinting | |
斜视( squint的现在分词 ); 眯着眼睛; 瞟; 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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232 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
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233 memoirs | |
n.回忆录;回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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234 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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235 presidency | |
n.总统(校长,总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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236 nomination | |
n.提名,任命,提名权 | |
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237 democrat | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士;民主党党员 | |
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238 relinquished | |
交出,让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 ); 放弃 | |
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239 patriot | |
n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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240 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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241 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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242 revel | |
vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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243 conviviality | |
n.欢宴,高兴,欢乐 | |
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244 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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245 poised | |
a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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246 vivacious | |
adj.活泼的,快活的 | |
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247 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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248 streak | |
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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249 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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250 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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251 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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252 intaglio | |
n.凹版雕刻;v.凹雕 | |
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253 rampant | |
adj.(植物)蔓生的;狂暴的,无约束的 | |
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254 compensate | |
vt.补偿,赔偿;酬报 vi.弥补;补偿;抵消 | |
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255 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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256 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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257 flouting | |
v.藐视,轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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258 jeering | |
adj.嘲弄的,揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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259 upbraiding | |
adj.& n.谴责(的)v.责备,申斥,谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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260 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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261 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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262 suite | |
n.一套(家具);套房;随从人员 | |
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263 magistrates | |
地方法官,治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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264 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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265 corporate | |
adj.共同的,全体的;公司的,企业的 | |
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266 borough | |
n.享有自治权的市镇;(英)自治市镇 | |
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267 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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268 rubicundity | |
n.颜色发红,脸红 | |
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269 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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270 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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271 bishops | |
(基督教某些教派管辖大教区的)主教( bishop的名词复数 ); (国际象棋的)象 | |
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272 tunics | |
n.(动植物的)膜皮( tunic的名词复数 );束腰宽松外衣;一套制服的短上衣;(天主教主教等穿的)短祭袍 | |
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273 cravats | |
n.(系在衬衫衣领里面的)男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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274 hideously | |
adv.可怕地,非常讨厌地 | |
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275 civic | |
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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276 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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277 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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278 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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279 oyster | |
n.牡蛎;沉默寡言的人 | |
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280 densely | |
ad.密集地;浓厚地 | |
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281 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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282 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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284 meekness | |
n.温顺,柔和 | |
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285 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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286 lodges | |
v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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287 clumps | |
n.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的名词复数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声v.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声 | |
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288 disarray | |
n.混乱,紊乱,凌乱 | |
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289 luncheons | |
n.午餐,午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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290 demonstrations | |
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
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291 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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292 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
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293 ravenous | |
adj.极饿的,贪婪的 | |
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294 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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295 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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296 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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297 licensed | |
adj.得到许可的v.许可,颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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298 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
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299 wigs | |
n.假发,法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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300 mosaic | |
n./adj.镶嵌细工的,镶嵌工艺品的,嵌花式的 | |
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301 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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302 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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303 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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304 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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305 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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306 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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307 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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308 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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309 emigrant | |
adj.移居的,移民的;n.移居外国的人,移民 | |
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310 progeny | |
n.后代,子孙;结果 | |
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311 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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312 perceptive | |
adj.知觉的,有洞察力的,感知的 | |
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313 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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314 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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315 oratorical | |
adj.演说的,雄辩的 | |
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316 dissent | |
n./v.不同意,持异议 | |
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317 decries | |
v.公开反对,谴责( decry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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318 deposition | |
n.免职,罢官;作证;沉淀;沉淀物 | |
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319 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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320 seaman | |
n.海员,水手,水兵 | |
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321 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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322 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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323 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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324 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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325 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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326 certifies | |
(尤指书面)证明( certify的第三人称单数 ); 发证书给…; 证明(某人)患有精神病; 颁发(或授予)专业合格证书 | |
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327 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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328 mariner | |
n.水手号不载人航天探测器,海员,航海者 | |
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329 oracle | |
n.神谕,神谕处,预言 | |
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330 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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331 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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332 shamefully | |
可耻地; 丢脸地; 不体面地; 羞耻地 | |
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333 bruise | |
n.青肿,挫伤;伤痕;vt.打青;挫伤 | |
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334 bruises | |
n.瘀伤,伤痕,擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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335 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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336 pulsation | |
n.脉搏,悸动,脉动;搏动性 | |
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337 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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338 tattooing | |
n.刺字,文身v.刺青,文身( tattoo的现在分词 );连续有节奏地敲击;作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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339 nautical | |
adj.海上的,航海的,船员的 | |
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340 emblems | |
n.象征,标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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341 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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342 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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343 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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344 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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345 mumbled | |
含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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346 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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347 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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348 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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349 unwillingness | |
n. 不愿意,不情愿 | |
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350 purports | |
v.声称是…,(装得)像是…的样子( purport的第三人称单数 ) | |
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351 tenor | |
n.男高音(歌手),次中音(乐器),要旨,大意 | |
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352 poultry | |
n.家禽,禽肉 | |
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353 shipping | |
n.船运(发货,运输,乘船) | |
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354 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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355 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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356 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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357 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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358 enjoyments | |
愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 ); 令人愉快的事物; 享有; 享受 | |
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359 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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360 profuse | |
adj.很多的,大量的,极其丰富的 | |
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361 daguerreotype | |
n.银板照相 | |
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362 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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363 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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364 violations | |
违反( violation的名词复数 ); 冒犯; 违反(行为、事例); 强奸 | |
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365 acme | |
n.顶点,极点 | |
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366 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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367 obtuse | |
adj.钝的;愚钝的 | |
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368 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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369 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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370 revolving | |
adj.旋转的,轮转式的;循环的v.(使)旋转( revolve的现在分词 );细想 | |
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371 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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372 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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373 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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374 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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375 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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376 saccharine | |
adj.奉承的,讨好的 | |
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377 larks | |
n.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的名词复数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了v.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的第三人称单数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了 | |
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378 beverage | |
n.(水,酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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379 brawny | |
adj.强壮的 | |
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380 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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381 nominally | |
在名义上,表面地; 应名儿 | |
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382 rotation | |
n.旋转;循环,轮流 | |
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383 defendant | |
n.被告;adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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384 spire | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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385 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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386 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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387 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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388 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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389 twigs | |
细枝,嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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390 hawthorn | |
山楂 | |
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391 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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392 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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393 tassels | |
n.穗( tassel的名词复数 );流苏状物;(植物的)穗;玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗, (玉米)长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 );使抽穗, (为了使作物茁壮生长)摘去穗状雄花;用流苏装饰 | |
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394 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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395 accordion | |
n.手风琴;adj.可折叠的 | |
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396 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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397 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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398 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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399 infest | |
v.大批出没于;侵扰;寄生于 | |
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400 molest | |
vt.骚扰,干扰,调戏 | |
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