The grey mound of the dead and the grey house of the living are at their best in the midst of winter and in the midst of summer. Standing9 upon the tumulus in the north-west wind, the cottage could be seen huddled10 under the lashing11 trees. Many a thousand beech1-trees on the steep slopes below gave out a roar, and it was a majestic12 position to be up there, seeing and feeling that the strong wind was scouring13 the world with a stream miles deep and miles wide. Far underneath14, two beechen promontories15 with bald white brows projected into the vast valley; not really much lower than the hill of the tumulus, but seeming so in that more than Amazonian stream of air. Beyond these promontories the broad land was washed bright and clear. Nearer at hand the thrice cleaned traveller’s-joy was as silken foam17 surging upon the surface of black yews18 and olive hazels. The kestrel swayed and lunged in his flight. Branches gleamed, hard and nervously19 moving. Rain-pools glittered, and each brittle20 stem and flower of a dead plant, each grass-blade and brown lock of beech or oak-leaf, gave out its little noise to join the oceanic murmur21 of the earth. Now and then a dead leaf took flight, rose high and went out over the valley till it was invisible, never descending22, in search of the moon. Near the horizon a loose white drift went rapidly just over the summits of the highest woods; but in the upper air were the finest flowers of the wind—hard white flowers of cloud, flowers and mad[198] tresses and heaven-wide drapery of gods, and some small and white like traveller’s-joy, as if up there also they travelled and knew the houseless joy along the undulating highway of the deep wind. And the little house was as a watch-tower planted in the middle swirl24 of the current that was scouring valley and wood and sky and water and, as far as it could, the dull eyes and duller brains of men.
In summer I saw it at the end of one of those days of sun and wind and perfectly25 clear air when the earth appears immensely heavy and great and strong—so that for a moment it is possible to know the majesty26 of its course in space—and the sheep very light, like mere27 down, as they crawl in a flock over the grass. Swathes and wisps of white cloud were strewn over the high blue sky as if by haymakers. But the lanes were deep, and for miles at a time nearly shut out the sky, and all the day the lanes were empty and wholly mine. Here the high banks were thickly grown with wild parsnip, and its umbels of small yellow-green flowers, fragrant28 and a little over-sweet, were alive and, as it were, boiling over with bees and the sunniest flies. There the hazel was laced with white bryony, whose leaves and pale tendrils went hovering30 and swimming and floating over the hedge. In one place an elder-tree stood out of the hedge, stiff, with few branches, and every leaf upon them red as a rose. Wherever there was a waste strip beside the road the tall yellow ragwort grew densely31, each of the nearer flowers as hard and clear as brass32, the farther ones dimly glowing and half lost in the green mist of their leaves and the haze5 of the brightness of their multitudes. Where the road changed into an unused lane the grass was tall, and[199] under the hazels, yet fully33 seen, were the wild basil and marjoram and centaury and knapweed and wood-betony, and over them hung moths34 of green crimson-spotted silk. There, too, were the plants that smell most of the dry summer—the white parsleys and the white or rosy35 cow-parsnip, the bedstraws white and yellow, the yellow mugwort. Now and then the hedges gave way and on either hand was open turf; sloping steep and rough on one side, grooved36 by ancient paths of men and cattle, dotted by thorns, with the freshly flowering traveller’s-joy over them, ash-trees at the top; on the other side, level, skirted by cloudy wych-elms and having at one corner a white inn half shadowed by a walnut37, and two sycamores and cattle below them; and at another, a stately autumnal house veiled by the cedars38 and straight yews on its darkly glowing lawn.
All these things I saw as if they had been my own, as if I were going again slowly through old treasures long hidden away, so that they were memoried and yet unexpected. Nothing was too small to be seen, and ascending39 the chalk hill among the beeches every white flint was clear on the sward, each in its different shape—many chipped as the most cunning chisel40 would be proud to chip them; one, for example, carved by the loss of, two exquisitely41 curved and balanced flakes42 into the likeness43 of a moth’s expanded upper wings.
A dark beech alley16, paved with the gold and green of moss44 and walled by crumbling45 chalk, brought me to the tumulus. There lay the old house in shadow, its ash crests46 lighted yellow by horizontal beams that caught here the summit of a wood, and there the polished grass stems on a rising field. It was the one house, and at that[200] hour it gathered to itself all that can be connected with a home. It was alone, but its high cool thatch was full of protection and privacy, sufficient against sun or rain or wind or frost, yet impregnated with free air and light. Its ash-trees communed with the heavens and the setting sun. The wheat glowed at its gates. The dark masses of the lower woods enhanced by a touch of primeval gloom and savagery47 the welcoming expression of the house. Slowly the light died out of the ash-tops and the wheat turned to a mist. The wood seemed to creep up close and lay its shadows over the house. But, stronger than the wood and the oncoming tide of night that enveloped48 it, the spirits of roof and wall and hearth49 were weaving a spell about the house to guard it, so that it looked a living, breathing, dreaming thing. Nimble, elvish, half-human but wholly kind small spirits I fancied them, creeping from corners in stone and thatch and rafter, at war with those that dwelt in lonely and dark places, that knew not fire and lamp and human voices save as invaders50. For a little while there was a pause, a suspense51, a hesitation—Could the small spirits win?—Were not the woods older and more mighty52?—Was not that long black bar of cloud across the cold west something sinister53, already engulfing54 the frail55 white moon? But suddenly, as if the life of the house had found a powerful voice, one eye in the nearer gable was lit by a small lamp and a figure could be guessed behind it. The first Promethean spark of fire stolen from the gods was hardly a more signal victory than that at which the house and I rejoiced when the white light glimmered57 across the corn. It seemed the birth of light.
[201]
The man who lives under that roof and was born there seventy years ago is like his house. He is short and immensely broad, black-haired, with shaved but never clean-shaven face creased58 by a wide mouth and long, narrow black eyes—black with a blackness as of cold, deep water that had never known the sun but only the candle-light of discoverers. His once grey corduroys and once white slop are stained and patched to something like the colour of the moist, channelled thatch and crumbling “clunch” of the stone walls. He wears a soft felt hat with hanging broad brim of darker earthy hues59; it might have been drawn60 over his face and ears in his emergence61 from his native clay and flint. Only rarely does his eye—one eye at a time—gloom out from underneath, always accompanied by a smile that slowly puckers62 the wrinkled oak-bark of his stiff cheeks. His fingers, his limbs, his face, his silence, suggest crooked63 oak timber or the gnarled stoles of the many times polled ash. It is barely credible64 that he grew out of a child, the son of a woman, and not out of the earth itself, like the great flints that work upwards65 and out on to the surface of the fields. Doubtless he did, but like many a ruined castle, like his own house, he has been worn to a part of the earth itself. That house he will never give up except by force, to go to workhouse or grave. They want him to go out for a few days that it may be made more weather-tight; but he fears the chances and prefers a rickety floor and draughty wall. He is half cowman, half odd-job man—at eight shillings a week—in his last days, mending hedges, cleaning ditches, and carrying a sack of wheat down the steep hill on a back that cannot be bent66 any farther. Up to his knees in the February ditch, or cutting[202] ash-poles in the copse, he is clearly half converted into the element to which he must return.
When the underwood is for sale it is a pleasure to read the notices fixed67 to the doors of barn and shed, with the names of the copses and woods. At Penshurst lately, for example, I saw these names—
Black Hoath Wood.
Heronry Pond.
Marlpit Field.
Tapner’s Wood.
Ashour Farm.
Sidney’s Coppice.
Well Place.
I was back in Sidney’s time, remembering that genial69 poem of Ben Jonson’s, “To Penshurst,” and especially the lines—
“Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee season’d deer,
When thou wouldst feed or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.
Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purple pheasant with the speckled side, ...”
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The early cherry, with the later plum,
[203]
The blushing apricot and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.
And though thy walls be of the country stone,
There’s none, that dwell about them, wish them down;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown;
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses, bring them; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear
Almost to such a time as that does the old man carry back the thoughts. His old master was the fifth in the direct line to work one farm in the vale; he left money in his will to pay for new smocks, all of the best linen78, to be worn by the labourers who should carry him to the grave.
The old man has three companions under that roof. The hand that lit the lamp is his daughter’s, the youngest by the second wife, whom he married when he was fifty. The other two are her children, and she is unmarried. She earns no money except by keeping a few fowls79 and bees. When the younger child was born—the old man having to go six miles out at midnight for the parish doctor—the married women commented: “There’s forgiveness for the first, but not for the second; no”: for the first showed indiscretion, carelessness, youth; the second, helplessness. The old man can hardly leave the children, and though he is deaf he will, when he is told that the baby is crying, go to the room and listen carefully for the pleasure of the infant voice. That voice means colder winter nights for him and less cheer of meat and[204] ale. But for all young life he has a passion equal to a mother’s, so he laces up his boots and does not grieve. See him in the dim outlying barn with the sick heifer which is sure to die. The wet killed several in the open field; this one is to die on dry hay. She lies with stiff, high-ridged back, patient and motionless, except that her ears move now and then like birds—they alone seem alive. There is a deep blue gleam in her eyes. Her head is stretched forward upon the ground. She is alone. Through the open door the sunlight falls, and the swallows fly in and out or hang twittering at the dark beams over her head. Twice a day the cowman comes to the door and salutes80 her with deep, slow voice, hearty81 and blithe82: “Hoho! Cowslip; how’s Cowslip?” He pulls away the foul83 hay from under her and puts in fresh, talking now in a high falsetto voice as to a child; he raises her head that she may lap the bucket of gruel84, still talking unintelligible85 baby talk interlarded with her pretty name. She holds up her head for a minute or two, heartened by her moist lips and full stomach and that friend’s voice. He stands in the doorway86 watching and silent now, as her head slowly sinks down, and she sighs while her limbs find their position of least pain. “She’s going to die,” he mutters in the deep voice as he goes.
A very different earth child, an artist, used to live in a cottage at the foot of the opposite Downs. The village itself, whether you saw it from its own street or from the higher land, was wrought87 into such a rightness of form as few other artists than Time ever achieve; it made a music to which the hands unconsciously beat time. But though apparently88 complete in itself, it was as part of a huge and gentle harmony of sky, down and forest that[205] the village was most fascinating. Like all beautiful things in their great moments the whole scene was symbolic89, not only in the larger sense by expressing in an outward and visible way an inward grace, but in the sense that it gathered up into itself the meanings which many other scenes only partly and in a scattered90 way expressed.
Two roads of a serpentining91 form that was perpetually alluring92 from afar climbed the Down from the village and, skirting the forest, ended in the white mountains of the moon. At the tail of one of these roads the artist lived. His work still further enlarged the harmony of sky and down and village. For a short time I used to wonder why it was that when I entered his studio the harmony was prolonged into something even more huge and gentle than seemed to have been designed. How came it that he could safely hang his pictures on the wall of the Down, as practically they were hung?
It is not enough to say merely that it was because they did not, as some landscapes seem to do, enter into competition with Nature. The spirit that raised and sculptured the Downs, that entered the beech and made a melody of its silent towering and branching, that kept the sky above alive and beautiful with the massiveness of mountains and the evanescence of foam, was also in this man’s fingers. He was a great lover of these things, and in his love for them combined the ecstasy93 of courtship with the understanding of marriage. But he loved them too well to draw and paint them. He was not of those who tear themselves from a mistress to write a sonnet94 on her face. No. He painted the images which they implanted—such was their love of him and his of them—in his brain. There many a metamorphosis as[206] wonderful as Ovid’s was made. The beech-trees mingled95 with the fantasies of the brain and brought forth96 holes that are almost human forms, branches that are thoughts and roots that are more than wood. Often, I think, he hardly looked at Nature as he walked, except to take a careless pleasure in the thymy winds, in the drama of light and shade on the woods and hills, in the sound of leaves and birds and water. Within him these things lived a new life until they reached forms as different from their beginnings as we are from Pal29?olithic man. They attained97 to that beauty of which, as I have said, Nature was so little jealous, by this evolution. Some of his pictures of the leaf-dappled branch-work of beeches always remind me of the efflorescence of frost on a window-pane, and the comparison is not purely98 fantastic but has a real significance.
And yet the landscapes of this metamorphosis are not, as might have been expected, decorations that have lost all smell of earth and light of sun and breath of breeze. Decorative99 they certainly are, and I know few pictures which are less open to the accusation100 of being scraps101 from Nature, which it is more impossible to think of extending beyond the limits of the frame. But such is the personality of the artist that all this refinement102 only made more powerful than ever the spirit of the motionless things, the trees, the pools, the hills, the clouds. Frankly103, there is a deep fund of what must narrowly, and for the moment only, be called inhumanity in the artist, or he could not thus have reinforced or intensified104 the inhumanity of Nature. Consider, for example, his “Song of the Nightingale.” Those woods are untrodden woods as lonely as the sky. They are made for the nightingale’s[207] song to rule in solitude105 under the crescent moon. No lovers walk there. Mortal who enters there must either a poet or a madman be.
Look again at his “Castle in Spain,” how it is perched up above that might of forest, like a child that has climbed whence it can never descend23. And the little house at the edge of the high, dark wood—in “The Farm under the Hill”—is as frail and timid as if it heard the roaring of wild beasts, and the little white road winds into the darkness as to death. So, too, with the children who make a pretence106 of playing hoops107 at the edge of just such another wood, though mortal has never come out of it since the beginning of the world. The ship in the “Fall of the Leaf” is subdued108 to the spirit of autumn as is the poet subdued to the immense scenes of “Alastor.” To introduce an elvish figure, as he has done, in “Will o’ the Wisp” was an unnecessary aid to the elvishness of the scene itself. Indeed, his human or fantastic figures seem to be sometimes as much out of place as a Yankee at the court of King Arthur, though there are two notable exceptions—“The Sower” and “The Weed Burner”—both figures towards which idolatry might be excusable, so nobly do they represent labour in the field. And even in “The Weed Burner” the boy seems bemused by the motion and savour of the smoke that curdles109 up through the autumn air. The picture of a forest pool is magical, but it repudiates110 the fairy altogether. Nothing would be more out of place here than the kind of sucking harlequin or columbine which is commonly foisted111 upon us as a fairy; for here is something more desirable, the very forces which begot112 the fairies upon a different age from ours. Even when he draws a house it is, I think, for[208] the house’s sake, for the sake of whatever soul it has acquired, which men cannot take away. Was there ever such an inn as “The Wispers”? The landlord is dead, the casks are dry, a rat has littered on the top stair of the cellar, and the landlord says—
“’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire:
Sit close, and draw the table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that’s old,
A hearty medicine ’gainst a cold:
Your beds of wanton down the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead, and cannot do.
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, white, and claret let them bring,
And drink apace, while breath you have;
You’ll find but cold drink in the grave:
And a capon for the sinner,
You shall find ready when you’re up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcome, welcome, shall fly round,
And I shall smile, though underground.”
I like the inn, but the spider loves it, and his webs bar the door against all but ghostly travellers. The barn, again, with its doorway opening upon the summer night, has a life of its own. The two figures at the door are utterly114 dwarfed115 by its ancientness, its space, and the infinite silence without.
The picture in which there is most humanity is that of a high wall, ruinous and overgrown. The deep gap in it is tragical116. But even here I am not sure that it is a wall that was raised by hand of mason, and as to the inhabitants who left it desolate117 I feel more doubtful still,[209] I believe it was built in a dream, long ago lost in some victory gained by the forest over men, and quite forgotten until this artist thought it would be a happy lair118 for a faun. He has not shown us the faun—I wish he had; he ought to know what it was like—but that gap is its gateway119 out from the forest into the dew of the river lawns.
It induces an awful sense of the infinite variety of human character to think of the love of earth first in this man and then in that cowman old. I wonder tolerance120 is not deeper as well as wider than it is.
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1
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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4
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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6
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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7
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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8
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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9
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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10
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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12
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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13
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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14
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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15
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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16
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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17
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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18
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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19
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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22
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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24
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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30
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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31
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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grooved
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| v.沟( groove的过去式和过去分词 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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37
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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40
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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41
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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42
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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43
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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44
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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45
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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46
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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47
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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48
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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50
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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51
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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54
engulfing
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| adj.吞噬的v.吞没，包住( engulf的现在分词 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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56
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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57
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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60
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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puckers
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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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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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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81
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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83
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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85
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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serpentining
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| v.像蛇般蜷曲的，蜿蜒的( serpentine的现在分词 ) | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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99
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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100
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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101
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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102
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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103
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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104
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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106
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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107
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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108
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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109
curdles
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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repudiates
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的第三人称单数 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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111
foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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113
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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114
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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115
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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117
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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118
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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119
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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120
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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