Betimes in the morning the Exhibition omnibuses begin to trundle along, and pass at intervals5 of two and a half minutes through the day,—immense vehicles constructed to carry thirty-nine passengers, and generally with a good part of that number inside and out. The omnibuses are painted scarlet6, bordered with white, have three horses abreast7, and a conductor in a red coat. They perform the journey from this point into town in about half an hour; and yesterday morning, being in a hurry to get to the railway station, I found that I could outwalk them, taking into account their frequent stoppages.
We have taken the whole house (except some inscrutable holes, into which the family creeps), of respectable people, who never took lodgers8 until this juncture9. Their furniture, however, is of the true lodging-house pattern, sofas and chairs which have no possibility of repose10 in them; rickety tables; an old piano and old music, with "Lady Helen Elizabeth" somebody's name written on it. It is very strange how nothing but a genuine home can ever look homelike. They appear to be good people; a little girl of twelve, a daughter, waits on table; and there is an elder daughter, who yesterday answered the door-bell, looking very like a young lady, besides five or six smaller children, who make less uproar11 of grief or merriment than could possibly be expected. The husband is not apparent, though I see his hat in the hall. The house is new, and has a trim, light-colored interior of half-gentility. I suppose the rent, in ordinary times, might be 25 pounds per annum; but we pay at the rate of 335 pounds for the part which we occupy. This, like all the other houses in the neighborhood, was evidently built to be sold or let; the builder never thought of living in it himself, and so that subtile element, which would have enabled him to create a home, was entirely13 left out.
This morning, J——- and I set forth14 on a walk, first towards the palace of the Arts' Exhibition, which looked small compared with my idea of it, and seems to be of the Crystal Palace order of architecture, only with more iron to its glass. Its front is composed of three round arches in a row. We did not go in. . . . Turning to the right, we walked onward15 two or three miles, passing the Botanic Garden, and thence along by suburban16 villas17, Belgrave terraces, and other such prettinesses in the modern Gothic or Elizabethan style, with fancifully ornamented19 flower-plats before them; thence by hedgerows and fields, and through two or three villages, with here and there an old plaster and timber-built thatched house, among a street full of modern brick-fronts,—the alehouse, or rural inn, being generally the most ancient house in the village. It was a sultry, heavy day, and I walked without much enjoyment20 of the air and exercise. We crossed a narrow and swift river, flowing between deep banks. It must have been either the Mersey, still an infant stream, and little dreaming of the thousand mighty21 ships that float on its farther tide, or else the Irwell, which empties into the Mersey. We passed through the village beyond this stream, and went to the railway station, and then were brought back to Old Trafford, and deposited close by the Exhibition.
It has showered this afternoon; and I beguiled22 my time for half an hour by setting down the vehicles that went past; not that they were particularly numerous, but for the sake of knowing the character of the travel along the road.
July 26th.—Day before yesterday we went to the Arts' Exhibition, of which I do not think that I have a great deal to say. The edifice23, being built more for convenience than show, appears better in the interior than from without,—long vaulted24 vistas25, lighted from above, extending far away, all hung with pictures; and, on the floor below, statues, knights26 in armor, cabinets, vases, and all manner of curious and beautiful things, in a regular arrangement. Scatter27 five thousand people through the scene, and I do not know how to make a better outline sketch28. I was unquiet, from a hopelessness of being able to enjoy it fully18. Nothing is more depressing to me than the sight of a great many pictures together; it is like having innumerable books open before you at once, and being able to read only a sentence or two in each. They bedazzle one another with cross lights. There never should be more than one picture in a room, nor more than one picture to be studied in one day. Galleries of pictures are surely the greatest absurdities29 that ever were contrived30, there being no excuse for them, except that it is the only way in which pictures can be made generally available and accessible.
We went first into the Gallery of British Painters, where there were hundreds of pictures, every one of which would have interested me by itself; but I could not fix nay31 mind on one more than another, so I wandered about, to get a general idea of the Exhibition. Truly it is very fine; truly, also, every great show is a kind of humbug32. I doubt whether there were half a dozen people there who got the kind of enjoyment that it was intended to create,—very respectable people they seemed to be, and very well behaved, but all skimming the surface, as I did, and none of them so feeding on what was beautiful as to digest it, and make it a part of themselves. Such a quantity of objects must be utterly33 rejected before you can get any real profit from one! It seemed like throwing away time to look twice even at whatever was most precious; and it was dreary34 to think of not fully enjoying this collection, the very flower of Time, which never bloomed before, and never, by any possibility, can bloom again. Viewed hastily, moreover, it is somewhat sad to think that mankind, after centuries of cultivation35 of the beautiful arts, can produce no more splendid spectacle than this. It is not so very grand, although, poor as it is, I lack capacity to take in even the whole of it.
What gave me most pleasure (because it required no trouble nor study to come at the heart of it) were the individual relics36 of antiquity38, of which there are some very curious ones in the cases ranged along the principal saloon or nave39 of the building. For example, the dagger40 with which Felton killed the Duke of Buckingham,—a knife with a bone handle and a curved blade, not more than three inches long; sharp-pointed41, murderous-looking, but of very coarse manufacture. Also, the Duke of Alva's leading staff of iron; and the target of the Emperor Charles V., which seemed to be made of hardened leather, with designs artistically42 engraved43 upon it, and gilt44. I saw Wolsey's portrait, and, in close proximity to it, his veritable cardinal's hat in a richly ornamented glass case, on which was an inscription45 to the effect that it had been bought by Charles Kean at the sale of Horace Walpole's collection. It is a felt hat with a brim about six inches wide all round, and a rather high crown; the color was, doubtless, a bright red originally, but now it is mottled with a grayish hue, and there are cracks in the brim, as if the hat had seen a good deal of wear. I suppose a far greater curiosity than this is the signet-ring of one of the Pharaohs, who reigned46 over Egypt during Joseph's prime ministry,—a large ring to be worn on the thumb, if at all,—of massive gold, seal part and all, and inscribed47 with some characters that looked like Hebrew. I had seen this before in Mr. Mayer's collection in Liverpool. The mediaeval and English relics, however, interested me more,—such as the golden and enamelled George worn by Sir Thomas More; or the embroidered48 shirt of Charles I.,—the very one, I presume, which he wore at his execution. There are no blood-marks on it, it being very nicely washed and folded. The texture49 of the linen50 cloth—if linen it be—is coarser than any peasant would wear at this day, but the needle-work is exceedingly fine and elaborate. Another relic37 of the same period,—the Cavalier General Sir Jacob Astley's buff-coat, with his belt and sword; the leather of the buff-coat, for I took it between my fingers, is about a quarter of an inch thick, of the same material as a wash-leather glove, and by no means smoothly51 dressed, though the sleeves are covered with silver-lace. Of old armor, there are admirable specimens53; and it makes one's head ache to look at the iron pots which men used to thrust their heads into. Indeed, at one period they seem to have worn an inner iron cap underneath54 the helmet. I doubt whether there ever was any age of chivalry55. . . . It certainly was no chivalric56 sentiment that made men case themselves in impenetrable iron, and ride about in iron prisons, fearfully peeping at their enemies through little slits57 and gimlet-holes. The unprotected breast of a private soldier must have shamed his leaders in those days. The point of honor is very different now.
I mean to go again and again, many times more, and will take each day some one department, and so endeavor to get some real use and improvement out of what I see. Much that is most valuable must be immitigably rejected; but something, according to the measure of my poor capacity, will really be taken into my mind. After all, it was an agreeable day, and I think the next one will be more so.
July 28th.—Day before yesterday I paid a second visit to the Exhibition, and devoted58 the day mainly to seeing the works of British painters, which fill a very large space,—two or three great saloons at the right side of the nave. Among the earliest are Hogarth's pictures, including the Sigismunda, which I remember to have seen before, with her lover's heart in her hand, looking like a monstrous59 strawberry; and the March to Finchley, than which nothing truer to English life and character was ever painted, nor ever can be; and a large stately portrait of Captain Coram, and others, all excellent in proportion as they come near to ordinary life, and are wrought60 out through its forms. All English painters resemble Hogarth in this respect. They cannot paint anything high, heroic, and ideal, and their attempts in that direction are wearisome to look at; but they sometimes produce good effects by means of awkward figures in ill-made coats and small-clothes, and hard, coarse-complexioned faces, such as they might see anywhere in the street. They are strong in homeliness61 and ugliness, weak in their efforts at the beautiful. Sir Thomas Lawrence attains63 a sort of grace, which you feel to be a trick, and therefore get disgusted with it. Reynolds is not quite genuine, though certainly he has produced some noble and beautiful heads. But Hogarth is the only English painter, except in the landscape department; there are no others who interpret life to me at all, unless it be some of the modern Pre-Raphaelites. Pretty village scenes of common life,—pleasant domestic passages, with a touch of easy humor in them,—little pathoses and fancynesses, are abundant enough; and Wilkie, to be sure, has done more than this, though not a great deal more. His merit lies, not in a high aim, but in accomplishing his aim so perfectly64. It is unaccountable that the English painters' achievements should be so much inferior to those of the English poets, who have really elevated the human mind; but, to be sure, painting has only become an English art subsequently to the epochs of the greatest poets, and since the beginning of the last century, during which England had no poets. I respect Haydon more than I once did, not for his pictures, they being detestable to see, but for his heroic rejection65 of whatever his countrymen and he himself could really do, and his bitter resolve to achieve something higher,— failing in which, he died.
No doubt I am doing vast injustice66 to a great many gifted men in what I have here written,—as, for instance, Copley, who certainly has painted a slain67 man to the life; and to a crowd of landscape-painters, who have made wonderful reproductions of little English streams and shrubbery, and cottage doors and country lanes. And there is a picture called "The Evening Gun" by Danby,—a ship of war on a calm, glassy tide, at sunset, with the cannon-smoke puffing68 from her porthole; it is very beautiful, and so effective that you can even hear the report breaking upon the stillness, with so grand a roar that it is almost like stillness too. As for Turner, I care no more for his light-colored pictures than for so much lacquered ware69 or painted gingerbread. Doubtless this is my fault, my own deficiency; but I cannot help it,—not, at least, without sophisticating myself by the effort. The only modern pictures that accomplish a higher end than that of pleasing the eye—the only ones that really take hold of my mind, and with a kind of acerbity70, like unripe71 fruit—are the works of Hunt, and one or two other painters of the Pre-Raphaelite school. They seem wilfully72 to abjure73 all beauty, and to make their pictures disagreeable out of mere74 malice75; but at any rate, for the thought and feeling which are ground up with the paint, they will bear looking at, and disclose a deeper value the longer you look. Never was anything so stiff and unnatural76 as they appear; although every single thing represented seems to be taken directly out of life and reality, and, as it were, pasted down upon the canvas. They almost paint even separate hairs. Accomplishing so much, and so perfectly, it seems unaccountable that the picture does not live; but Nature has an art beyond these painters, and they leave out some medium,—some enchantment77 that should intervene, and keep the object from pressing so baldly and harshly upon the spectator's eyeballs. With the most lifelike reproduction, there is no illusion. I think if a semi-obscurity were thrown over the picture after finishing it to this nicety, it might bring it nearer to nature. I remember a heap of autumn leaves, every one of which seems to have been stiffened78 with gum and varnish79, and then put carefully down into the stiffly disordered heap. Perhaps these artists may hereafter succeed in combining the truth of detail with a broader and higher truth. Coming from such a depth as their pictures do, and having really an idea as the seed of them, it is strange that they should look like the most made-up things imaginable. One picture by Hunt that greatly interested me was of some sheep that had gone astray among heights and precipices80, and I could have looked all day at these poor, lost creatures,—so true was their meek81 alarm and hopeless bewilderment, their huddling82 together, without the slightest confidence of mutual83 help; all that the courage and wisdom of the bravest and wisest of them could do being to bleat84, and only a few having spirits enough even for this.
After going through these modern masters, among whom were some French painters who do not interest me at all, I did a miscellaneous business, chiefly among the water-colors and photographs, and afterwards among the antiquities85 and works of ornamental86 art. I have forgotten what I saw, except the breastplate and helmet of Henry of Navarre, of steel, engraved with designs that have been half obliterated87 by scrubbing. I remember, too, a breastplate of an Elector of Saxony, with a bullet-hole through it. He received his mortal wound through that hole, and died of it two days afterwards, three hundred years ago.
There was a crowd of visitors, insomuch that, it was difficult to get a satisfactory view of the most interesting objects. They were nearly all middling-class people; the Exhibition, I think, does not reach the lower classed at all; in fact, it could not reach them, nor their betters either, without a good deal of study to help it out. I shall go to-day, and do my best to get profit out of it.
July 30th.—We all, with R——- and Fanny, went to the Exhibition yesterday, and spent the day there; not J——-, however, for he went to the Botanical Gardens. After some little skirmishing with other things, I devoted myself to the historical portraits, which hang on both sides of the great nave, and went through them pretty faithfully. The oldest are pictures of Richard II. and Henry IV. and Edward IV. and Jane Shore, and seem to have little or no merit as works of art, being cold and stiff, the life having, perhaps, faded out of them; but these older painters were trustworthy, inasmuch as they had no idea of making a picture, but only of getting the face before them on canvas as accurately89 as they could. All English history scarcely supplies half a dozen portraits before the time of Henry VIII.; after that period, and through the reigns90 of Elizabeth and James, there are many ugly pictures by Dutchmen and Italians; and the collection is wonderfully rich in portraits of the time of Charles I. and the Commonwealth91. Vandyke seems to have brought portrait-painting into fashion; and very likely the king's love of art diffused92 a taste for it throughout the nation, and remotely suggested, even to his enemies, to get their pictures painted. Elizabeth has perpetuated93 her cold, thin visage on many canvases, and generally with some fantasy of costume that makes her ridiculous to all time. There are several of Mary of Scotland, none of which have a gleam of beauty; but the stiff old brushes of these painters could not catch the beautiful. Of all the older pictures, the only one that I took pleasure in looking at was a portrait of Lord Deputy Falkland, by Vansomer, in James I.'s time,—a very stately, full-length figure in white, looking out of the picture as if he saw you. The catalogue says that this portrait suggested an incident in Horace Walpole's Castle of Otranto; but I do not remember it.
I have a haunting doubt of the value of portrait-painting; that is to say, whether it gives you a genuine idea of the person purporting94 to be represented. I do not remember ever to have recognized a man by having previously95 seen his portrait. Vandyke's pictures are full of grace and nobleness, but they do not look like Englishmen,—the burly, rough, wine-flushed and weather-reddened faces, and sturdy flesh and blood, which we see even at the present day, when they must naturally have become a good deal refined from either the country gentleman or the courtier of the Stuarts' age. There is an old, fat portrait of Gervoyse Holles, in a buff-coat,—a coarse, hoggish96, yet manly97 man. The painter is unknown; but I honor him, and Gervoyse Holles too,—for one was willing to be truly rendered, and the other dared to do it. It seems to be the aim of portrait-painters generally, especially of those who have been most famous, to make their pictures as beautiful and noble as can anywise consist with retaining the very slightest resemblance to the person sitting to them. They seldom attain62 even the grace and beauty which they aim at, but only hit some temporary or individual taste. Vandyke, however, achieved graces that rise above time and fashion, and so did Sir Peter Lely, in his female portraits; but the doubt is, whether the works of either are genuine history. Not more so, I suspect, than the narrative98 of a historian who should seek to make poetry out of the events which he relates, rejecting those which could not possibly be thus idealized.
I observe, furthermore, that a full-length portrait has seldom face enough; not that it lacks its fair proportion by measurement, but the artist does not often find it possible to make the face so intellectually prominent as to subordinate the figure and drapery. Vandyke does this, however. In his pictures of Charles I., for instance, it is the melancholy99 grace of the visage that attracts the eye, and it passes to the rest of the composition only by an effort. Earlier and later pictures are but a few inches of face to several feet of figure and costume, and more insignificant100 than the latter because seldom so well done; and I suspect the same would generally be the case now, only that the present simplicity101 of costume gives the face a chance to be seen.
I was interrupted here, and cannot resume the thread; but considering how much of his own conceit102 the artist puts into a portrait, how much affectation the sitter puts on, and then again that no face is the same to any two spectators; also, that these portraits are darkened and faded with age, and can seldom be more than half seen, being hung too high, or somehow or other inconvenient103, on the whole, I question whether there is much use in looking at them. The truest test would be, for a man well read in English history and biography, and himself an observer of insight, to go through the series without knowing what personages they represented, and write beneath each the name which the portrait vindicated104 for itself.
After getting through the portrait-gallery, I went among the engravings and photographs, and then glanced along the old masters, but without seriously looking at anything. While I was among the Dutch painters, a gentleman accosted106 me. It was Mr. J———, whom I once met at dinner with Bennoch. He told me that "the Poet Laureate" (as he called him) was in the Exhibition rooms; and as I expressed great interest, Mr. J——— was kind enough to go in quest of him. Not for the purpose of introduction, however, for he was not acquainted with Tennyson. Soon Mr. J——— returned, and said that he had found the Poet Laureate,—and, going into the saloon of the old masters, we saw him there, in company with Mr. Woolner, whose bust107 of him is now in the Exhibition.
Gazing at him with all my eyes, I liked him well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other wonders of the Exhibition.
How strange that in these two or three pages I cannot get one single touch that may call him up hereafter!
I would most gladly have seen more of this one poet of our day, but forbore to follow him; for I must own that it seemed mean to be dogging him through the saloons, or even to look at him, since it was to be done stealthily, if at all.
He is as un-English as possible; indeed an Englishman of genius usually lacks the national characteristics, and is great abnormally. Even the great sailor, Nelson, was unlike his countrymen in the qualities that constituted him a hero; he was not the perfection of an Englishman, but a creature of another kind,—sensitive, nervous, excitable, and really more like a Frenchman.
Un-English as he was, Tennyson had not, however, an American look. I cannot well describe the difference; but there was something more mellow108 in him,—softer, sweeter, broader, more simple than we are apt to be. Living apart from men as he does would hurt any one of us more than it does him. I may as well leave him here, for I cannot touch the central point.
August 2d.—Day before yesterday I went again to the Exhibition, and began the day with looking at the old masters. Positively109, I do begin to receive some pleasure from looking at pictures; but as yet it has nothing to do with any technical merit, nor do I think I shall ever get so far as that. Some landscapes by Ruysdael, and some portraits by Murillo, Velasquez, and Titian, were those which I was most able to appreciate; and I see reason for allowing, contrary to my opinion, as expressed a few pages back, that a portrait may preserve some valuable characteristics of the person represented. The pictures in the English portrait-gallery are mostly very bad, and that may be the reason why I saw so little in them. I saw too, at this last visit, a Virgin110 and Child, which appeared to me to have an expression more adequate to the subject than most of the innumerable virgins111 and children, in which we see only repetitions of simple maternity112; indeed, any mother, with her first child, would serve an artist for one of them. But, in this picture the Virgin had a look as if she were loving the infant as her own child, and at the same time rendering113 him an awful worship, as to her Creator.
While I was sitting in the central saloon, listening to the music, a young man accosted me, presuming that I was so-and-so, the American author. He himself was a traveller for a publishing firm; and he introduced conversation by talking of Uttoxeter, and my description of it in an annual. He said that the account had caused a good deal of pique114 among the good people of Uttoxeter, because of the ignorance which I attribute to them as to the circumstance which connects Johnson with their town. The spot where Johnson stood can, it appears, still be pointed out. It is on one side of the market-place, and not in the neighborhood of the church. I forget whether I recorded, at the time, that an Uttoxeter newspaper was sent me, containing a proposal that a statue or memorial should be erected115 on the spot. It would gratify me exceedingly if such a result should come from my pious116 pilgrimage thither117.
My new acquaintance, who was cockneyish, but very intelligent and agreeable, went on to talk about many literary matters and characters; among others, about Miss Bronte, whom he had seen at the Chapter Coffee-House, when she and her sister Anne first went to London. He was at that time connected with the house of ——— and ———, and he described the surprise and incredulity of Mr.———, when this little, commonplace-looking woman presented herself as the author of Jane Eyre. His story brought out the insignificance118 of Charlotte Bronte's aspect, and the bluff119 rejection of her by Mr. ———, much more strongly than Mrs. Gaskell's narrative.
Chorlton Road, August 9th.—We have changed our lodgings since my last date, those at Old Trafford being inconvenient, and the landlady120 a sharp, peremptory121 housewife, better fitted to deal with her own family than to be complaisant122 to guests. We are now a little farther from the Exhibition, and not much better off as regards accommodation, but the housekeeper123 is a pleasant, civil sort of a woman, auspiciously124 named Mrs. Honey. The house is a specimen52 of the poorer middle-class dwellings as built nowadays,—narrow staircase, thin walls, and, being constructed for sale, very ill put together indeed,—the floors with wide cracks between the boards, and wide crevices125 admitting both air and light over the doors, so that the house is full of draughts126. The outer walls, it seems to me, are but of one brick in thickness, and the partition walls certainly no thicker; and the movements, and sometimes the voices, of people in the contiguous house are audible to us. The Exhibition has temporarily so raised the value of lodgings here that we have to pay a high price for even such a house as this.
Mr. Wilding having gone on a tour to Scotland, I had to be at the Consulate127 every day last week till yesterday; when I absented myself from duty, and went to the Exhibition. U—— and I spent an hour together, looking principally at the old Dutch masters, who seem to me the most wonderful set of men that ever handled a brush. Such lifelike representations of cabbages, onions, brass128 kettles, and kitchen crockery; such blankets, with the woollen fuzz upon them; such everything I never thought that the skill of man could produce! Even the photograph cannot equal their miracles. The closer you look, the more minutely true the picture is found to be, and I doubt if even the microscope could see beyond the painter's touch. Gerard Dow seems to be the master among these queer magicians. A straw mat, in one of his pictures, is the most miraculous129 thing that human art has yet accomplished130; and there is a metal vase, with a dent12 in it, that is absolutely more real than reality. These painters accomplish all they aim at,—a praise, methinks, which can be given to no other men since the world began. They must have laid down their brushes with perfect satisfaction, knowing that each one of their million touches had been necessary to the effect, and that there was not one too few nor too many. And it is strange how spiritual and suggestive the commonest household article—an earthen pitcher131, for example— becomes, when represented with entire accuracy. These Dutchmen got at the soul of common things, and so made them types and interpreters of the spiritual world.
Afterwards I looked at many of the pictures of the old masters, and found myself gradually getting a taste for them; at least, they give me more and more pleasure the oftener I come to see them. Doubtless, I shall be able to pass for a man of taste by the time I return to America. It is an acquired taste, like that for wines; and I question whether a man is really any truer, wiser, or better for possessing it. From the old masters, I went among the English painters, and found myself more favorably inclined towards some of them than at my previous visits; seeing something wonderful even in Turner's lights and mists and yeasty waves, although I should like him still better if his pictures looked in the least like what they typify. The most disagreeable of English painters is Etty, who had a diseased appetite for woman's flesh, and spent his whole life, apparently132, in painting them with enormously developed busts133. I do not mind nudity in a modest and natural way; but Etty's women really thrust their nudity upon you with malice aforethought, . . . . and the worst of it is they are not beautiful.
Among the last pictures that I looked at was Hogarth's March to Finchley; and surely nothing can be covered more thick and deep with English nature than that piece of canvas. The face of the tall grenadier in the centre, between two women, both of whom have claims on him, wonderfully expresses trouble and perplexity; and every touch in the picture meant something and expresses what it meant.
The price of admission, after two o'clock, being sixpence, the Exhibition was thronged134 with a class of people who do not usually come in such large numbers. It was both pleasant and touching136 to see how earnestly some of them sought to get instruction from what they beheld137. The English are a good and simple people, and take life in earnest.
August 14th.—Passing by the gateway138 of the Manchester Cathedral the other morning, on my way to the station, I found a crowd collected, and, high overhead, the bells were chiming for a wedding. These chimes of bells are exceedingly impressive, so broadly gladsome as they are, filling the whole air, and every nook of one's heart with sympathy. They are good for a people to rejoice with, and good also for a marriage, because through all their joy there is something solemn,—a tone of that voice which we have heard so often at funerals. It is good to see how everybody, up to this old age of the world, takes an interest in weddings, and seems to have a faith that now, at last, a couple have come together to make each other happy. The high, black, rough old cathedral tower sent out its chime of bells as earnestly as for any bridegroom and bride that came to be married five hundred years ago. I went into the churchyard, but there was such a throng135 of people on its pavement of flat tombstones, and especially such a cluster along the pathway by which the bride was to depart, that I could only see a white dress waving along, and really do not know whether she was a beauty or a fright. The happy pair got into a post-chaise that was waiting at the gate, and immediately drew some crimson139 curtains, and so vanished into their Paradise. There were two other post-chaises and pairs, and all three had postilions in scarlet. This is the same cathedral where, last May, I saw a dozen couples married in the lump.
In a railway carriage, two or three days ago, an old merchant made rather a good point of one of the uncomfortable results of the electric telegraph. He said that formerly140 a man was safe from bad news, such as intelligence of failure of debtors141, except at the hour of opening his letters in the morning; and then he was in some degree prepared for it, since, among (say) fifteen letters, he would be pretty certain to find some "queer" one. But since the telegraph has come into play, he is never safe, and may be hit with news of failure, shipwreck142, fall of stocks, or whatever disaster, at all hours of the day.
I went to the Exhibition on Wednesday with U——, and looked at the pencil sketches143 of the old masters; also at the pictures generally, old and new. I particularly remember a spring landscape, by John Linnell the younger. It is wonderfully good; so tender and fresh that the artist seems really to have caught the evanescent April and made her permanent. Here, at least, is eternal spring.
I saw a little man, behind an immense beard, whom I take to be the Duke of Newcastle; at least, there was a photograph of him in the gallery, with just such a beard. He was at the Palace on that day.
August 16th.—I went again to the Exhibition day before yesterday, and looked much at both the modern and ancient pictures, as also at the water-colors. I am making some progress as a connoisseur144, and have got so far as to be able to distinguish the broader differences of style,— as, for example, between Rubens and Rembrandt. I should hesitate to claim any more for myself thus far. In fact, however, I do begin to have a liking145 for good things, and to be sure that they are good. Murillo seems to me about the noblest and purest painter that ever lived, and his "Good Shepherd" the loveliest picture I have seen. It is a hopeful symptom, moreover, of improving taste, that I see more merit in the crowd of painters than I was at first competent to acknowledge. I could see some of their defects from the very first; but that is the earliest stage of connoisseurship146, after a formal and ignorant admiration148. Mounting a few steps higher, one sees beauties. But how much study, how many opportunities, are requisite149 to form and cultivate a taste! The Exhibition must be quite thrown away on the mass of spectators.
Both they and I are better able to appreciate the specimens of ornamental art contained in the Oriental Room, and in the numerous cases that are ranged up and down the nave. The gewgaws of all Time are here, in precious metals, glass, china, ivory, and every other material that could be wrought into curious and beautiful shapes; great basins and dishes of embossed gold from the Queen's sideboard, or from the beaufets of noblemen; vessels150 set with precious stones; the pastoral staffs of prelates, some of them made of silver or gold, and enriched with gems151, and what have been found in the tombs of the bishops152; state swords, and silver maces; the rich plate of colleges, elaborately wrought,—great cups, salvers, tureens, that have been presented by loving sons to their Alma Mater; the heirlooms of old families, treasured from generation to generation, and hitherto only to be seen by favored friends; famous historical jewels, some of which are painted in the portraits of the historical men and women that hang on the walls; numerous specimens of the beautiful old Venetian glass, some of which looks so fragile that it is a wonder how it could bear even the weight of the wine, that used to be poured into it, without breaking. These are the glasses that tested poison, by being shattered into fragments at its touch. The strangest and ugliest old crockery, pictured over with monstrosities,—the Palissy ware, embossed with vegetables, fishes, lobsters153, that look absolutely real; the delicate Sevres china, each piece made inestimable by pictures from a master's hand;—in short, it is a despair and misery154 to see so much that is curious and beautiful, and to feel that far the greater portion of it will slip out of the memory, and be as if we had never seen it. But I mean to look again and again at these things. We soon perceive that the present day does not engross155 all the taste and ingenuity156 that has ever existed in the mind of man; that, in fact, we are a barren age in that respect.
August 20th.—I went to the Exhibition on Monday, and again yesterday, and measurably enjoyed both visits. I continue to think, however, that a picture cannot be fully enjoyed except by long and intimate acquaintance with it, nor can I quite understand what the enjoyment of a connoisseur is. He is not usually, I think, a man of deep, poetic157 feeling, and does not deal with the picture through his heart, nor set it in a poem, nor comprehend it morally. If it be a landscape, he is not entitled to judge of it by his intimacy158 with nature; if a picture of human action, he has no experience nor sympathy of life's deeper passages. However, as my acquaintance with pictures increases, I find myself recognizing more and more the merit of the acknowledged masters of the art; but, possibly, it is only because I adopt the wrong principles which may have been laid down by the connoisseurs147. But there can be no mistake about Murillo,— not that I am worthy88 to admire him yet, however.
Seeing the many pictures of Holy Families, and the Virgin and Child, which have been painted for churches and convents, the idea occurs, that it was in this way that the poor monks159 and nuns160 gratified, as far as they could, their natural longing161 for earthly happiness. It was not Mary and her heavenly Child that they really beheld, or wished for; but an earthly mother rejoicing over her baby, and displaying it probably to the world as an object worthy to be admired by kings,—as Mary does, in the Adoration162 of the Magi. Every mother, I suppose, feels as if her first child deserved everybody's worship.
I left the Exhibition at three o'clock, and went to Manchester, where I sought out Mr. C S———- in his little office. He greeted me warmly, and at five we took the omnibus for his house, about four miles from town. He seems to be on pleasant terms with his neighbors, for almost everybody that got into the omnibus exchanged kindly163 greetings with him, and indeed his kindly, simple, genial164 nature comes out so evidently that it would be difficult not to like him. His house stands, with others, in a green park,—a small, pretty, semi-detached suburban residence of brick, with a lawn and garden round it. In close vicinity, there is a deep clough or dell, as shaggy and wild as a poet could wish, and with a little stream running through it, as much as five miles long.
The interior of the house is very pretty, and nicely, even handsomely and almost sumptuously165, furnished; and I was very glad to find him so comfortable. His recognition as a poet has been hearty166 enough to give him a feeling of success, for he showed me various tokens of the estimation in which he is held,—for instance, a presentation copy of Southey's works, in which the latter had written "Amicus amico,—poeta poetae." He said that Southey had always been most kind to him. . . . There were various other testimonials from people of note, American as well as English. In his parlor167 there is a good oil-painting of himself, and in the drawing-room a very fine crayon sketch, wherein his face, handsome and agreeable, is lighted up with all a poet's ecstasy168; likewise a large and fine engraving105 from the picture. The government has recognized his poetic merit by a pension of fifty pounds,—a small sung, it is true, but enough to mark him out as one who has deserved well of his country. . . . The man himself is very good and lovable. . . . I was able to gratify him by saying that I had recently seen many favorable notices of his poems in the American newspapers; an edition having been published a few months since on our side of the ocean. He was much pleased at this, and asked me to send him the notices. . . .
August 30th.—I have been two or three times to the Exhibition since my last date, and enjoy it more as I become familiar with it. There is supposed to be about a third of the good pictures here which England contains; and it is said that the Tory nobility and gentry169 have contributed to it much more freely and largely than the Whigs. The Duke of Devonshire, for instance, seems to have sent nothing. Mr. Ticknor, the Spanish historian, whom I met yesterday, observed that we should not think quite so much of this Exhibition as the English do after we have been to Italy, although it is a good school in which to gain a preparatory knowledge of the different styles of art. I am glad to hear that there are better things still to be seen. Nevertheless, I should suppose that certain painters are better represented here than they ever have been or will be elsewhere. Vandyke, certainly, can be seen nowhere else so well; Rembrandt and Rubens have satisfactory specimens; and the whole series of English pictorial170 achievement is shown more perfectly than within any other walls. Perhaps it would be wise to devote myself to the study of this latter, and leave the foreigners to be studied on their own soil. Murillo can hardly have done better than in the pictures by him which we see here. There is nothing of Raphael's here that is impressive. Titian has some noble portraits, but little else that I care to see. In all these old masters, Murillo only excepted, it is very rare, I must say, to find any trace of natural feeling and passion; and I am weary of naked goddesses, who never had any real life and warmth in the painter's imagination,—or, if so, it was the impure171 warmth of an unchaste woman, who sat for him.
Last week I dined at Mr. F. Heywood's to meet Mr. Adolphus, the author of a critical work on the Waverley Novels, published long ago, and intended to prove, from internal evidence, that they were written by Sir Walter Scott. . . . His wife was likewise of the party, . . . . and also a young Spanish lady, their niece, and daughter of a Spaniard of literary note. She herself has literary tastes and ability, and is well known to Prescott, whom, I believe, she has assisted in his historical researches, and also to Professor Ticknor; and furthermore she is very handsome and unlike an English damsel, very youthful and maiden-like; and her manners have all ardor172 and enthusiasm that were pleasant to see, especially as she spoke173 warmly of my writings; and yet I should wrong her if I left the impression of her being forthputting and obtrusive174, for it was not the fact in the least. She speaks English like a native, insomuch that I should never have suspected her to be anything else.
My nerves recently have not been in an exactly quiet and normal state. I begin to weary of England and need another clime.
September 6th.—I think I paid my last visit to the Exhibition, and feel as if I had had enough of it, although I have got but a small part of the profit it might have afforded me. But pictures are certainly quite other things to me now from what they were at my first visit; it seems even as if there were a sort of illumination within them, that makes me see them more distinctly. Speaking of pictures, the miniature of Anne of Cleves is here, on the faith of which Henry VIII. married her; also, the picture of the Infanta of Spain, which Buckingham brought over to Charles I. while Prince of Wales. This has a delicate, rosy175 prettiness.
One rather interesting portion of the Exhibition is the Refreshment-room, or rather rooms; for very much space is allowed both to the first and second classes. I have looked most at the latter, because there John Ball and his wife may be seen in full gulp176 aid guzzle177, swallowing vast quantities of cold boiled beef, thoroughly178 moistened with porter or bitter ale; and very good meat and drink it is.
At my last visit, on Friday, I met Judge Pollock of Liverpool, who introduced me to a gentleman in a gray slouched hat as Mr. Du Val, an artist, resident in Manchester; and Mr. Du Val invited me to dine with him at six o'clock. So I went to Carlton Grove179, his residence, and found it a very pretty house, with its own lawn and shrubbery about it. . . . There was a mellow fire in the grate, which made the drawing-room very cosey and pleasant, as the dusk came on before dinner. Mr. Du Val looked like an artist, and like a remarkable180 man. . . . We had very good talk, chiefly about the Exhibition, and Du Val spoke generously and intelligently of his brother-artists. He says that England might furnish five exhibitions, each one as rich as the present. I find that the most famous picture here is one that I have hardly looked at, "The Three Marys," by Annibal Caracci. In the drawing-room there were several pictures and sketches by Du Val, one of which I especially liked,—a misty181, moonlight picture of the Mersey, near Seacombe. I never saw painted such genuine moonlight. . . .
I took my leave at half past ten, and found my cab at the door, and my cabman snugly182 asleep inside of it; and when Mr. Du Val awoke him, he proved to be quite drunk, insomuch that I hesitated whether to let him clamber upon the box, or to take post myself, and drive the cabman home. However, I propounded183 two questions to him: first, whether his horse would go of his own accord; and, secondly184, whether he himself was invariably drunk at that time of night, because, if it were his normal state, I should be safer with him drunk than sober. Being satisfied on these points, I got in, and was driven home without accident or adventure; except, indeed, that the cabman drew up and opened the door for me to alight at a vacant lot on Stratford Road, just as if there had been a house and home and cheerful lighted windows in that vacancy185. On my remonstrance186 he resumed the whip and reins187, and reached Boston Terrace at last; and, thanking me for an extra sixpence as well as he could speak, he begged me to inquire for "Little John" whenever I next wanted a cab. Cabmen are, as a body, the most ill-natured and ungenial men in the world; but this poor little man was excellently good-humored.
Speaking of the former rudeness of manners, now gradually refining away, of the Manchester people, Judge ——— said that, when he first knew Manchester, women, meeting his wife in the street, would take hold of her dress and say, "Ah, three and sixpence a yard!" The men were very rough, after the old Lancashire fashion. They have always, however, been a musical people, and this may have been a germ of refinement188 in them. They are still much more simple and natural than the Liverpool people, who love the aristocracy, and whom they heartily189 despise. It is singular that the great Art-Exhibition should have come to pass in the rudest great town in England.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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45
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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48
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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52
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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54
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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55
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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slits
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| 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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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60
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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64
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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65
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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71
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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72
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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73
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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77
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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78
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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79
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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80
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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81
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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82
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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83
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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84
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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85
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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86
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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87
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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88
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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89
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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90
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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91
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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92
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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93
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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95
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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96
hoggish
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| adj.贪婪的 | |
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97
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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98
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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99
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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100
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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101
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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102
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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103
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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104
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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105
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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106
accosted
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| 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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107
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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108
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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109
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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110
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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111
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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112
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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113
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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114
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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115
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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116
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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117
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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118
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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119
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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120
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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121
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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122
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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123
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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124
auspiciously
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| adv.吉利； 繁荣昌盛； 前途顺利； 吉祥 | |
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125
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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126
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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127
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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128
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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129
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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130
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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131
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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132
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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133
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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134
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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136
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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137
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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138
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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139
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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140
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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141
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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142
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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143
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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144
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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145
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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146
connoisseurship
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| n.鉴赏家（或鉴定家、行家）身份，鉴赏（或鉴定）力 | |
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147
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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148
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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149
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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150
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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151
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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152
bishops
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| （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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153
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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154
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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155
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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156
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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157
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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158
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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159
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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160
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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161
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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162
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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163
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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164
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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165
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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166
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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167
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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168
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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169
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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170
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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171
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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172
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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173
spoke
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| 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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174
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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175
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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176
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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177
guzzle
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| v.狂饮，暴食 | |
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178
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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179
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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180
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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181
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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182
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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183
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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185
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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186
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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187
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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188
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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189
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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