As I looked, a film of shade kept appearing and disappearing with rhythmic7 regularity8 in a corner of the window, as if some one might be sitting in a low rocking-chair close by. Presently the motion ceased, and suddenly across the curtain came the shadow of a woman. She raised in her arms the shadow of a baby, and kissed it; then both disappeared, and I walked on.
What are Raphael's Madonnas but the shadow of a mother's love, so traced as to endure forever? In this picture of mine, the group actually moved upon the canvas. The curtains that hid it revealed it. The ecstasy9 of human love passed in brief, intangible panorama10 before me. It was something seen, yet unseen; airy, yet solid; a type, yet a reality; fugitive11, yet destined12 to last in my memory while I live. It said more to me than would any Madonna of Raphael's, for his mother never kisses her child. I believe I have never passed over that road since then, never seen the house, never heard the names of its occupants. Their character, their history, their fate, are all unknown. But these two will always stand for me as disembodied types of humanity,—the Mother and the Child; they seem nearer to me than my immediate13 neighbors, yet they are as ideal and impersonal14 as the goddesses of Greece or as Plato's archetypal man.
I know not the parentage of that child, whether black or white, native or foreign, rich or poor. It makes no difference. The presence of a baby equalizes all social conditions. On the floor of some Southern hut, scarcely so comfortable as a dog-kennel, I have seen a dusky woman look down upon her infant with such an expression of delight as painter never drew. No social culture can make a mother's face more than a mother's, as no wealth can make a nursery more than a place where children dwell. Lavish15 thousands of dollars on your baby-clothes, and after all the child is prettiest when every garment is laid aside. That becoming nakedness, at least, may adorn16 the chubby17 darling of the poorest home.
I know not what triumph or despair may have come and gone through that wayside house since then, what jubilant guests may have entered, what lifeless form passed out. What anguish18 or what sin may have come between that woman and that child; through what worlds they now wander, and whether separate or in each other's arms,—this is all unknown. Fancy can picture other joys to which the first happiness was but the prelude19, and, on the other hand, how easy to imagine some special heritage of human woe20 and call it theirs!
"I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover, might not rest
Save when he sat within the touch of thee."
Nay21, the foretaste of that changed fortune may have been present, even in the kiss. Who knows what absorbing emotion, besides love's immediate impulse, may have been uttered in that shadowy embrace? There may have been some contrition22 for ill-temper or neglect, or some triumph over ruinous temptation, or some pledge of immortal23 patience, or some heart-breaking prophecy of bereavement24. It may have been simply an act of habitual25 tenderness, or it may have been the wild reaction toward a neglected duty; the renewed self-consecration of the saint, or the joy of the sinner that repenteth. No matter. She kissed the baby. The feeling of its soft flesh, the busy struggle of its little arms between her hands, the impatient pressure of its little feet against her knees,—these were the same, whatever the mood or circumstance beside. They did something to equalize joy and sorrow, honor and shame. Maternal26 love is love, whether a woman be a wife or only a mother. Only a mother!
The happiness beneath that roof may, perhaps, have never reached so high a point as at that precise moment of my passing. In the coarsest household, the mother of a young child is placed on a sort of pedestal of care and tenderness, at least for a time. She resumes something of the sacredness and dignity of the maiden27. Coleridge ranks as the purest of human emotions that of a husband towards a wife who has a baby at her breast,—"a feeling how free from sensual desire, yet how different from friendship!" And to the true mother however cultivated, or however ignorant, this period of early parentage is happier than all else, in spite of its exhausting cares. In that delightful28 book, the "Letters" of Mrs. Richard Trench29 (mother of the well-known English writer), the most agreeable passage is perhaps that in which, after looking back upon a life spent in the most brilliant society of Europe, she gives the palm of happiness to the time when she was a young mother. She writes to her god-daughter: "I believe it is the happiest time of any woman's life, who has affectionate feelings, and is blessed with healthy and well-disposed children. I know at least that neither the gayeties and boundless30 hopes of early life, nor the more grave pursuits and deeper affections of later years, are by any means comparable in my recollection with the serene31, yet lively pleasure of seeing my children playing on the grass, enjoying their little temperate32 supper, or repeating 'with holy look' their simple prayers, and undressing for bed, growing prettier for every part of their dress they took off, and at last lying down, all freshness and love, in complete happiness, and an amiable33 contest for mamma's last kiss."
That kiss welcomed the child into a world where joy predominates. The vast multitude of human beings enjoy existence and wish to live. They all have their earthly life under their own control. Some religions sanction suicide; the Christian34 Scriptures35 nowhere explicitly36 forbid it; and yet it is a rare thing. Many persons sigh for death when it seems far off, but the desire vanishes when the boat upsets, or the locomotive runs off the track, or the measles37 set in. A wise physician once said to me: "I observe that every one wishes to go to heaven, but I observe that most people are willing to take a great deal of very disagreeable medicine first." The lives that one least envies—as of the Digger Indian or the outcast boy in the city—are yet sweet to the living. "They have only a pleasure like that of the brutes," we say with scorn. But what a racy and substantial pleasure is that! The flashing speed of the swallow in the air, the cool play of the minnow in the water, the dance of twin butterflies round a thistle-blossom, the thundering gallop38 of the buffalo39 across the prairie, nay, the clumsy walk of the grizzly40 bear; it were doubtless enough to reward existence, could we have joy like such as these, and ask no more. This is the hearty41 physical basis of animated42 life, and as step by step the savage43 creeps up to the possession of intellectual manhood, each advance brings with it new sorrow and new joy, with the joy always in excess.
There are many who will utterly44 disavow this creed45 that life is desirable in itself. A fair woman in a ball-room, exquisitely46 dressed, and possessed47 of all that wealth could give, once declared to me her belief—and I think honestly—that no person over thirty was consciously happy, or would wish to live, but for the fear of death. There could not even be pleasure in contemplating48 one's children, she asserted, since they were living in such a world of sorrow. Asking the opinion, within half an hour, of another woman as fair and as favored by fortune, I found directly the opposite verdict. "For my part I can truly say," she answered, "that I enjoy every moment I live." The varieties of temperament49 and of physical condition will always afford us these extremes; but the truth lies between them, and most persons will endure many sorrows and still find life sweet.
And the mother's kiss welcomes the child into a world where good predominates as well as joy. What recreants50 must we be, in an age that has abolished slavery in America and popularized the governments of all Europe, if we doubt that the tendency of man is upward! How much that the world calls selfishness is only generosity51 with narrow walls,—a too exclusive solicitude52 to maintain a wife in luxury or make one's children rich! In an audience of rough people a generous sentiment always brings down the house. In the tumult53 of war both sides applaud an heroic deed. A courageous54 woman, who had traversed alone, on benevolent55 errands, the worst parts of New York told me that she never felt afraid except in the solitudes57 of the country; wherever there was a crowd, she found a protector.
A policeman of great experience once spoke58 to me with admiration59 of the fidelity60 of professional thieves to each other, and the risks they would run for the women whom they loved; when "Bristol Bill" was arrested, he said, there was found upon the burglar a set of false keys, not quite finished, by which he would certainly, within twenty-four hours, have had his mistress out of jail. Parent-Duchatelet found always the remains61 of modesty62 among the fallen women of Paris hospitals; and Mayhew, amid the London outcasts, says that he thinks better of human nature every day. Even among politicians, whom it is our American fashion to revile63 as the chief of sinners, there is less of evil than of good.
In Wilberforce's "Memoirs64" there is an account of his having once asked Mr. Pitt whether his long experience as Prime Minister had made him think well or ill of his fellow-men. Mr. Pitt answered, "Well"; and his successor, Lord Melbourne, being asked the same question, answered, after a little reflection, "My opinion is the same as that of Mr. Pitt."
Let us have faith. It was a part of the vigor65 of the old Hebrew tradition to rejoice when a man-child was born into the world; and the maturer strength of nobler ages should rejoice over a woman-child as well. Nothing human is wholly sad, until it is effete66 and dying out. Where there is life there is promise. "Vitality67 is always hopeful," was the verdict of the most refined and clear-sighted woman who has yet explored the rough mining villages of the Rocky Mountains. There is apt to be a certain coarse virtue68 in rude health; as the Germanic races were purest when least civilized69, and our American Indians did not unlearn chastity till they began to decay. But even where vigor and vice70 are found together, they still may hold a promise for the next generation. Out of the strong cometh forth71 sweetness. Parisian wickedness is not so discouraging merely because it is wicked, as from a suspicion that it is draining the life-blood of the nation. A mob of miners or of New York bullies72 may be uncomfortable neighbors, and may make a man of refinement73 hesitate whether to stop his ears or to feel for his revolver; but they hold more promise for the coming generations than the line which ends in Madame Bovary or the Vicomte de Camors.
But behind that cottage curtain, at any rate, a new and prophetic life had begun. I cannot foretell74 that child's future, but I know something of its past. The boy may grow up into a criminal, the woman into an outcast, yet the baby was beloved. It came "not in utter nakedness." It found itself heir of the two prime essentials of existence,—life and love. Its first possession was a woman's kiss; and in that heritage the most important need of its career was guaranteed. "An ounce of mother," says the Spanish proverb, "is worth a pound of clergy75." Jean Paul says that in life every successive influence affects us less and less, so that the circumnavigator of the globe is less influenced by all the nations he has seen than by his nurse. Well may the child imbibe76 that reverence77 for motherhood which is the first need of man. Where woman is most a slave, she is at least sacred to her son. The Turkish Sultan must prostrate78 himself at the door of his mother's apartments, and were he known to have insulted her, it would make his throne tremble. Among the savage African Touaricks, if two parents disagree, it is to the mother that the child's obedience79 belongs. Over the greater part of the earth's surface, the foremost figures in all temples are the Mother and Child. Christian and Buddhist80 nations, numbering together two thirds of the world's population, unite in this worship. Into the secrets of the ritual that baby in the window had already received initiation81.
And how much spiritual influence may in turn have gone forth from that little one! The coarsest father gains a new impulse to labor82 from the moment of his baby's birth; he scarcely sees it when awake, and yet it is with him all the time. Every stroke he strikes is for his child. New social aims, new moral motives83, come vaguely84 up to him. The London costermonger told Mayhew that he thought every man would like his son or daughter to have a better start in the world than his own. After all, there is no tonic85 like the affections. Philosophers express wonder that the divine laws should give to some young girl, almost a child, the custody86 of an immortal soul. But what instruction the baby brings to the mother! She learns patience, self-control, endurance; her very arm grows strong, so that she can hold the dear burden longer than the father can. She learns to understand character, too, by dealing87 with it. "In training my first children," said a wise mother to me, "I thought that all were born just the same, and that I was wholly responsible for what they should become. I learned by degrees that each had a temperament of its own, which I must study before I could teach it." And thus, as the little ones grow older, their dawning instincts guide those of the parents; their questions suggest new answers, and to have loved them is a liberal education.
For the height of heights is love. The philosopher dries into a skeleton like that he investigates, unless love teaches him. He is blind among his microscopes, unless he sees in the humblest human soul a revelation that dwarfs88 all the world beside. While he grows gray in ignorance among his crucibles89, every girlish mother is being illuminated90 by every kiss of her child. That house is so far sacred, which holds within its walls this new-born heir of eternity91. But to dwell on these high mysteries would take us into depths beyond the present needs of mother or of infant, and it is better that the greater part of the baby-life should be that of an animated toy.
Perhaps it is well for all of us that we should live mostly on the surfaces of things and should play with life, to avoid taking it too hard. In a nursery the youngest child is a little more than a doll, and the doll is a little less than a child. What spell does fancy weave on earth like that which the one of these small beings performs for the other? This battered92 and tattered93 doll, this shapeless, featureless, possibly legless creature, whose mission it is to be dragged by one arm, or stood upon its head in the bathing-tub, until it finally reverts94 to the rag-bag whence it came,—what an affluence96 of breathing life is thrown around it by one touch of dawning imagination! Its little mistress will find all joy unavailing without its sympathetic presence, will confide97 every emotion to its pen-and-ink ears, and will weep passionate98 tears if its extremely soiled person is pricked99 when its clothes are mended. What psychologist, what student of the human heart, has ever applied100 his subtile analysis to the emotions of a child toward her doll?
I read lately the charming autobiography101 of a little girl of eight years, written literally102 from her own dictation. Since "Pet Marjorie" I have seen no such actual self-revelation on the part of a child. In the course of her narration103 she describes, with great precision and correctness, the travels of the family through Europe in the preceding year, assigning usually the place of importance to her doll, who appears simply as "My Baby." Nothing can be more grave, more accurate, more serious than the whole history, but nothing in it seems quite so real and alive as the doll. "When we got to Nice, I was sick. The next morning the doctor came, and he said I had something that was very much like scarlet104 fever. Then I had Annie take care of baby, and keep her away, for I was afraid she would get the fever. She used to cry to come to me, but I knew it wouldn't be good for her."
What firm judgment105 is here, what tenderness without weakness, what discreet106 motherhood! When Christmas came, it appears that baby hung up her stocking with the rest. Her devoted107 parent had bought for her a slate108 with a real pencil. Others provided thimble and scissors and bodkin and a spool109 of thread, and a travelling-shawl with a strap110, and a cap with tarletan ruffles111. "I found baby with the cap on, early in the morning, and she was so pleased she almost jumped out of my arms." Thus in the midst of visits to the Coliseum and St. Peter's, the drama of early affection goes always on. "I used to take her to hear the band, in the carriage, and she went everywhere I did." But the love of all dolls, as of other pets, must end with a tragedy, and here it comes. "The next place we went to was Lucerne. There was a lovely lake there, but I had a very sad time. One day I thought I'd take baby down to breakfast, and, as I was going up stairs, my foot slipped and baby broke her head. And O, I felt so bad! and I cried out, and I ran up stairs to Annie, and mamma came, and O, we were all so sorry! And mamma said she thought I could get another head, but I said, 'It won't be the same baby.' And mamma said, maybe we could make it seem so."
At this crisis the elder brother and sister departed for Mount Righi. "They were going to stay all night, and mamma and I stayed at home to take care of each other. I felt very bad about baby and about their going, too. After they went, mamma and I thought we would go to the little town and see what we could find." After many difficulties, a waxen head was discovered. "Mamma bought it, and we took it home and put it on baby; but I said it wasn't like my real baby, only it was better than having no child at all!"
This crushing bereavement, this reluctant acceptance of a child by adoption112, to fill the vacant heart,—how real and formidable is all this rehearsal113 of the tragedies of maturer years! I knew an instance in which the last impulse of ebbing114 life was such a gush115 of imaginary motherhood.
A dear friend of mine, whose sweet charities prolong into a third generation the unbounded benevolence116 of old Isaac Hopper, used to go at Christmas-time with dolls and other gifts to the poor children on Randall's Island. Passing the bed of a little girl whom the physician pronounced to be unconscious and dying, the kind visitor insisted on putting a doll into her arms. Instantly the eyes of the little invalid117 opened, and she pressed the gift eagerly to her heart, murmuring over it and caressing118 it. The matron afterwards wrote that the child died within two hours, wearing a happy face, and still clinging to her new-found treasure.
And beginning with this transfer of all human associations to a doll, the child's life interfuses itself readily among all the affairs of the elders. In its presence, formality vanishes, the most oppressive ceremonial is a little relieved when children enter. Their influence is pervasive119 and irresistible120, like that of water, which adapts itself to any landscape,—always takes its place, welcome or unwelcome,—keeps its own level and seems always to have its natural and proper margin121.
Out of doors how children mingle122 with nature, and seem to begin just where birds and butterflies leave off! Leigh Hunt, with his delicate perceptions, paints this well: "The voices of children seem as natural to the early morning as the voice of the birds. The suddenness, the lightness, the loudness, the sweet confusion, the sparkling gayety, seem alike in both. The sudden little jangle is now here and now there; and now a single voice calls to another, and the boy is off like the bird." So Heine, with deeper thoughtfulness, noticed the "intimacy123 with the trees" of the little wood-gatherer in the Hartz Mountains; soon the child whistled like a linnet, and the other birds all answered him; then he disappeared in the thicket124 with his bare feet and his bundle of brushwood.
"Children," thought Heine, "are younger than we, and can still remember the time when they were trees or birds, and can therefore understand and speak their language; but we are grown old, and have too many cares, and too much jurisprudence and bad poetry in our heads."
But why go to literature for a recognition of what one may see by opening one's eyes? Before my window there is a pool, two rods square, that is haunted all winter by children,—clearing away the snow of many a storm, if need be, and mining downward till they strike the ice. I look this morning from the window, and the pond is bare. In a moment I happen to look again, and it is covered with a swarm125 of boys; a great migrating flock has settled upon it, as if swooping126 down from parts unknown to scream and sport themselves here. The air is full of their voices; they have all tugged127 on their skates instantaneously, as it were by magic. Now they are in a confused cluster, now they sweep round and round in a circle, now it is broken into fragments and as quickly formed again; games are improvised128 and abandoned; there seems to be no plan or leader, but all do as they please, and yet somehow act in concert, and all chatter129 all the time. Now they have alighted, every one, upon the bank of snow that edges the pond, each scraping a little hollow in which to perch130. Now every perch is vacant again, for they are all in motion; each moment increases the jangle of shrill131 voices,—since a boy's outdoor whisper to his nearest crony is as if he was hailing a ship in the offing,—and what they are all saying can no more be made out than if they were a flock of gulls132 or blackbirds. I look away from the window once more, and when I glance out again there is not a boy in sight. They have whirled away like snowbirds, and the little pool sleeps motionless beneath the cheerful wintry sun. Who but must see how gradually the joyous133 life of the animal rises through childhood into man,—since the soaring gnats134, the glancing fishes, the sliding seals are all represented in this mob of half-grown boyhood just released from school.
If I were to choose among all gifts and qualities that which, on the whole, makes life pleasantest, I should select the love of children. No circumstance can render this world wholly a solitude56 to one who has that possession. It is a freemasonry. Wherever one goes, there are the little brethren and sisters of the mystic tie. No diversity of race or tongue makes much difference. A smile speaks the universal language. "If I value myself on anything," said the lonely Hawthorne, "it is on having a smile that children love." They are such prompt little beings; they require so little prelude; hearts are won in two minutes, at that frank period, and so long as you are true to them they will be true to you. They need no argument, no bribery135. They have a hearty appetite for gifts, no doubt, but it is not for these that they love the giver. Take the wealth of the world and lavish it with counterfeited136 affection: I will win all the children's hearts away from you by empty-handed love. The gorgeous toys will dazzle them for an hour; then their instincts will revert95 to their natural friends. In visiting a house where there are children I do not like to take them presents: it is better to forego the pleasure of the giving than to divide the welcome between yourself and the gift. Let that follow after you are gone.
It is an exaggerated compliment to women when we ascribe to them alone this natural sympathy with childhood. It is an individual, not a sexual trait, and is stronger in many men than in many women. It is nowhere better exhibited in literature than where the happy Wilhelm Meister takes his boy by the hand, to lead him "into the free and lordly world." Such love is not universal among the other sex, though men, in that humility137 which so adorns138 their natures, keep up the pleasing fiction that it is. As a general rule any little girl feels some glimmerings of emotion towards anything that can pass for a doll, but it does not follow that, when grown older, she will feel as ready an instinct toward every child. Try it. Point out to a woman some bundle of blue-and-white or white-and-scarlet in some one's arms at the next street corner. Ask her, "Do you love that baby?" Not one woman in three will say promptly139, "Yes." The others will hesitate, will bid you wait till they are nearer, till they can personally inspect the little thing and take an inventory140 of its traits; it may be dirty, too; it may be diseased. Ah! but this is not to love children, and you might as well be a man. To love children is to love childhood, instinctively141, at whatever distance, the first impulse being one of attraction, though it may be checked by later discoveries. Unless your heart commands at least as long a range as your eye, it is not worth much. The dearest saint in my calendar never entered a railway car that she did not look round for a baby, which, when discovered, must always be won at once into her arms. If it was dirty, she would have been glad to bathe it; if ill, to heal it. It would not have seemed to her anything worthy142 the name of love, to seek only those who were wholesome143 and clean. Like the young girl in Holmes's most touching144 poem, she would have claimed as her own the outcast child whom nurses and physicians had abandoned.
But Avis answered, 'She is mine!'"
When I think of the self-devotion which the human heart can contain—of those saintly souls that are in love with sorrow, and that yearn148 to shelter all weakness and all grief—it inspires an unspeakable confidence that there must also be an instinct of parentage beyond this human race, a heart of hearts, cor cordium. As we all crave149 something to protect, so we long to feel ourselves protected. We are all infants before the Infinite; and as I turned from that cottage window to the resplendent sky, it was easy to fancy that mute embrace, that shadowy symbol of affection, expanding from the narrow lattice till it touched the stars, gathering150 every created soul into the armsof Immortal Love.
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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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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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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35
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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36
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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37
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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38
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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39
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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40
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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41
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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42
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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43
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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45
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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46
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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48
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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49
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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50
recreants
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| n.懦夫( recreant的名词复数 ) | |
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51
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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52
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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53
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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54
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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55
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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56
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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57
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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58
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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59
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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60
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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61
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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62
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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63
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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64
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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65
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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66
effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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67
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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68
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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69
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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70
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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71
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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72
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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73
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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74
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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75
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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76
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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77
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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78
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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79
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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80
Buddhist
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| adj./n.佛教的，佛教徒 | |
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81
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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82
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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83
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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84
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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85
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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86
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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87
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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88
dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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89
crucibles
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| n.坩埚，严酷的考验（ crucible的名词复数 ） | |
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90
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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91
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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92
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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93
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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94
reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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95
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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96
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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97
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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98
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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99
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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100
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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101
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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102
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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103
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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104
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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105
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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106
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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109
spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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110
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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111
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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112
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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113
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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114
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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115
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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116
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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117
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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118
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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119
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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120
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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121
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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122
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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123
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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124
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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125
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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126
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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127
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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129
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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130
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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131
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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132
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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134
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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135
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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136
counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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137
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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138
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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140
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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141
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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142
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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143
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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144
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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145
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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146
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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147
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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148
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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149
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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150
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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