At Folkestone, we were deposited at a railway station close upon a shingly10 beach, on which the sea broke in foam11, and which J——- reported as strewn with shells and star-fish; behind was the town, with an old church in the midst; and, close, at hand, the pier12, where lay the steamer in which we were to embark13. But the air was so wintry, that I had no heart to explore the town, or pick up shells with J——- on the beach; so we kept within doors during the two hours of our stay, now and then looking out of the windows at a fishing-boat or two, as they pitched and rolled with an ugly and irregular motion, such as the British Channel generally communicates to the craft that navigate14 it.
At about one o'clock we went on board, and were soon under steam, at a rate that quickly showed a long line of the white cliffs of Albion behind us. It is a very dusky white, by the by, and the cliffs themselves do not seem, at a distance, to be of imposing15 height, and have too even an outline to be picturesque16.
As we increased our distance from England, the French coast came more and more distinctly in sight, with a low, wavy17 outline, not very well worth looking at, except because it was the coast of France. Indeed, I looked at it but little; for the wind was bleak18 and boisterous19, and I went down into the cabin, where I found the fire very comfortable, and several people were stretched on sofas in a state of placid20 wretchedness. . . . I have never suffered from sea-sickness, but had been somewhat apprehensive21 of this rough strait between England and France, which seems to have more potency22 over people's stomachs than ten times the extent of sea in other quarters. Our passage was of two hours, at the end of which we landed on French soil, and found ourselves immediately in the clutches of the custom-house officers, who, however, merely made a momentary24 examination of my passport, and allowed us to pass without opening even one of our carpet-bags. The great bulk of our luggage had been registered through to Paris, for examination after our arrival there.
We left Boulogne in about an hour after our arrival, when it was already a darkening twilight25. The weather had grown colder than ever, since our arrival in sunny France, and the night was now setting in, wickedly black and dreary26. The frost hardened upon the carriage windows in such thickness that I could scarcely scratch a peep-hole through it; but, from such glimpses as I could catch, the aspect of the country seemed pretty much to resemble the December aspect of my dear native land,—broad, bare, brown fields, with streaks27 of snow at the foot of ridges28, and along fences, or in the furrows29 of ploughed soil. There was ice wherever there happened to be water to form it.
We had feet-warmers in the carriage, but the cold crept in nevertheless; and I do not remember hardly in my life a more disagreeable short journey than this, my first advance into French territory. My impression of France will always be that it is an Arctic region. At any season of the year, the tract30 over which we passed yesterday must be an uninteresting one as regards its natural features; and the only adornment32, as far as I could observe, which art has given it, consists in straight rows of very stiff-looking and slender-stemmed trees. In the dusk they resembled poplar-trees.
Weary and frost-bitten,—morally, if not physically,—we reached Amiens in three or four hours, and here I underwent much annoyance33 from the French railway officials and attendants, who, I believe, did not mean to incommode me, but rather to forward my purposes as far as they well could. If they would speak slowly and distinctly I might understand them well enough, being perfectly34 familiar with the written language, and knowing the principles of its pronunciation; but, in their customary rapid utterance35, it sounds like a string of mere23 gabble. When left to myself, therefore, I got into great difficulties. . . . It gives a taciturn personage like myself a new conception as to the value of speech, even to him, when he finds himself unable either to speak or understand.
Finally, being advised on all hands to go to the Hotel du Rhin, we were carried thither36 in an omnibus, rattling37 over a rough pavement, through an invisible and frozen town; and, on our arrival, were ushered38 into a handsome salon39, as chill as a tomb. They made a little bit of a wood-fire for us in a low and deep chimney-hole, which let a hundred times more heat escape up the flue than it sent into the room.
The aspect of the old French town was very different from anything English; whiter, infinitely41 cleaner; higher and narrower houses, the entrance to most of which seeming to be through a great gateway42, affording admission into a central court-yard; a public square, with a statue in the middle, and another statue in a neighboring street. We met priests in three-cornered hats, long frock-coats, and knee-breeches; also soldiers and gendarmes43, and peasants and children, clattering44 over the pavements in wooden shoes.
It makes a great impression of outlandishness to see the signs over the shop doors in a foreign tongue. If the cold had not been such as to dull my sense of novelty, and make all my perceptions torpid46, I should have taken in a set of new impressions, and enjoyed them very much. As it was, I cared little for what I saw, but yet had life enough left to enjoy the cathedral of Amiens, which has many features unlike those of English cathedrals.
It stands in the midst of the cold, white town, and has a high-shouldered look to a spectator accustomed to the minsters of England, which cover a great space of ground in proportion to their height. The impression the latter gives is of magnitude and mass; this French cathedral strikes one as lofty. The exterior47 is venerable, though but little time-worn by the action of the atmosphere; and statues still keep their places in numerous niches48, almost as perfect as when first placed there in the thirteenth century. The principal doors are deep, elaborately wrought49, pointed50 arches; and the interior seemed to us, at the moment, as grand as any that we had seen, and to afford as vast an idea of included space; it being of such an airy height, and with no screen between the chancel and nave51, as in all the English cathedrals. We saw the differences, too, betwixt a church in which the same form of worship for which it was originally built is still kept up, and those of England, where it has been superseded52 for centuries; for here, in the recess53 of every arch of the side aisles54, beneath each lofty window, there was a chapel55 dedicated56 to some Saint, and adorned57 with great marble sculptures of the crucifixion, and with pictures, execrably bad, in all cases, and various kinds of gilding58 and ornamentation. Immensely tall wax candles stand upon the altars of these chapels59, and before one sat a woman, with a great supply of tapers60, one of which was burning. I suppose these were to be lighted as offerings to the saints, by the true believers. Artificial flowers were hung at some of the shrines62, or placed under glass. In every chapel, moreover, there was a confessional,—a little oaken structure, about as big as a sentry-box, with a closed part for the priest to sit in, and an open one for the penitent64 to kneel at, and speak, through the open-work of the priest's closet. Monuments, mural and others, to long-departed worthies65, and images of the Saviour66, the Virgin67, and saints, were numerous everywhere about the church; and in the chancel there was a great deal of quaint68 and curious sculpture, fencing in the Holy of Holies, where the High Altar stands. There is not much painted glass; one or two very rich and beautiful rose-windows, however, that looked antique; and the great eastern window which, I think, is modern. The pavement has, probably, never been renewed, as one piece of work, since the structure was erected69, and is foot-worn by the successive generations, though still in excellent repair. I saw one of the small, square stones in it, bearing the date of 1597, and no doubt there are a thousand older ones. It was gratifying to find the cathedral in such good condition, without any traces of recent repair; and it is perhaps a mark of difference between French and English character, that the Revolution in the former country, though all religious worship disappears before it, does not seem to have caused such violence to ecclesiastical monuments, as the Reformation and the reign45 of Puritanism in the latter. I did not see a mutilated shrine63, or even a broken-nosed image, in the whole cathedral. But, probably, the very rage of the English fanatics71 against idolatrous tokens, and their smashing blows at them, were symptoms of sincerer religious faith than the French were capable of. These last did not care enough about their Saviour to beat down his crucified image; and they preserved the works of sacred art, for the sake only of what beauty there was in them.
While we were in the cathedral, we saw several persons kneeling at their devotions on the steps of the chancel and elsewhere. One dipped his fingers in the holy water at the entrance: by the by, I looked into the stone basin that held it, and saw it full of ice. Could not all that sanctity at least keep it thawed72? Priests—jolly, fat, mean-looking fellows, in white robes—went hither and thither, but did not interrupt or accost74 us.
There were other peculiarities75, which I suppose I shall see more of in my visits to other churches, but now we were all glad to make our stay as brief as possible, the atmosphere of the cathedral being so bleak, and its stone pavement so icy cold beneath our feet. We returned to the hotel, and the chambermaid brought me a book, in which she asked me to inscribe76 my name, age, profession, country, destination, and the authorization77 under which I travelled. After the freedom of an English hotel, so much greater than even that of an American one, where they make you disclose your name, this is not so pleasant.
We left Amiens at half past one; and I can tell as little of the country between that place and Paris, as between Boulogne and Amiens. The windows of our railway carriage were already frosted with French breath when we got into it, and the ice grew thicker and thicker continually. I tried, at various times, to rub a peep-hole through, as before; but the ice immediately shot its crystallized tracery over it again; and, indeed, there was little or nothing to make it worth while to look out, so bleak was the scene. Now and then a chateau78, too far off for its characteristics to be discerned; now and then a church, with a tall gray tower, and a little peak atop; here and there a village or a town, which we could not well see. At sunset there was just that clear, cold, wintry sky which I remember so well in America, but have never seen in England.
At five we reached Paris, and were suffered to take a carriage to the hotel de Louvre, without any examination of the little luggage we had with us. Arriving, we took a suite79 of apartments, and the waiter immediately lighted a wax candle in each separate room.
We might have dined at the table d'hote, but preferred the restaurant connected with and within the hotel. All the dishes were very delicate, and a vast change from the simple English system, with its joints80, shoulders, beefsteaks, and chops; but I doubt whether English cookery, for the very reason that it is so simple, is not better for men's moral and spiritual nature than French. In the former case, you know that you are gratifying your animal needs and propensities81, and are duly ashamed of it; but, in dealing82 with these French delicacies83, you delude84 yourself into the idea that you are cultivating your taste while satisfying your appetite. This last, however, it requires a good deal of perseverance85 to accomplish.
In the cathedral at Amiens there were printed lists of acts of devotion posted on the columns, such as prayers at the shrines of certain saints, whereby plenary indulgences might be gained. It is to be observed, however, that all these external forms were necessarily accompanied with true penitence86 and religious devotion.
Hotel de Louvre, January 8th.—It was so fearfully cold this morning that I really felt little or no curiosity to see the city. . . . Until after one o'clock, therefore, I knew nothing of Paris except the lights which I had seen beneath our window the evening before, far, far downward, in the narrow Rue61 St. Honore, and the rumble87 of the wheels, which continued later than I was awake to hear it, and began again before dawn. I could see, too, tall houses, that seemed to be occupied in every story, and that had windows on the steep roofs. One of these houses is six stories high. This Rue St. Honore is one of the old streets in Paris, and is that in which Henry IV. was assassinated88; but it has not, in this part of it, the aspect of antiquity89.
After one o'clock we all went out and walked along the Rue de Rivoli. . . . We are here, right in the midst of Paris, and close to whatever is best known to those who hear or read about it,—the Louvre being across the street, the Palais Royal but a little way off, the Tuileries joining to the Louvre, the Place de la Concorde just beyond, verging90 on which is the Champs Elysees. We looked about us for a suitable place to dine, and soon found the Restaurant des Echelles, where we entered at a venture, and were courteously92 received. It has a handsomely furnished saloon, much set off with gilding and mirrors; and appears to be frequented by English and Americans; its carte, a bound volume, being printed in English as well as French. . . .
It was now nearly four o'clock, and too late to visit the galleries of the Louvre, or to do anything else but walk a little way along the street. The splendor93 of Paris, so far as I have seen, takes me altogether by surprise: such stately edifices94, prolonging themselves in unwearying magnificence and beauty, and, ever and anon, a long vista96 of a street, with a column rising at the end of it, or a triumphal arch, wrought in memory of some grand event. The light stone or stucco, wholly untarnished by smoke and soot98, puts London to the blush, if a blush could be seen on its dingy99 face; but, indeed, London is not to be mentioned, nor compared even, with Paris. I never knew what a palace was till I had a glimpse of the Louvre and the Tuileries; never had my idea of a city been gratified till I trod these stately streets. The life of the scene, too, is infinitely more picturesque than that of London, with its monstrous100 throng101 of grave faces and black coats; whereas, here, you see soldiers and priests, policemen in cocked hats, Zonaves with turbans, long mantles102, and bronzed, half-Moorish faces; and a great many people whom you perceive to be outside of your experience, and know them ugly to look at, and fancy them villanous. Truly, I have no sympathies towards the French people; their eyes do not win me, nor do their glances melt and mingle103 with mine. But they do grand and beautiful things in the architectural way; and I am grateful for it. The Place de la Concorde is a most splendid square, large enough for a nation to erect70 trophies104 in of all its triumphs; and on one side of it is the Tuileries, on the opposite side the Champs Elysees, and, on a third, the Seine, adown which we saw large cakes of ice floating, beneath the arches of a bridge. The Champs Elysees, so far as I saw it, had not a grassy105 soil beneath its trees, but the bare earth, white and dusty. The very dust, if I saw nothing else, would assure me that I was out of England.
We had time only to take this little walk, when it began to grow dusk; and, being so pitilessly cold, we hurried back to our hotel. Thus far, I think, what I have seen of Paris is wholly unlike what I expected; but very like an imaginary picture which I had conceived of St. Petersburg,— new, bright, magnificent, and desperately106 cold.
A great part of this architectural splendor is due to the present Emperor, who has wrought a great change in the aspect of the city within a very few years. A traveller, if he looks at the thing selfishly, ought to wish him a long reign and arbitrary power, since he makes it his policy to illustrate107 his capital with palatial108 edifices, which are, however, better for a stranger to look at, than for his own people to pay for.
We have spent to-day chiefly in seeing some of the galleries of the Louvre. I must confess that the vast and beautiful edifice95 struck me far more than the pictures, sculpture, and curiosities which it contains,— the shell more than the kernel109 inside; such noble suites110 of rooms and halls were those through which we first passed, containing Egyptian, and, farther onward111, Greek and Roman antiquities112; the walls cased in variegated113 marbles; the ceilings glowing with beautiful frescos; the whole extended into infinite vistas115 by mirrors that seemed like vacancy116, and multiplied everything forever. The picture-rooms are not so brilliant, and the pictures themselves did not greatly win upon me in this one day. Many artists were employed in copying them, especially in the rooms hung with the productions of French painters. Not a few of these copyists were females; most of them were young men, picturesquely117 mustached and bearded; but some were elderly, who, it was pitiful to think, had passed through life without so much success as now to paint pictures of their own.
From the pictures we went into a suite of rooms where are preserved many relics118 of the ancient and later kings of France; more relics of the elder ones, indeed, than I supposed had remained extant through the Revolution. The French seem to like to keep memorials of whatever they do, and of whatever their forefathers119 have done, even if it be ever so little to their credit; and perhaps they do not take matters sufficiently120 to heart to detest121 anything that has ever happened. What surprised me most were the golden sceptre and the magnificent sword and other gorgeous relics of Charlemagne,—a person whom I had always associated with a sheepskin cloak. There were suits of armor and weapons that had been worn and handled by a great many of the French kings; and a religious book that had belonged to St. Louis; a dressing-glass, most richly set with precious stones, which formerly122 stood on the toilet-table of Catherine de' Medici, and in which I saw my own face where hers had been. And there were a thousand other treasures, just as well worth mentioning as these. If each monarch123 could have been summoned from Hades to claim his own relics, we should have had the halls full of the old Childerics, Charleses, Bourbons and Capets, Henrys and Louises, snatching with ghostly hands at sceptres, swords, armor, and mantles; and Napoleon would have seen, apparently, almost everything that personally belonged to him,—his coat, his cocked hats, his camp-desk, his field-bed, his knives, forks, and plates, and even a lock of his hair. I must let it all go. These things cannot be reproduced by pen and ink.
Hotel de Louvre, January 9th.—. . . . Last evening Mr. Fezaudie called. He spoke124 very freely respecting the Emperor and the hatred125 entertained against him in France; but said that he is more powerful, that is, more firmly fixed126 as a ruler, than ever the first Napoleon was. We, who look back upon the first Napoleon as one of the eternal facts of the past, a great bowlder in history, cannot well estimate how momentary and insubstantial the great Captain may have appeared to those who beheld127 his rise out of obscurity. They never, perhaps, took the reality of his career fairly into their minds, before it was over. The present Emperor, I believe, has already been as long in possession of the supreme128 power as his uncle was. I should like to see him, and may, perhaps, do—so, as he is our neighbor, across the way.
This morning Miss ———, the celebrated129 astronomical130 lady, called. She had brought a letter of introduction to me, while consul131; and her purpose now was to see if we could take her as one of our party to Rome, whither she likewise is bound. We readily consented, for she seems to be a simple, strong, healthy-humored woman, who will not fling herself as a burden on our shoulders; and my only wonder is that a person evidently so able to take care of herself should wish to have an escort.
We issued forth at about eleven, and went down the Rue St. Honore, which is narrow, and has houses of five or six stories on either side, between which run the streets like a gully in a rock. One face of our hotel borders and looks on this street. After going a good way, we came to an intersection132 with another street, the name of which I forget; but, at this point, Ravaillac sprang at the carriage of Henry IV. and plunged133 his dagger134 into him. As we went down the Rue St. Honore, it grew more and more thronged135, and with a meaner class of people. The houses still were high, and without the shabbiness of exterior that distinguishes the old part of London, being of light-colored stone; but I never saw anything that so much came up to my idea of a swarming136 city as this narrow, crowded, and rambling137 street.
Thence we turned into the Rue St. Denis, which is one of the oldest streets in Paris, and is said to have been first marked out by the track of the saint's footsteps, where, after his martyrdom, he walked along it, with his head under his arm, in quest of a burial-place. This legend may account for any crookedness138 of the street; for it could not reasonably be asked of a headless man that he should walk straight.
Through some other indirections we at last found the Rue Bergere, down which I went with J——- in quest of Hottinguer et Co., the bankers, while the rest of us went along the Boulevards, towards the Church of the Madeleine. . . . This business accomplished139, J——- and I threaded our way back, and overtook the rest of the party, still a good distance from the Madeleine. I know not why the Boulevards are called so. They are a succession of broad walks through broad streets, and were much thronged with people, most of whom appeared to be bent140 more on pleasure than business. The sun, long before this, had come out brightly, and gave us the first genial and comfortable sensations which we have had in Paris.
Approaching the Madeleine, we found it a most beautiful church, that might have been adapted from Heathenism to Catholicism; for on each side there is a range of magnificent pillars, unequalled, except by those of the Parthenon. A mourning-coach, arrayed in black and silver, was drawn141 up at the steps, and the front of the church was hung with black cloth, which covered the whole entrance. However, seeing the people going in, we entered along with them. Glorious and gorgeous is the Madeleine. The entrance to the nave is beneath a most stately arch; and three arches of equal height open from the nave to the side aisles; and at the end of the nave is another great arch, rising, with a vaulted142 half-dome, over the high altar. The pillars supporting these arches are Corinthian, with richly sculptured capitals; and wherever gilding might adorn31 the church, it is lavished144 like sunshine; and within the sweeps of the arches there are fresco114 paintings of sacred subjects, and a beautiful picture covers the hollow of the vault143 over the altar; all this, besides much sculpture; and especially a group above and around the high altar, representing the Magdalen smiling down upon angels and archangels, some of whom are kneeling, and shadowing themselves with their heavy marble wings. There is no such thing as making my page glow with the most distant idea of the magnificence of this church, in its details and in its whole. It was founded a hundred or two hundred years ago; then Bonaparte contemplated146 transforming it into a Temple of Victory, or building it anew as one. The restored Bourbons remade it into a church; but it still has a heathenish look, and will never lose it.
When we entered we saw a crowd of people, all pressing forward towards the high altar, before which burned a hundred wax lights, some of which were six or seven feet high; and, altogether, they shone like a galaxy147 of stars. In the middle of the nave, moreover, there was another galaxy of wax candles burning around an immense pall148 of black velvet149, embroidered150 with silver, which seemed to cover, not only a coffin151, but a sarcophagus, or something still more huge. The organ was rumbling152 forth a deep, lugubrious153 bass154, accompanied with heavy chanting of priests, out of which sometimes rose the clear, young voices of choristers, like light flashing out of the gloom. The church, between the arches, along the nave, and round the altar, was hung with broad expanses of black cloth; and all the priests had their sacred vestments covered with black. They looked exceedingly well; I never saw anything half so well got up on the stage. Some of these ecclesiastical figures were very stately and noble, and knelt and bowed, and bore aloft the cross, and swung the censers in a way that I liked to see. The ceremonies of the Catholic Church were a superb work of art, or perhaps a true growth of man's religious nature; and so long as men felt their original meaning, they must have been full of awe73 and glory. Being of another parish, I looked on coldly, but not irreverently, and was glad to see the funeral service so well performed, and very glad when it was over. What struck me as singular, the person who performed the part usually performed by a verger, keeping order among the audience, wore a gold-embroidered scarf, a cocked hat, and, I believe, a sword, and had the air of a military man.
Before the close of the service a contribution-box—or, rather, a black velvet bag—was handed about by this military verger; and I gave J——- a franc to put in, though I did not in the least know for what.
Issuing from the church, we inquired of two or three persons who was the distinguished156 defunct157 at whose obsequies we had been assisting, for we had some hope that it might be Rachel, who died last week, and is still above ground. But it proved to be only a Madame Mentel, or some such name, whom nobody had ever before heard of. I forgot to say that her coffin was taken from beneath the illuminated159 pall, and carried out of the church before us.
When we left the Madeleine we took our way to the Place de la Concorde, and thence through the Elysian Fields (which, I suppose, are the French idea of heaven) to Bonaparte's triumphal arch. The Champs Elysees may look pretty in summer; though I suspect they must be somewhat dry and artificial at whatever season,—the trees being slender and scraggy, and requiring to be renewed every few years. The soil is not genial to them. The strangest peculiarity160 of this place, however, to eyes fresh from moist and verdant161 England, is, that there is not one blade of grass in all the Elysian Fields, nothing but hard clay, now covered with white dust. It gives the whole scene the air of being a contrivance of man, in which Nature has either not been invited to take any part, or has declined to do so. There were merry-go-rounds, wooden horses, and other provision for children's amusements among the trees; and booths, and tables of cakes, and candy-women; and restaurants on the borders of the wood; but very few people there; and doubtless we can form no idea of what the scene might become when alive with French gayety and vivacity162.
As we walked onward the Triumphal Arch began to loom155 up in the distance, looking huge and massive, though still a long way off. It was not, however, till we stood almost beneath it that we really felt the grandeur163 of this great arch, including so large a space of the blue sky in its airy sweep. At a distance it impresses the spectator with its solidity; nearer, with the lofty vacancy beneath it. There is a spiral staircase within one of its immense limbs; and, climbing steadily164 upward, lighted by a lantern which the doorkeeper's wife gave us, we had a bird's-eye view of Paris, much obscured by smoke or mist. Several interminable avenues shoot with painful directness right towards it.
On our way homeward we visited the Place Vendome, in the centre of which is a tall column, sculptured from top to bottom, all over the pedestal, and all over the shaft165, and with Napoleon himself on the summit. The shaft is wreathed round and roundabout with representations of what, as far as I could distinguish, seemed to be the Emperor's victories. It has a very rich effect. At the foot of the column we saw wreaths of artificial flowers, suspended there, no doubt, by some admirer of Napoleon, still ardent166 enough to expend167 a franc or two in this way.
Hotel de Louvre, January 10th.—We had purposed going to the Cathedral of Notre Dame158 to-day, but the weather and walking were too unfavorable for a distant expedition; so we merely went across the street to the Louvre. . . . .
Our principal object this morning was to see the pencil drawings by eminent168 artists. Of these the Louvre has a very rich collection, occupying many apartments, and comprising sketches169 by Annibale Caracci, Claude, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Michel Angelo, Rubens, Rembrandt, and almost all the other great masters, whether French, Italian, Dutch, or whatever else; the earliest drawings of their great pictures, when they had the glory of their pristine170 idea directly before their minds' eye,— that idea which inevitably171 became overlaid with their own handling of it in the finished painting. No doubt the painters themselves had often a happiness in these rude, off-hand sketches, which they never felt again in the same work, and which resulted in disappointment, after they had done their best. To an artist, the collection must be most deeply interesting: to myself, it was merely curious, and soon grew wearisome.
In the same suite of apartments, there is a collection of miniatures, some of them very exquisite172, and absolutely lifelike, on their small scale. I observed two of Franklin, both good and picturesque, one of them especially so, with its cloud-like white hair. I do not think we have produced a man so interesting to contemplate145, in many points of view, as he. Most of our great men are of a character that I find it impossible to warm into life by thought, or by lavishing173 any amount of sympathy upon them. Not so Franklin, who had a great deal of common and uncommon174 human nature in him.
Much of the time, while my wife was looking at the drawings, I sat observing the crowd of Sunday visitors. They were generally of a lower class than those of week-days; private soldiers in a variety of uniforms, and, for the most part, ugly little men, but decorous and well behaved. I saw medals on many of their breasts, denoting Crimean service; some wore the English medal, with Queen Victoria's head upon it. A blue coat, with red baggy175 trousers, was the most usual uniform. Some had short-breasted coats, made in the same style as those of the first Napoleon, which we had seen in the preceding rooms. The policemen, distributed pretty abundantly about the rooms, themselves looked military, wearing cocked hats and swords. There were many women of the middling classes; some, evidently, of the lowest, but clean and decent, in colored gowns and caps; and laboring176 men, citizens, Sunday gentlemen, young artists, too, no doubt looking with educated eyes at these art-treasures, and I think, as a general thing, each man was mated with a woman. The soldiers, however, came in pairs or little squads177, accompanied by women. I did not much like any of the French faces, and yet I am not sure that there is not more resemblance between them and the American physiognomy, than between the latter and the English. The women are not pretty, but in all ranks above the lowest they have a trained expression that supplies the place of beauty.
I was wearied to death with the drawings, and began to have that dreary and desperate feeling which has often come upon me when the sights last longer than my capacity for receiving them. As our time in Paris, however, is brief and precious, we next inquired our way to the galleries of sculpture, and these alone are of astounding178 extent, reaching, I should think, all round one quadrangle of the Louvre, on the basement floor. Hall after hall opened interminably before us, and on either side of us, paved and incrusted with variegated and beautifully polished marble, relieved against which stand the antique statues and groups, interspersed179 with great urns180 and vases, sarcophagi, altars, tablets, busts181 of historic personages, and all manner of shapes of marble which consummate182 art has transmuted183 into precious stones. Not that I really did feel much impressed by any of this sculpture then, nor saw more than two or three things which I thought very beautiful; but whether it be good or no, I suppose the world has nothing better, unless it be a few world-renowned statues in Italy. I was even more struck by the skill and ingenuity184 of the French in arranging these sculptural remains185, than by the value of the sculptures themselves. The galleries, I should judge, have been recently prepared, and on a magnificent system,—the adornments being yet by no means completed,—for besides the floor and wall-casings of rich, polished marble, the vaulted ceilings of some of the apartments are painted in fresco, causing them to glow as if the sky were opened. It must be owned, however, that the statuary, often time-worn and darkened from its original brilliancy by weather-stains, does not suit well as furniture for such splendid rooms. When we see a perfection of modern finish around them, we recognize that most of these statues have been thrown down from their pedestals, hundreds of years ago, and have been battered186 and externally degraded; and though whatever spiritual beauty they ever had may still remain, yet this is not made more apparent by the contrast betwixt the new gloss187 of modern upholstery, and their tarnished97, even if immortal5 grace. I rather think the English have given really the more hospitable reception to the maimed Theseus, and his broken-nosed, broken-legged, headless companions, because flouting188 them with no gorgeous fittings up.
By this time poor J——- (who, with his taste for art yet undeveloped, is the companion of all our visits to sculpture and picture galleries) was wofully hungry, and for bread we had given him a stone,—not one stone, but a thousand. We returned to the hotel, and it being too damp and raw to go to our Restaurant des Echelles, we dined at the hotel. In my opinion it would require less time to cultivate our gastronomic189 taste than taste of any other kind; and, on the whole, I am not sure that a man would not be wise to afford himself a little discipline in this line. It is certainly throwing away the bounties190 of Providence191, to treat them as the English do, producing from better materials than the French have to work upon nothing but sirloins, joints, joints, steaks, steaks, steaks, chops, chops, chops, chops! We had a soup to-day, in which twenty kinds of vegetables were represented, and manifested each its own aroma192; a fillet of stewed193 beef, and a fowl194, in some sort of delicate fricassee. We had a bottle of Chablis, and renewed ourselves, at the close of the banquet, with a plate of Chateaubriand ice. It was all very good, and we respected ourselves far more than if we had eaten a quantity of red roast beef; but I am not quite sure that we were right. . . .
Among the relics of kings and princes, I do not know that there was anything more interesting than a little brass195 cannon196, two or three inches long, which had been a toy of the unfortunate Dauphin, son of Louis XVI. There was a map,—a hemisphere of the world,—which his father had drawn for this poor boy; very neatly197 done, too. The sword of Louis XVI., a magnificent rapier, with a beautifully damasked blade, and a jewelled scabbard, but without a hilt, is likewise preserved, as is the hilt of Henry IV.'s sword. But it is useless to begin a catalogue of these things. What a collection it is, including Charlemagne's sword and sceptre, and the last Dauphin's little toy cannon, and so much between the two!
Hotel de Louvre, January 11th.—This was another chill, raw day, characterized by a spitefulness of atmosphere which I do not remember ever to have experienced in my own dear country. We meant to have visited the Hotel des Invalides, but J——- and I walked to the Tivoli, the Place de la Concorde, the Champs Elysees, and to the Place de Beaujou, and to the residence of the American minister, where I wished to arrange about my passport. After speaking with the Secretary of Legation, we were ushered into the minister's private room, where he received me with great kindness. Mr. ——— is an old gentleman with a white head, and a large, florid face, which has an expression of amiability198, not unmingled with a certain dignity. He did not rise from his arm-chair to greet me,—a lack of ceremony which I imputed199 to the gout, feeling it impossible that he should have willingly failed in courtesy to one of his twenty-five million sovereigns. In response to some remark of mine about the shabby way in which our government treats its officials pecuniarily200, he gave a detailed201 account of his own troubles on that score; then expressed a hope that I had made a good thing out of my consulate202, and inquired whether I had received a hint to resign; to which I replied that, for various reasons, I had resigned of my own accord, and before Mr. Buchanan's inauguration203. We agreed, however, in disapproving204 the system of periodical change in our foreign officials; and I remarked that a consul or an ambassador ought to be a citizen both of his native country and of the one in which he resided; and that his possibility of beneficent influence depended largely on his being so. Apropos205 to which Mr. ——— said that he had once asked a diplomatic friend of long experience, what was the first duty of a minister. "To love his own country, and to watch over its interests," answered the diplomatist. "And his second duty?" asked Mr. ———. "To love and to promote the interests of the country to which he is accredited," said his friend. This is a very Christian206 and sensible view of the matter; but it can scarcely have happened once in our whole diplomatic history, that a minister can have had time to overcome his first rude and ignorant prejudice against the country of his mission; and if there were any suspicion of his having done so, it would be held abundantly sufficient ground for his recall. I like Mr. ———, a good-hearted, sensible old man.
J——- and I returned along the Champs Elysees, and, crossing the Seine, kept on our way by the river's brink207, looking at the titles of books on the long lines of stalls that extend between the bridges. Novels, fairy-tales, dream books, treatises208 of behavior and etiquette209, collections of bon-mots and of songs, were interspersed with volumes in the old style of calf210 and gilt211 binding212, the works of the classics of French literature. A good many persons, of the poor classes, and of those apparently well to do, stopped transitorily to look at these books. On the other side of the street was a range of tall edifices with shops beneath, and the quick stir of French life hurrying, and babbling213, and swarming along the sidewalk. We passed two or three bridges, occurring at short intervals214, and at last we recrossed the Seine by a bridge which oversteps the river, from a point near the National Institute, and reaches the other side, not far from the Louvre. . . .
Though the day was so disagreeable, we thought it best not to lose the remainder of it, and therefore set out to visit the Cathedral of Notre Dame. We took a fiacre in the Place de Carousel215, and drove to the door. On entering, we found the interior miserably216 shut off from view by the stagings erected for the purpose of repairs. Penetrating217 from the nave towards the chancel, an official personage signified to us that we must first purchase a ticket for each grown person, at the price of half a franc each. This expenditure218 admitted us into the sacristy, where we were taken in charge by a guide, who came down upon us with an avalanche219 or cataract220 of French, descriptive of a great many treasures reposited in this chapel. I understood hardly more than one word in ten, but gathered doubtfully that a bullet which was shown us was the one that killed the late Archbishop of Paris, on the floor of the cathedral. [But this was a mistake. It was the archbishop who was killed in the insurrection of 1848. Two joints of his backbone221 were also shown.] Also, that some gorgeously embroidered vestments, which he drew forth, had been used at the coronation of Napoleon I. There were two large, full-length portraits hanging aloft in the sacristy, and a gold or silver gilt, or, at all events, gilt image of the Virgin, as large as life, standing222 on a pedestal. The guide had much to say about these, but, understanding him so imperfectly, I have nothing to record.
The guide's supervision223 of us seemed not to extend beyond this sacristy, on quitting which he gave us permission to go where we pleased, only intimating a hope that we would not forget him; so I gave him half a franc, though thereby224 violating an inhibition on the printed ticket of entrance.
We had been much disappointed at first by the apparently narrow limits of the interior of this famous church; but now, as we made our way round the choir225, gazing into chapel after chapel, each with its painted window, its crucifix, its pictures, its confessional, and afterwards came back into the nave, where arch rises above arch to the lofty roof, we came to the conclusion that it was very sumptuous226. It is the greatest of pities that its grandeur and solemnity should just now be so infinitely marred227 by the workmen's boards, timber, and ladders occupying the whole centre of the edifice, and screening all its best effects. It seems to have been already most richly ornamented228, its roof being painted, and the capitals of the pillars gilded229, and their shafts230 illuminated in fresco; and no doubt it will shine out gorgeously when all the repairs and adornments shall be completed. Even now it gave to my actual sight what I have often tried to imagine in my visits to the English cathedrals,— the pristine glory of those edifices, when they stood glowing with gold and picture, fresh from the architects' and adorners' hands.
The interior loftiness of Notre Dame, moreover, gives it a sublimity231 which would swallow up anything that might look gewgawy in its ornamentation, were we to consider it window by window, or pillar by pillar. It is an advantage of these vast edifices, rising over us and spreading about us in such a firmamental232 way, that we cannot spoil them by any pettiness of our own, but that they receive (or absorb) our pettiness into their own immensity. Every little fantasy finds its place and propriety233 in them, like a flower on the earth's broad bosom234.
When we emerged from the cathedral, we found it beginning to rain or snow, or both; and, as we had dismissed our fiacre at the door, and could find no other, we were at a loss what to do. We stood a few moments on the steps of the Hotel Dieu, looking up at the front of Notre Dame, with its twin towers, and its three deep-pointed arches, piercing through a great thickness of stone, and throwing a cavern-like gloom around these entrances. The front is very rich. Though so huge, and all of gray stone, it is carved and fretted235 with statues and innumerable devices, as cunningly as any ivory casket in which relics are kept; but its size did not so much impress me. . . .
Hotel de Louvre, January 12th.—This has been a bright day as regards weather; but I have done little or nothing worth recording236. After breakfast, I set out in quest of the consul, and found him up a court, at 51 Rue Caumartin, in an office rather smaller, I think, than mine at Liverpool; but, to say the truth, a little better furnished. I was received in the outer apartment by an elderly, brisk-looking man, in whose air, respectful and subservient237, and yet with a kind of authority in it, I recognized the vice-consul. He introduced me to Mr. ———, who sat writing in an inner room; a very gentlemanly, courteous91, cool man of the world, whom I should take to be an excellent person for consul at Paris. He tells me that he has resided here some years, although his occupancy of the consulate dates only from November last. Consulting him respecting my passport, he gave me what appear good reasons why I should get all the necessary vises here; for example, that the vise of a minister carries more weight than that of a consul; and especially that an Austrian consul will never vise a passport unless he sees his minister's name upon it. Mr. ——— has travelled much in Italy, and ought to be able to give me sound advice. His opinion was, that at this season of the year I had better go by steamer to Civita Veechia, instead of landing at Leghorn, and thence journeying to Rome. On this point I shall decide when the time comes. As I left the office the vice-consul informed me that there was a charge of five francs and some sous for the consul's vise, a tax which surprised me,—the whole business of passports having been taken from consuls238 before I quitted office, and the consular239 fee having been annulled240 even earlier. However, no doubt Mr. ——— had a fair claim to my five francs; but, really, it is not half so pleasant to pay a consular fee as it used to be to receive it.
Afterwards I walked to Notre Dame, the rich front of which I viewed with more attention than yesterday. There are whole histories, carved in stone figures, within the vaulted arches of the three entrances in this west front, and twelve apostles in a row above, and as much other sculpture as would take a month to see. We then walked quite round it, but I had no sense of immensity from it, not even that of great height, as from many of the cathedrals in England. It stands very near the Seine; indeed, if I mistake not, it is on an island formed by two branches of the river. Behind it, is what seems to be a small public ground (or garden, if a space entirely241 denuded242 of grass or other green thing, except a few trees, can be called so), with benches, and a monument in the midst. This quarter of the city looks old, and appears to be inhabited by poor people, and to be busied about small and petty affairs; the most picturesque business that I saw being that of the old woman who sells crucifixes of pearl and of wood at the cathedral door. We bought two of these yesterday.
I must again speak of the horrible muddiness, not only of this part of the city, but of all Paris, so far as I have traversed it to-day. My ways, since I came to Europe, have often lain through nastiness, but I never before saw a pavement so universally overspread with mud-padding as that of Paris. It is difficult to imagine where so much filth243 can come from.
After dinner I walked through the gardens of the Tuileries; but as dusk was coming on, and as I was afraid of being shut up within the iron railing, I did not have time to examine them particularly. There are wide, intersecting walks, fountains, broad basins, and many statues; but almost the whole surface of the gardens is barren earth, instead of the verdure that would beautify an English pleasure-ground of this sort. In the summer it has doubtless an agreeable shade; but at this season the naked branches look meagre, and sprout244 from slender trunks. Like the trees in the Champs Elysees, those, I presume, in the gardens of the Tuileries need renewing every few years. The same is true of the human race,—families becoming extinct after a generation or two of residence in Paris. Nothing really thrives here; man and vegetables have but an artificial life, like flowers stuck in a little mould, but never taking root. I am quite tired of Paris, and long for a home more than ever.
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1
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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7
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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13
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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64
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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65
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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66
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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67
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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68
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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69
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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70
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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71
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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72
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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73
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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74
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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75
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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76
inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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77
authorization
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| n.授权，委任状 | |
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78
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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79
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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80
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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81
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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82
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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83
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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84
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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85
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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86
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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87
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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88
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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89
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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90
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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91
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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92
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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93
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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94
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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95
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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96
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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97
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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98
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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99
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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100
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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101
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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102
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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103
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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104
trophies
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|
| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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105
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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106
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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107
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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108
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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109
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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110
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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111
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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112
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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113
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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114
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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115
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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116
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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117
picturesquely
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118
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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119
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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120
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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121
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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122
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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123
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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124
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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125
hatred
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|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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126
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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127
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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128
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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129
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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130
astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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131
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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132
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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133
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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134
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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135
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
swarming
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|
| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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137
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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138
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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139
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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140
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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141
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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142
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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143
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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144
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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146
contemplated
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|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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147
galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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148
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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149
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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150
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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151
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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152
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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153
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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154
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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155
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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156
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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157
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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158
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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159
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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160
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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161
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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162
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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163
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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164
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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165
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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166
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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167
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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168
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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169
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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170
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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171
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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172
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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173
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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174
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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175
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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176
laboring
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|
| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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177
squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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178
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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179
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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180
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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181
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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182
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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183
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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185
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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186
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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187
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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188
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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189
gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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190
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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191
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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192
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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193
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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194
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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195
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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196
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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197
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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198
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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199
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
pecuniarily
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| adv.在金钱上，在金钱方面 | |
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201
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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202
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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203
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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204
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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205
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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206
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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207
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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208
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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209
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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210
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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211
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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212
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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213
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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214
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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215
carousel
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| n.旋转式行李输送带 | |
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216
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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217
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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218
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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219
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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220
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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221
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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222
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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223
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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224
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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225
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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226
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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227
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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228
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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229
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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230
shafts
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| 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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231
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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232
firmamental
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| adj.天空的，苍天的 | |
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233
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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234
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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235
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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236
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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237
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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238
consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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239
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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240
annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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241
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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242
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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243
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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244
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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