In looking back over Longfellow’s whole career, it is certain that the early criticisms upon him, especially those of Margaret Fuller, had an immediate12 and temporary justification13, but found ultimate refutation. The most commonplace man can be better comprehended at the end of his career than he can be analyzed14 at its beginning; and of men possessed15 of the poetic temperament16, this is eminently17 true. We now know that at the very time when “Hyperion” and the “Voices of the Night” seemed largely European in their atmosphere, the author himself, in his diaries, was expressing that longing18 for American subjects which afterwards predominated in his career. Though the citizen among us best known in Europe, most sought after by foreign visitors, he yet gravitated naturally to American themes, American friends, home interests, plans, and improvements. He always voted at elections, and generally with the same party, took an interest in all local affairs and public improvements, headed subscription19 papers, was known by sight among children, and answered readily to their salutations. The same quality of citizenship20 was visible in his literary work. Lowell, who was regarded in England as an almost defiant21 American, yet had a distinct liking22, 261 which was not especially shared by Longfellow, for English ways. If people were ever misled on this point, which perhaps was not the case, it grew out of his unvarying hospitality and courtesy, and out of the fact vaguely23 recognized by all, but best stated by that keen critic, the late Mr. Horace E. Scudder, when he says of Longfellow: “He gave of himself freely to his intimate friends, but he dwelt, nevertheless, in a charmed circle, beyond the lines of which men could not penetrate24.... It is rare that one in our time has been the centre of so much admiration25, and still rarer that one has preserved in the midst of it all that integrity of nature which never abdicates26.”[100]
It is an obvious truth in regard to the literary works of Longfellow, that while they would have been of value at any time and place, their worth to a new and unformed literature was priceless. The first need of such a literature was no doubt a great original thinker, such as was afforded us in Emerson. But for him we should perhaps have been still provincial27 in thought and imitative in theme and illustration; our poets would have gone on writing about the skylark and the nightingale, which they might never have seen or heard anywhere, rather than about the bobolink and the humble-bee, which they knew. It 262 was Emerson and the so-called Transcendentalists who really set our literature free; yet Longfellow rendered a service only secondary, in enriching and refining it and giving it a cosmopolitan28 culture, and an unquestioned standing29 in the literary courts of the civilized30 world. It was a great advantage, too, that in his more moderate and level standard of execution there was afforded no room for reaction. The same attributes that keep Longfellow from being the greatest of poets will make him also one of the most permanent. There will be no extreme ups and downs in his fame, as in that of those great poets of whom Ruskin writes, “Cast Coleridge at once aside, as sickly and useless; and Shelley as shallow and verbose31.” The finished excellence32 of his average execution will sustain it against that of profounder thinkers and more daring sons of song. His range of measures is not great, but his workmanship is perfect; he has always “the inimitable grace of not too much;” he has tested all literatures, all poetic motives33, and all the simpler forms of versification, and he can never be taken unprepared. He will never be read for the profoundest stirring, or for the unlocking of the deepest mysteries; he will always be read for invigoration, for comfort, for content.
No man is always consistent, and it is not to 263 be claimed that Longfellow was always ready to reaffirm his early attitude in respect to a national literature. It is not strange that after he had fairly begun to create one, he should sometimes be repelled34 by the class which has always existed who think that mere35 nationality should rank first and an artistic36 standard afterwards. He writes on July 24, 1844, to an unknown correspondent:—
“I dislike as much as any one can the tone of English criticism in reference to our literature. But when you say, ‘It is a lamentable37 fact that as yet our country has taken no decided38 steps towards establishing a national literature,’ it seems to me that you are repeating one of the most fallacious assertions of the English critics. Upon this point I differ entirely39 from you in opinion. A national literature is the expression of national character and thought; and as our character and modes of thought do not differ essentially40 from those of England, our literature cannot. Vast forests, lakes, and prairies cannot make great poets. They are but the scenery of the play, and have much less to do with the poetic character than has been imagined. Neither Mexico nor Switzerland has produced any remarkable41 poet.
“I do not think a ‘Poets’ Convention’ would 264 help the matter. In fact, the matter needs no helping42.”[101]
In the same way he speaks with regret, three years later, November 5, 1847, of “The prospectus43 of a new magazine in Philadelphia to build up ‘a national literature worthy44 of the country of Niagara—of the land of forests and eagles.’”
One feels an inexhaustible curiosity as to the precise manner in which each favorite poem by a favorite author comes into existence. In the case of Longfellow we find this illustrated45 only here and there. We know that “The Arrow and the Song,” for instance, came into his mind instantaneously; that “My Lost Youth” occurred to him in the night, after a day of pain, and was written the next morning; that on December 17, 1839, he read of shipwrecks46 reported in the papers and of bodies washed ashore48 near Gloucester, one lashed49 to a piece of the wreck47, and that he wrote, “There is a reef called Norman’s Woe50 where many of these took place; among others the schooner51 Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad52 upon this; also two others,—‘The Skeleton in Armor’ and ‘Sir Humphrey Gilbert.’” A fortnight later he sat at twelve o’clock by his fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into his mind to write the 265 Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus, which he says, “I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an effort. It did not come into my mind by lines, but by stanzas53.” A few weeks before, taking up a volume of Scott’s “Border Minstrelsy,” he had received in a similar way the suggestion of “The Beleaguered55 City” and of “The Luck of Edenhall.”
We know by Longfellow’s own statement to Mr. W. C. Lawton,[102] that it was his rule to do his best in polishing a poem before printing it, but afterwards to leave it untouched, on the principle that “the readers of a poem acquired a right to the poet’s work in the form they had learned to love.” He thought also that Bryant and Whittier hardly seemed happy in these belated revisions, and mentioned especially Bryant’s “Water-Fowl,”
where Longfellow preferred the original reading “painted on.” It is, however, rare to find a poet who can carry out this principle of abstinence, at least in his own verse, and we know 266 too surely that Longfellow was no exception; thus we learn that he had made important alterations57 in the “Golden Legend” within a few weeks of publication. These things show that his remark to Mr. Lawton does not tell quite the whole story. As with most poets, his alterations were not always improvements. Thus, in “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” he made the fourth verse much more vigorous to the ear as it was originally written,—
Had sailed the Spanish Main,”
than when he made the latter line read
“Sailed to the Spanish Main,”
as in all recent editions. The explanation doubtless was that he at first supposed the “Spanish Main” to mean the Caribbean Sea; whereas it actually referred only to the southern shore of it. Still more curious is the history of a line in one of his favorite poems, “To a Child.” Speaking of this, he says in his diary,[103] “Some years ago, writing an ‘Ode to a Child,’ I spoke of
What was my astonishment60 to-day, in reading for the first time in my life Wordsworth’s ode ‘On the Power of Sound,’ to read
267
As a matter of fact, this was not the original form of the Longfellow passage, which was,—
“The buried treasures of dead centuries,”
followed by
“The burning tropic skies.”
More than this, the very word “miser” was not invariably used in this passage by the poet, as during an intermediate period it had been changed to “pirate,” a phrase in some sense more appropriate and better satisfying the ear. The curious analogy to Wordsworth’s line did not therefore lie in the original form of his own poem, but was an afterthought. It is fortunate that this curious combination of facts, all utterly62 unconscious on his part, did not attract the attention of Poe during his vindictive63 period.
It is to be noticed, however, that Longfellow apparently64 made all these changes to satisfy his own judgment65, and did not make them, as Whittier and even Browning often did, in deference66 to the judgment of dull or incompetent67 critics. It is to be remembered that even the academic commentators68 on Longfellow still leave children to suppose that the Berserk’s tale in “The Skeleton in Armor” refers to a supposed story that the Berserk was telling: although the word “tale” is unquestionably used in the sense of “tally” or “reckoning,” to indicate how much ale the 268 Norse hero could drink. Readers of Milton often misinterpret his line,
“And every shepherd tells his tale,”
in a similar manner, and the shepherd is supposed by many young readers to be pouring out a story of love or of adventure, whereas he is merely counting up the number of his sheep.
It will always remain uncertain how far Poe influenced the New England poets, whether by example or avoidance. That he sometimes touched Lowell, and not for good, is unquestionable, in respect to rhythm; but it will always remain a question whether his influence did not work in the other direction with Longfellow in making him limit himself more strictly69 to a narrow range of metrical structure. It was an admirable remark of Tennyson’s that “every short poem should have a definite shape like the curve, sometimes a single, sometimes a double one, assumed by a severed70 tress, or the rind of an apple when flung to the floor.”[104] This type of verse was rarely attempted by Longfellow, but he chose it most appropriately for “Seaweed” and in some degree succeeded. Poe himself in his waywardness could not adhere to it when he reached it, and after giving us in the original form of “Lenore,” as published in “The Pioneer,” 269 perhaps the finest piece of lyric72 measure in our literature, made it over into a form of mere jingling73 and hackneyed rhythm, adding even the final commonplaceness of his tiresome74 “repetend.” Lowell did something of the same in cutting down the original fine strain of the verses beginning “Pine in the distance,” but Longfellow showed absolutely no trace of Poe, unless as a warning against multiplying such rhythmic75 experiments as he once tried successfully in “Seaweed.” On the other hand, with all his love for Lowell, his native good taste kept him from the confused metaphors76 and occasional over-familiarities into which Lowell was sometimes tempted71.
Perhaps the most penetrating77 remark made about Longfellow’s art is that of Horace Scudder: “He was first of all a composer, and he saw his subjects in their relations, rather than in their essence.” As a translator, he was generally admitted to have no superior in the English tongue, his skill was unvarying and absolutely reliable. Even here it might be doubted whether he ever attained78 the wonderful success sometimes achieved in single instances, as, for instance, in Mrs. Sarah Austen’s “Many a Year is in its Grave,” which, under the guise79 of a perfect translation, yet gives a higher and finer touch than that of the original poem of Rückert. But 270 taking Longfellow’s great gift in this direction as it was, we can see that it was somewhat akin5 to this quality of “composition,” rather than of inspiration, which marked his poems.
He could find it delightful80
“To lie
And gaze into a summer sky
And watch the trailing clouds go by
Like ships upon the sea.”
But it is a vast step from this to Browning’s mountain picture
Like Persian ships to Salamis.”
In Browning everything is vigorous and individualized. We see the ships, we know the nationality, we recall the very battle, and over these we see in imagination the very shape and movements of the clouds; but there is no conceivable reason why Longfellow’s lines should not have been written by a blind man who knew clouds merely by the descriptions of others. The limitation of Longfellow’s poems reveals his temperament. He was in his perceptions essentially of poetic mind, but always in touch with the common mind; as individual lives grow deeper, students are apt to leave Longfellow for Tennyson, just as they forsake82 Tennyson for Browning. As to action, the tonic83 of life, so far as he had 271 it, was supplied to him through friends,—Sumner in America; Freiligrath in Europe,—and yet it must be remembered that he would not, but for a corresponding quality in his own nature, have had just such friends as these. He was not led by his own convictions to leave his study like Emerson and take direct part as a contestant84 in the struggles of the time. It is a curious fact that Lowell should have censured85 Thoreau for not doing in this respect just the thing which Thoreau ultimately did and Longfellow did not. It was, however, essentially a difference of temperament, and it must be remembered that Longfellow wrote in his diary under date of December 2, 1859, “This will be a great day in our history; the date of a new Revolution,—quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write, they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia, for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind, which will come soon.”
His relations with Whittier remained always kindly86 and unbroken. They dined together at the Atlantic Club and Saturday Club, and Longfellow wrote of him in 1857, “He grows milder and mellower87, as does his poetry.” He went to Concord88 sometimes to dine with Emerson, “and meet his philosophers, Alcott, Thoreau, and Channing.” 272 Or Emerson came to Cambridge, “to take tea,” giving a lecture at the Lyceum, of which Longfellow says, “The lecture good, but not of his richest and rarest. His subject ‘Eloquence.’ By turns he was grave and jocose89, and had some striking views and passages. He lets in a thousand new lights, side-lights, and cross-lights, into every subject.” When Emerson’s collected poems are sent him, Longfellow has the book read to him all the evening and until late at night, and writes of it in his diary: “Throughout the volume, through the golden mist and sublimation90 of fancy, gleam bright veins91 of purest poetry, like rivers running through meadows. Truly, a rare volume; with many exquisite92 poems in it, among which I should single out ‘Monadnoc,’ ‘Threnody,’ ‘The Humble-Bee,’ as containing much of the quintessence of poetry.” Emerson’s was one of the five portraits drawn in crayon by Eastman Johnson, and always kept hanging in the library at Craigie House; the others being those of Hawthorne, Sumner, Felton, and Longfellow himself. No one can deny to our poet the merits of absolute freedom from all jealousy93 and of an invariable readiness to appreciate those classified by many critics as greater than himself. He was one of the first students of Browning in America, when the latter was known chiefly by his “Bells and 273 Pomegranates,” and instinctively94 selected the “Blot in the ’Scutcheon” as “a play of great power and beauty,” as the critics would say, and as every one must say who reads it. He is an extraordinary genius, Browning, with dramatic power of the first order. “Paracelsus” he describes, with some justice, as “very lofty, but very diffuse95.” Of Browning’s “Christmas Eve” he later writes, “A wonderful man is Browning, but too obscure,” and later makes a similar remark on “The Ring and the Book.” Of Tennyson he writes, as to “The Princess,” calling it “a gentle satire96, in the easiest and most flowing blank verse, with two delicious unrhymed songs, and many exquisite passages. I went to bed after it, with delightful music ringing in my ears; yet half disappointed in the poem, though not knowing why. There is a discordant97 note somewhere.”
One very uncertain test of a man of genius is his “table-talk.” Surrounded by a group of men who were such masters of this gift as Lowell, Holmes, and T. G. Appleton, Longfellow might well be excused from developing it to the highest extent, and he also “being rather a silent man,” as he says of himself, escaped thereby98 the tendency to monologue99, which was sometimes a subject of complaint in regard to the other three. Longfellow’s reticence100 and self-control saved him 274 from all such perils101; but it must be admitted, on the other hand, that when his brother collects a dozen pages of his “table-talk” at the end of his memoirs102, or when one reads his own list of them in “Kavanagh,” the reader feels a slight inadequacy103, as of things good enough to be said, but not quite worth the printing. Yet at their best, they are sometimes pungent104 and telling, as where he says, “When looking for anything lost, begin by looking where you think it is not;” or, “Silence is a great peace-maker;” or, “In youth all doors open outward; in old age they all open inward,” or, more thoughtfully, “Amusements are like specie payments. We do not much care for them, if we know we can have them; but we like to know they may be had,” or more profoundly still, “How often it happens that after we know a man personally, we cease to read his writings. Is it that we exhaust him by a look? Is it that his personality gives us all of him we desire?” There are also included among these passages some thoroughly105 poetic touches, as where he says, “The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout, and hands full of flowers.” Or this, “How sudden and sweet are the visitations of our happiest thoughts; what delightful surprises! In the midst of life’s most trivial 275 occupations,—as when we are reading a newspaper, or lighting106 a bed-candle, or waiting for our horses to drive round,—the lovely face appears, and thoughts more precious than gold are whispered in our ear.”
The test of popularity in a poet is nowhere more visible than in the demand for autographs. Longfellow writes in his own diary that on November 25, 1856, he has more than sixty such requests lying on his table; and again on January 9, “Yesterday I wrote, sealed, and directed seventy autographs. To-day I added five or six more and mailed them.” It does not appear whether the later seventy applications included the earlier sixty, but it is, in view of the weakness of human nature, very probable. This number must have gone on increasing. I remember that in 1875 I saw in his study a pile which must have numbered more than seventy, and which had come in a single day from a single high school in a Western city, to congratulate him on his birthday, and each hinting at an autograph, which I think he was about to supply.
At the time of his seventy-fourth birthday, 1881, a lady in Ohio sent him a hundred blank cards, with the request that he would write his name on each, that she might distribute them among her guests at a party she was to give on that day. The same day was celebrated107 by some 276 forty different schools in the Western States, all writing him letters and requesting answers. He sent to each school, his brother tells us, some stanza54 with signature and good wishes. He was patient even with the gentleman who wrote to him to request that he would send his autograph in his “own handwriting.” As a matter of fact, he had to leave many letters unanswered, even by a secretary, in his latest years.
It is a most tantalizing108 thing to know, through the revelations of Mr. William Winter, that Longfellow left certain poems unpublished. Mr. Winter says: “He said also that he sometimes wrote poems that were for himself alone, that he should not care ever to publish, because they were too delicate for publication.”[105] Quite akin to this was another remark made by him to the same friend, that “the desire of the young poet is not for applause, but for recognition.” The two remarks limit one another; the desire for recognition only begins when the longing for mere expression is satisfied. Thoroughly practical and methodical and industrious109, Longfellow yet needed some self-expression first of all. It is impossible to imagine him as writing puffs110 of himself, like Poe, or volunteering reports of receptions given to him, like Whitman. He said to Mr. Winter, again and again, “What you 277 desire will come, if you will but wait for it.” The question is not whether this is the only form of the poetic temperament, but it was clearly his form of it. Thoreau well says that there is no definition of poetry which the poet will not instantly set aside by defying all its limitations, and it is the same with the poetic temperament itself.
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1
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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2
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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3
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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7
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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8
discipleship
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| n.做弟子的身份（期间） | |
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9
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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10
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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11
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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12
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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13
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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14
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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15
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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19
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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24
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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25
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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abdicates
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的第三人称单数 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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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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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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verbose
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| adj.用字多的；冗长的；累赘的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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40
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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50
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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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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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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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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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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contestant
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| n.竞争者，参加竞赛者 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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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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mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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sublimation
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| n.升华，升华物，高尚化 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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98
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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101
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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103
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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104
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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106
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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107
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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108
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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109
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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110
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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