"Of late years," the novel of Shirley begins, "an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the North of England; they lie very thick on the hills; every parish has one or more of them; they are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good." This blessing1, conferred on the West Riding a little before Waterloo, descended2 on our Western Front a little after the first battle of the Marne.
It was received by our troops with the greater thanksgiving because it brought with it no perceptible revival3 of church parades, a ministration of which the average private, l'homme moyen sensuel of Matthew Arnold, had taken a long and glad farewell on leaving Salisbury Plain. Like the infinite cleaning of brass-work, the hearing of many well-meaning divines in the Tidworth garrison4 church had been one of the tribulations5 through which the defender6 of Britain must work out his passage to France. With the final order to tarnish7 his buttons with fire and oil there came also a longed-for release from regular Sunday adjurations to keep sober and think of his end. "The Lorrd," said a grim Scots corporal, a hanging judge of a sermon, after hearing the last essay of our English Bossuets before he went to the wars, "hath turrned the capteevity of Zion." No more attendance for him at such "shauchlin'" athletic9 displays as the wrestlings of the southron divinity passman with the lithe10 and sinuous11 mind of St. Paul. "Sunday," the blithe12 Highlander13 in Waverley said, "seldom cam aboon the pass of Bally Brough." For better or worse, as a reliever from work or a restrainer of play, Sunday seldom came across the Channel during the war. A man in the ranks might be six months in France and not find a religious service of any kind coming his way, whether he dreaded15 or sought it.
Yet chaplains abounded16. Not measures, but men, to invert17 the old phrase. And men of all kinds, as might safely be guessed. There was the hero and saint, T. B. Hardy18, to whom a consuming passion of human brotherhood19 brought, as well as rarer things, the M.C., the D.S.O., the V.C., the unaccepted invitation of the King, when he saw Hardy in France, to come home as one of his own chaplains and live, and then the death which everyone had seen to be certain. There was a chaplain drunk at dinner in Gobert's restaurant at Amiens on the evening of one of the bloodiest20 days of the first battle of the Somme. There was the circumspect21, ecclesiastical statesman, out to see that in this grand shaking-up and re-arranging of pre-war positions and values the right cause—whichever of the right causes was his—was not jilted or any way wronged. There was the man who, urged by national comradeship, would have been a soldier but that his bishop22 barred it; to be an army chaplain was the next best thing. There was the man who, urged by a different instinct, felt irresistibly23, as many laymen24 did, that at the moment the war was the central thing in the whole world, and that it was unbearable25 not to be at the centre of things. And there was, in great force, the large, healthy, pleasant young curate not severely26 importuned27 by a vocation28, the ex-athlete, the prop29 and stay of village cricket-clubs, the good fellow whom the desires of parents, the gaiety of his youth at the university, and the whole drift of things about him had shepherded unresistingly into the open door of the Church. Sudden, unhoped-for, the war had brought him the chance of escape back to an almost solely30 physical life, like his own happy youth of rude health, only better: a life all salt and tingling31 with vicissitudes32 of simple bodily discomfort33 and pleasure, fatigue34 and rest, risk and the ceasing of risk; a heaven after the flatness, the tedium35, the cloying36 security and the confounded moral problems attending the uninspired practice of professional brightness and breeziness in an uncritical parish. He abounded so much that whenever now one hears the words "army chaplain" his large, genial37 image springs up of itself in the mind.
II
In the eyes of the men he had notable merits. He was a running fountain, more often than not, of good cigarettes. Of the exceeding smallness of Low Country beer he could talk, man to man, with knowledge and right feeling. He gladly frequented the least healthy parts of the line, and would frankly38 mourn the pedantry39 which denied him a service revolver and did not even allow him the grievous ball-headed club with which a medi?val bishop felt himself free to take his own part in a war, because with this lethal40 tool he did not exactly shed blood, though he dealt liberally enough in contused wounds that would serve equally well. Having a caste of his own, not precisely41 the combatant officer's, he had a tongue less rigidly42 tied in the men's hearing, so he could soothe43 the couch of a wounded sergeant44 by telling him, with a diverting gusto, how downily the old colonel, the one last ungummed, had timed his enteric inoculation45 at home so as to rescue himself from the fiery46 ordeal47 of a divisional field-day. These were solid merits. And yet there was something about this type of chaplain—he had his counterpart in all the churches—with which the common men-at-arms would privily48 and temperately49 find a little fault. He seemed to be only too much afraid of having it thought that he was anything more than one of themselves. He had, with a vengeance50, "no clerical nonsense about him." The vigour51 with which he threw off the parson and put on the man and the brother did not always strike the original men and brothers as it was intended. Your virilist chaplain was apt to overdo52, to their mind, his jolly implied disclaimers of any compromising connection with kingdoms not of this world. For one thing, he was, for the taste of people versed53 in carnage, a shade too fussily54 bloodthirsty. Nobody made such a point of aping your little trench55 affectations of callousness56; nobody else was so anxious to keep you assured that the blood of the enemy smelt57 as good to his nose as it could to any of yours. In the whole blood-and-iron province of talk he would not only outshine any actual combatant—that is quite easy to do—but he would outshine any colonel who lived at a base. I never met a regimental officer or "other rank" who wanted a day more of the war for himself, his friends or his country after the Armistice58. But I have heard more than one chaplain repining because the killing59 was not to go on until a few German towns had been smashed and our last thing in gas had had a fair innings.
No doubt the notion was good, in a way. If the parson in war was to make the men mind what he said he must not stand too coldly aloof60 from "the men's point of view": he must lay his mind close up alongside theirs, so as to get a hold of their souls. It sounds all right; the wisdom of the serpent has been bidden to back up the labours of the dove. And yet the men, however nice they might be to the chaplain himself, would presently say to each other in private that "Charlie came it too thick," while still allowing that he was a "proper good sort." They felt there was something or other—they could not tell what—which he might have been and which he was not. They could talk lyddite and ammonal well enough for themselves, but, surprising to say, they secretly wanted a change from themselves; had the parsons really nothing to say of their own about this noisome61 mess in which the good old world seemed to be foundering62? The relatively63 heathen English were only groping about to find out what it was that they missed; the Scots, who have always had theology for a national hobby, made nearer approaches to being articulate. Part of a famous division of Highland14 infantry64 were given one day, as a special treat, a harangue65 by one of the most highly reputed of chaplains. This spell-binder preached like a tempest—the old war-sermon, all God of Hosts and chariots of wrath66 and laying His rod on the back of His foes67, and other thunderous sounds such as were then reverberating68, no doubt, throughout the best churches in Berlin. In the south-western postal69 district of London, too, his cyclone70 might have had a distinguished71 success at the time. As soon as the rumbling72 died away one of the hard-bitten kilted sergeants73 leant across to another and quoted dourly74: "A great and strong wind, but the Lorrd was not in the wind."
III
"I've been a Christian75 all my life, but this war is a bit too serious." So saying, a certain New Army recruit had folded up his religion in 1914, and put it away, as it were, in a drawer with his other civil attire76 to wait until public affairs should again permit of their use. He had said it quite simply. A typical working-class Englishman, literal, serious, and straight, he had not got one loop of subtlety77 or one vibration78 of irony79 in his whole mind. Like most of his kind he had, as a rule, left church-going to others. Like most of them, too, he had read the Gospels and found that whatever Christ had said mattered enormously: it built itself into the mind; when any big choice had to be made it was at least a part of that which decided80. Not having ever been taught how to dodge81 an awkward home-thrust at his conscience, he felt, all unblunted, the point of what Christ had said about such things as wealth and war and loving one's enemies. Getting rich made you bad; fighting was evil—better submit than resist. There was no getting over such doctrine82, nor round it: why try?
Ever since those disconcerting bombs were originally thrown courageous83 divines and laymen have been rushing in to pick them up and throw them away, combining as well as they could an air of respect for the thrower with tender care for the mental ease of congregations occupied generally in making money and occasionally in making war. Yet there they lie, miraculously84 permanent and disturbing, as if just thrown. Now and then one will go off, with seismic85 results, in the mind of some St. Francis or Tolstoy. And yet it remains86 where it was, like the plucked Golden Bough87: uno avulso, non deficit88 alter, ready as ever to work on a guileless mind like our friend's.
But this war had to be won; that was flat. It was like putting out houses on fire, or not letting children be killed; it did not even need to be proved; that we had got to win was now the one quite certain thing left in a world of shaken certainties. Any religion or anything else that seemed to chill, or deter89, or suggest an alternative need not be wholly renounced90. But it had to be put away in a drawer. After the war, when that dangerous precept91 about the left cheek could no longer do serious harm, it might come out again; our friend would see what could be done. For he was a man more strongly disposed than most of his fellows to hold, if he honestly could, the tenets of some formal religion. "They got hold o' something," he used to say, with curiosity and some respect, of more regular practitioners92 than himself. "Look at the Salvation93 Army legging along in the mud and their eyes fair shining with happiness! Aye, they got on to something." He would investigate, when the time came.
IV
The testimonies94 that might have ensued were foreclosed by a shell that buried him alive in Oppy Wood, under the Vimy Ridge95, where he was engaged in diverting the energies of the Central Powers from the prostrate96 army of Nivelle. He had by then been two years in France, and had told a few friends about various "queer feels" and "rum goes" which he would not have known by name if you had called them spiritual experiences. One of his points—though he did not put it in that way—was that in war a lot of raw material for making some sort of religion was lying about, but that war also made some of the finished doctrinal products now extant look pretty poor, especially, as he said, "all the damning department." Rightly or wrongly, no men who have been close friends for a year, and who know that in the next few hours they are nearly as likely as not to be killed together in doing what they all hold to be right, will entertain on any terms the idea of any closing of gates of divine mercy, open to themselves, in the face of any comrade in the business.
The sunshine of one of the first clement97 days of 1916 drew him about as far as I heard him go on the positive side. "You know what it is," he said in the course of one of the endless trench talks, "when you got to make up your mind to do as you oughter. Worry and fuss and oh, ain't it too hard, and why the 'ell can't I let myself off!—that's how it is. Folla me?"
The audience grunted98 assent99. "Some other time," he pursued, "perhaps once in ten years, it's all t'other way. You're set free like. Kind of a miracle. Don't even have to think what you're going to get by it. All you know is that there's just the one thing, in all the whole world, good enough. Doing it ain't even hard. All the sport there ever was has been took out of everything else and put into that. Kind of a miracle. Folla me?"
"That's right," another man confirmed. "You'll see it at fires when people are like to be burnt. Men'll go fair mad to help them. Don't think. Don't feel it if they're hurt. Fair off it to get at them—same as a dog when you throw a stick in a pond."
"Ah, then," contributed somebody else, "you've only to hear a man with a grand tenor100 voice in a song till you'll feel a coolness blowing softly and swif'ly over your face and then gone, the way you'd have died on a cross with all the pleasure in life while it lasted."
"Aye, and you'll get it from whisky," another put in. "Isn't it just what more men'll get drunk for than anything else? And why the rum's double before you go over?"
No doubt you know all about it from books, and you may prefer the wording of that tentative approach made by the most spiritually-minded of modern philosophers to a definition of God—"Something that is in and about me, in the consciousness of which I am free from fear and desire—something which would make it easy to do the most (otherwise) difficult thing without any other motive101 except that it was the one thing worth doing." And William James has, of course, shown more skill in explaining what mystic ecstasy102 is and what is its place in religion, and what its relations to such mirages103 of itself as the mock inspirations of Antony's lust104 and Burns' drunkenness.
And yet the clumsy fumblings of uninstructed people among things of the spirit might, one imagines, be just such stuff as a skilled teacher and leader in this field might have delighted to come upon and to inspirit and marshal. With tongues unwontedly loosened men would set to and dig out of themselves, not knowing what it was, the clay of which the bricks are made with which religions are built. One man, with infinite exertions105 of disentanglement, would struggle up to some expression of the fugitive106 trance of realization107 into which he had found he could throw himself by letting his mind go, for all it was worth, on the thought of his own self, his "I-ness" until for some few seconds of poised108 exaltation he had thought self clean away and was free. "It first came by a fluke when I was a kiddy. If I'd lie in my cot, very still, and look hard a long time at the candle, and think very hard—'I,' 'I,' 'I,' what's 'I?' I could work myself up to that state I'd be right outside o' myself, and seeing the queer little body I'd been, with my thought about 'I' doing this and 'I' getting that, and the way that I'd thought it was natural I should, and no such a thing as any 'I' there all the time, or only one to the whole set of us. Hard I'd try, every time, to hold the thing on. Seemed as if there was no end to what I might get to know if I could make it last out, that sort of rum start. But the thing went to bits every time, next moment after I'd got it worked up, and there I'd be left on the mat like, and thinking 'Gosh! what a pitch I got up to that time!' and how I'd screw it up higher, next go."
Then somebody else would bring up the way he had been taken by that queer little rent in the veil of common experience—the sudden rush of certainty that something which is happening now has all happened before, or that some place, when first we see it, has really been known to us of old and is only being revisited now, not discovered. You know how you seem, when that sudden light comes, to escape for a while from your common thoughts about time, as if out of a prison in which you have been shut up so long that you had almost forgotten what it is to be free: it flashes into your mind that immortality109, for all you know, may exist within one moment; that life, for all you know, may draw out into state after state, and that all that you are conscious of at common times might be merely a drop or two lipping over the edge of the full vessel110 of some vast consciousness animating111 the whole world.
Another man would bring into the common stock a recollection of the kind of poignant112 portrait dream that sometimes comes: not a dream of any incident, but only the face of a friend, more living than life, with all the secret kindness and loneliness of his mind suddenly visible in the face, so that you think of him as you think of your mother when she is dead and the stabbing insight of remorse113 begins.
Thus would these inexpert people hang unconsciously about the uncrossed threshold of religion. With minds which had recovered in some degree the penetrative simplicity114 of a child's, they disinterred this or that unidentified bone of the buried God from under the monumental piles of débris which the learned, the cunning, and the proud, priests and kings, churches and chapels115, had heaped up over the ideas of perfect love, of faith that would leave all to follow that love, and of the faithful spirit's release from mean fears of extinction116. In talk they could bring each other up to the point of feeling that little rifts117 had opened here and there in the screens which are hung round the life of man on the earth, and that they had peeped through into some large outer world that was strange only because they were used to a small and dim one. They were prepared and expectant. If any official religion could ever refine the gold out of all that rich alluvial118 drift of "obstinate119 questionings of sense and outward things," now was its time. No figure of speech, among all these that I have mixed, can give the measure of the greatness of that opportunity.
V
Nobody used it: the tide in the affairs of churches flowed its best, but no church came to take it. Instead, as if chance had planned a kind of satiric120 practical epigram, came the brigade chaplain. As soon as his genial bulk hove in sight, and his cheery robustious chaff121 began blowing about, the shy and uncouth122 muse123 of our savage124 theology unfolded her wings and flew away. Once more the talk was all footer and rations8 and scragging the Kaiser, and how "the Hun" would walk a bit lame125 after the last knock he had got. Very nice, too, in its way. And yet there had been a kind of a savour about the themes that had now shambled back in confusion, before the clerical onset126, into their twilight127 lairs128 in the souls of individual laymen.
When you want to catch the Thames gudgeon you first comb the river's bed hard with a long rake. In the turbid129 water thus caused the creatures will be on the feed, and if you know how to fish you may get a great take. For our professional fishers of men in the army the war did the raking gratis130. The men came under their hands at the time of most drastic experience in most of the men's lives, immersed in a new and strange life of sensations at once simple and intense, shaken roughly out of the world of mechanical habit which at most times puts a kind of bar between one's mind and truth, living always among swiftly dying friends and knowing their own death at any time to be as probable as anyone's. To get rid of your phlegm, it was said, is to be a philosopher. It is also to be a saint, at least in the rough; you have broken the frozen ground; you can grow anything now; you can see the greatest things in the very smallest, so that sunrise on Inverness Copse is the morning of the first day and a spoonful of rum and a biscuit a sacrament. Imagine the religious revival that there might have been if some man of apostolic genius had had the fishing in the troubled waters, the ploughing and sowing of the broken soil.
The frozen fountain would have leapt,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Nothing now perceptible came of it all. What, indeed, could the average army chaplain have done, with his little budget of nice traits and limitations? How had we ever armed and equipped him? When you are given an infant earth to fashion out of a whirling ball of flaming metals and gases, then good humour, some taste for adventure, distinction at cricket, a jolly way with the men, and an imperfect digestion131 of thirty-nine partly masticated132 articles may not carry you far. You may come off, by no fault of your own, like the curate in Shakespeare who was put up to play Alexander the Great: "A marvellous good neighbour, i' faith, and a very good bowler133: but, for Alisander—alas, you see how 'tis—a little o'erparted."
The men, once again, did not put it in that way. They did not miss anything that most of them could have described. They only felt a vacancy134, an unspecified void, like the want of some unknown great thing in their generals' minds and in the characters of their rulers at home. The chaplain's tobacco was all to the good; so was the civil tongue that he kept in his head; so were all the good turns that he did. But, when it came to religion, were these things "all there was to it"? Had the churches really not "got hold of something," with all their enormous deposits of stone and mortar135 and clerical consequence? So, in his own way, the army chaplain, too, became a tributary136 brook137 feeding the general reservoir of disappointment and mistrust that was steadily138 filled by the surface drainage of all the higher ground of our British social landscape under the dirty weather of the war.
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1
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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5
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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7
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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10
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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14
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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16
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invert
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| vt.使反转，使颠倒，使转化 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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bloodiest
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| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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31
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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32
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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41
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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42
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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43
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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44
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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45
inoculation
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| n.接芽；预防接种 | |
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46
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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48
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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49
temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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50
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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51
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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52
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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53
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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54
fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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55
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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56
callousness
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57
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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58
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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59
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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60
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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61
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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62
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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63
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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64
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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65
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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66
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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67
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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68
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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69
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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70
cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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71
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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72
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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73
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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74
dourly
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75
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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76
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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77
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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78
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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79
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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80
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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81
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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82
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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83
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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84
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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85
seismic
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| a.地震的，地震强度的 | |
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86
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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87
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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88
deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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89
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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90
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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91
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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92
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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93
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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94
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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95
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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96
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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97
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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98
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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99
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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100
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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101
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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102
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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103
mirages
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景( mirage的名词复数 ) | |
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104
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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105
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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106
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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107
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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108
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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109
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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110
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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111
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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112
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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113
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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114
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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115
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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116
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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117
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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118
alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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119
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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120
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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121
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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122
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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123
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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124
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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125
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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126
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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127
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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128
lairs
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| n.（野兽的）巢穴，窝( lair的名词复数 )；（人的）藏身处 | |
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129
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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130
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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131
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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132
masticated
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| v.咀嚼( masticate的过去式和过去分词 )；粉碎，磨烂 | |
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133
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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134
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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135
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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136
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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137
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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138
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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