In the former chapter I have endeavoured to point out the existence of a striking difference as it regards the love of nature between the classical and modern literature, and to explain, and I hope successfully, the principal causes of it. But it is not the less true, that almost as great a difference exists in this same respect between our British literature, and that of almost all other modern nations. I do not intend to go about very laboriously3 to attempt to prove this fact, for I think it stands sufficiently4 self-evident on the face of all modern literature. In science, in art, in history; philosophy, natural and moral; in theological, philological5 and classical inquiries6, the continental7 nations have attained8 the highest honours. In biography the French are unrivalled; in autobiography[325] the Germans are equally so. In some species of poetry the Germans contest the palm with us; in mathematical industry, and historical research, they are greatly our superiors; but with the solitary9 exceptions of Gesner, Sturm, and St. Pierre, where have they any writers to range with our Evelyns, Whites, and Waltons? or poets, with our Thomsons and Bloomfields? or indeed, with the whole series of our poets who do not professedly write on the country, but are irresistibly10 led to it; and from whom the love of it breaks out on all occasions? In the French, the social feeling is the most strongly developed; in the Italian, passion and fancy; in the German, the metaphysical. The Germans, indeed, most strongly resemble the English in their literary tastes. There seems to be a fellow-feeling between them, resulting from ancient kinship. They have a similar character of simplicity11; they are alike grave, solid, and domestic, and prone12 to deep and melancholy13 thought. They have a love of nature deep as ours, for the tone of their minds makes them, in every thing they do attach themselves to, earnest and enthusiastic. In every thing relating to the affections, their literature is unrivalled; their feelings are profound, tender, and spiritual; and while a false and superficial taste has made rapid strides amongst us of late years—a taste for glitter, shew, and fashion, the natural accompaniment of wealth and luxury, a growing fondness for German literature must be hailed as a good omen14; as likely to give a new infusion15 of heart and mind to our writings; to re-awaken our love for the simple, the domestic—the fireside love; in fact, to bring us back to what was the ancient character of the English; high-toned in morals, simple in manners, manly16 and affectionate in heart. Their love of nature is as deep as ours; but it is not so equally and extensively diffused17. The solemn and speculative19 cast of their genius has tended to link it with the gloom of forests and tempests, and with the wild fictions of the supernatural, rather than to scatter20 it over every cheerful field, and cause it to brood over every sunny cottage-garden, amid the odour of flowers and the hum of bees. There is something wonderfully attractive in their descriptions of the old-fashioned homeliness21 of their rural and domestic manners; in the unbustling quietness of their lives, and in the holy strength of their family attachments22. Such writings as that Idyl of Voss, describing the[326] manner of life of the venerable pastor24 of Grenau, the autobiographies25 of Goethe and Stilling, seem to carry us back into the simple ages of our own country. That which characterised them, seems to be preserved to the present hour in Germany; and then, the affectionate intellectuality of their minds, and their very language, so homely26 and yet so expressive27, cause them to abound28 in such touches of natural pathos29 as are nowhere else to be found. Yet, when their love of nature exhibits itself in descriptions of country life, amid all these charms, we are often tempted30 to exclaim with the pastor’s wife in Voss, when in a pic-nic party they discovered, while taking tea under the forest trees, that they had forgotten the tea-spoons, and had to substitute pieces of stick for them—“O, dear nature, thou art almost too natural!”
But the aspect of the different countries is sufficiently indicative of the natural feeling. Instead of the solitary chateau31, or baronial castle, amid dark forests, or wide unfenced plains; instead of the great landed proprietors32 crowding into large towns, and the very labourers huddling33 themselves into villages, and going, as they do, in some parts of France, seven or eight miles on asses34 to their daily work in the fields, the hills and valleys of England are studded all over with the dwellings35 of the landed gentry36, and the cottages of their husbandmen. Villas37 amid shrubberies and gardens; villages environed with old-fashioned crofts; farm-houses and cottages, singly or in groups—a continuous chain of cultivation38 and rustic39 residences stretches from end to end and side to side of the island. Our wealthy aristocrats40 have caught a fatal passion for burying themselves in the capital in a perpetual turmoil41 of political agitations42, ostentatious rivalry43, and dissipation—a passion fatal to their own happiness and to the whole character of their minds; but the love of the country is yet strong enough in large classes to maintain our pre-eminence in this respect. The testimony44 of foreigners, however, is stronger than our own; and foreigners are always struck with the garden-like aspect of England; and the charms of our country houses. A number of a French literary paper, “Le Panorama46 de Londres,” has fallen accidentally into my hands, while writing this, which contains an article—De la Poesie Anglaise et de la Poesie Allemande—from which I transcribe47 the following passages.
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“England has produced her great epic48 poet, her great dramatic poet; and the last age gave her reasoning poets in abundance. The time for the one and the other is past. By a revolution, the causes of which it would be difficult to trace, her poetry has changed both its character and object; and strange enough, under the reign45 of a civilization the most advanced, her poetry has returned to nature. At first, the fact strikes us as an unaccountable anomaly; for what country owes so much to art as England? The very aspect of the country shews everywhere the hand of man. A scientific culture has changed its whole face. The forests have ceased to be impenetrable; the rivers to be wild torrents49; the mountains themselves to be savage51. Human industry has appropriated every thing; fire, air, earth, every thing is subjected, every thing is tamed. The very animals seem to submit themselves voluntarily to the service of man. The horse himself, the English horse, so swift and powerful, scarcely neighs with impatience52, or capers53 with eagerness; his very impetuosity is docile54. The Englishman is in one sense the king of the world. It is for him that every thing is in motion around him: yet he himself is bound by unchangeable customs. He fears change. He has even a religion of an established order. One would think nothing could be more prosaic55 than a country thus laboured; yet, nevertheless, all Europe resounds56 with the songs of her poets. Amid the miracles of industry, the profusion57 of riches, the refinement58 of luxury; in the face of steam-engines, suspension bridges, and railroads, imagination has lost nothing of its ancient empire; on the contrary, during the last thirty years, she has acquired more; she has been borne, as by an irresistible59 influence, towards the description of natural objects and simple sentiments. She has revelled60 in the charms of a poetry whose freshness seemed to belong to another age. The fact is, if we regard England more attentively61, we shall discover her under a different aspect to what has been usually ascribed to her; and shall be less astonished to find her poetic62 in seeing her picturesque63. That agriculture, so marvellous, is far from having given up every thing to the useful; its object seems rather to have been to embellish64 than to fertilize65 the earth. Those fields so well tilled, are green and riant; those quiet streams flow brimful through rich meadows; and, thanks to beautiful trees and living[328] hedges, the very plains are charming. Those seats where opulence66 parades all its splendour, are environed by greensward pastured by abundant cattle; and the art which designs those immense parks, seems to have no object but to put into a frame a beautiful landscape. The taste is no longer to dig lakes, to cast up mounts, to plant thickets67; but to inclose whole rivers, woods, and mountains. Everywhere you discover the sentiment of the beauty of nature. You find it in every class. Neither riches nor poverty have been able to extinguish it. We observe in other countries that the sentiment is unknown to the peasantry. They are the towns which they admire: to them the country is merely useful. But in England everybody loves the country; even those who cultivate it. The most humble68 cottage is a proof of it. The taste which rarely distinguishes the architecture of the English towns, is reserved, I think, for the country houses. The little gardens which lead to them; the orchards69 which surround them; even the very bushes of jessamine or of rose, which crown their porches or tapestry70 their walls, seem designed to delight the eye. Amid the treasures of an admirable vegetation—gothic ruins, the towers of an old manor71, the arches of an abbey, the ivy72 which clothes the walls of a parish church; the tree scathed73 and decaying, which has no value but its age; all these things are respected by every one as the monuments of the past, or the ornaments74 of the country. The whole population interests itself in every thing which adorns75 its abode76; and this nation, the queen of commerce and industry, seems to recollect77 with affection, that it is to the earth that she owes her wealth, her glory, and her greatness.
“An analogous78 sentiment pervades79 the poetry of the English. The verses of their good poets seem to have been composed in the open air; all external objects are by them faithfully portrayed81; the impressions they produce are faithfully rendered. Simple sentiments, those of a domestic nature, so well protected by a country life, in them preserve all their force and all their purity. Their recitals82 are often the most touching83 and familiar; when they turn upon great adventures, they are related as they would be on a winter’s evening before the fire of an ancient castle, or of a humble cottage. Scarcely an English poet is wanting in descriptive talent, not even the least celebrated84 amongst them. It shines with great[329] eclat85 in Burns, in Crabbe, in Walter Scott. Lord Byron, who has so many others, possesses none perhaps in a greater degree than this.”
It is to be hoped that the English poetry will always maintain this character; will always remain the powerful ally of the love of the country: one great means of preserving those features of English rural life so delightfully87 described in the foregoing extract. Amid the fascinations89 and temptations to a corruption90 of taste, from the mighty91 wealth and political influence of this country, it is to the combined effect of real, simple Christianity, the love of nature, and of that literature which is in alliance with those great conservative powers, that we must look for the maintenance of a sound national heart and intellect; and consequently, of that great moral ascendency, and genuine glory, that as a nation we have obtained. I long with a most earnest longing93, for our stability in this respect; for the preservation94 of those pure, simple, holy tastes which have led our countrymen in all ages, since reading and civilization came upon them, to delight in the pleasant fields, in the pleasant country houses, in the profound peace of noble woods, so favourable95 to high and solemn musings; and in all those healthful and animating97 sports and pursuits that belong to such a life. It has been through the influence of these tastes, and of these home-born but exalted98 pleasures, by the strong human sympathies engendered99 by living amongst our manly and high-minded peasantry—the hardy100 sons and bold defenders101 of their natal102 soil,—the strong-hearted old fathers,—the fair and modest daughters of uncorrupted England; by living amongst them as their leaders, counsellors, and protectors; by musing96 over the inspiring annals of the past days of England; on the solid tomes of our legislators, our divines, philosophers and poets, in the calm twilight103 of ancient halls, or in the sunny seats of their broad bay-windows, looking out on fields purchased by the blood of patriots104, and hoary105 forests, that have witnessed the toils106 of their ancestors, or perhaps received them to their dim bosoms107 in times of danger; it is by such aliment that the British heart has been nourished, and grown to its present greatness, when its pulsations are felt to the very ends of the earth, and by millions of confiding108 or submissive men, whose destinies[330] depend upon its motions. Our arms may have been wielded109 in many a mighty battle for the accomplishment110 of this magnificent end, but it was here that the power of victory grew: our counsels may have, wearily, and stroke by stroke, worked out this ample breadth of glory; but it is here, and it was thus, that the wisdom, and the prudence111, and the irresistible fortitude112 sprung, increased, and gave to those brave men and high measures their vigour113 and stability; here that they were born, and fostered to their beneficent fulness.
Therefore would I have every thing which may tend to keep alive this genuine spirit of England, may keep open all the sources of its strength and its inspiration, encouraged: every taste for the sweet serenity115, the animating freshness, the preserving purity of country life, promoted; every thing which can embellish or render it desirable. For this cause I delight in the every-day spreading attachment23 to all branches of Natural History; in the great encouragement given to all books on country affairs; and in the advancing love of landscape-painting, by which the most enchanting116 views of our mountains, coasts, wild lakes, forests, and pastoral downs will be brought into our cities, and spread in sunshine and in poetry along their walls. For this I am thankful, with a deep thankfulness, for the mighty strains of poetry that have been poured out in this age, brimmed and gushing117 over with the august spirit of nature: for Wordsworth and Coleridge; Rogers and Campbell; for Shelley and Byron and Keats, and for many another noble bard118; for the Romances of Scott, which have pre-eminently piled quenchless120 fuel on this social flame, by sanctifying many of the most beautiful scenes in the kingdom with the highest historical remembrances; and not less, for that wonderful series of articles by Wilson, in Blackwood’s Magazine,—in their kind, as truly amazing, and as truly glorious, as the romances of Scott, or the poetry of Wordsworth. Far and wide and much as these papers have been admired, wherever the English language is read, I still question whether any one man has a just idea of them as a whole. Whatever may be our opinion of the side which this powerful journal has taken in politics, it must be admitted that while it has fought the battles of Toryism with vigour, it has fought them in a noble spirit. There was a day when a foul122 influence[331] had crept into it; when it was personal, rancorous, and apt to descend123 to language and details below the dignity of its strength; but that day is gone by, and it has been seen with lively satisfaction by all parties that it has purged124 itself of this evil nature, and as it has become peerless in fame,—it has become more and more generous, forgiving, and superior to every petty nature and narrow feeling. Its politics are ultra, but they are full of intellect; and they who desire to see what can be said on the Tory side, see it there. But the great attraction to literary men has long been, that splendid series of ample, diffuse18, yet overflowing125 papers, in which every thing relating to poetry and nature find a place. These are singly, and in themselves, specimens126 of transcendent power; but taken altogether, as a series, are, in the sure unity127 of one great and correct spirit, such a treasury128 of criticism as is without a parallel in the annals of literature. For, while they are full of the soundest opinions, because they are the offspring of a deeply poetical129 mind—a mind strong in the guiding instincts of nature; they are preserved from the dryness and technicality of ordinary criticism by this very poetic temperament130. They come upon you like some abounding131 torrent50, streaming on, amid the wildest and noblest scenes; amid mountains and forests and flowery meadows; and bringing to your senses, at once, all their freshness of odours, dews, and living sounds. They are the gorgeous outpourings of a wild, erratic132 eloquence133, that, in its magnificent rush, throws out the most startling, and apparently134 conflicting dogmas, yet all bound together by a strong bond of sound sense and incorruptible feeling.
They are all poetry:—sometimes, in its weakest and most diluted135 form; again, gushing into the most melting pathos; and then again playing and frolicking like a happy boy, half beside himself with holiday freedom and sunshine; then vapouring, and rhodomontading, and reeling along in the very drunkenness of a luxuriant fancy, intoxicated136 at the ambrosia-fountains of the heart; and then, like a strong man, all at once recovering his power and self-possession—if self-possession that can be called, which, in the next moment, gives way to a new impulse, and soars up into the highest regions of eloquence, pouring forth137 the noblest sentiments and most fervid138 imaginations, as from an oracle139 of quenchless inspiration.
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It is in this manner, and this spirit, that the writer has—reviewed shall I say? no, not reviewed, but proclaimed, trumpeted140 to the farthest regions, idealized, etherealized, and made almost more glorious than they are in their own solemn grandeur141, the poems of Wordsworth, of Milton, of Shakspeare, of Spenser, of Homer, and of many another genuine bard. And it is thus that he has led you over the heathy mountains and along the fairy glens of the north, to many a sweet secluded142 loch, into many a Highland143 hut. It is thus that he loves to make you observe the noble peasant striding along in his prime of youth—in his sedate144 manhood—in his hoary age, more beautiful than youth, for then he is crowned with the wisdom of his simple experience of the trials and vanity of life, and of the feeling that he draws near to eternity145. It is thus that he bids you stand, and mark the fair young maiden146 busied about the door of her parental147 hut, more graceful148 and happy in the engrossment of her simple duties, beneath the sun and the blue heavens, than the very daughter of the palace in the lap of her artificial enchantments149. It is thus he shews you the young mother tossing her laughing infant in the open air, while her two elder children are rolling on the sunny sward, or scrambling150 up the heathy brae; and her mother sits silently by the door, in the basking151 tranquillity152 of age. It is thus that he fills you with the noblest sympathies, with the purest human feelings; and then astonishes you with some sudden feat86 of leaping, running, or wrestling; and as suddenly is gone with rod in hand, following the course of a clear rapid stream, eagerly intent upon trout153 or salmon154. And then he is the poet again, every atom of him, meek155 as a bard of nineteen, or of ninety; all tenderness, purity, and holiness; the poet of the City of the Plague, or of the Children’s Dance, forcing you to forget that he ever swaggered in an article, or rollocked in a Noctes. He is now basking in the shine of a May-day, amid the sparkling dews, the waving flowers, the running waters, and all the delights of earth, air, and the blue o’erspanning sky.
These are papers that have already done infinite service to the cause of poetry and nature; and therefore do I rejoice in their existence, and addition to all that sublime156 accumulation of fervid poetry and prose in the praise and love of the country, with which our English literature, above all others, is enriched.
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But there is one person to whom I must still give a separate mention; an individual to whom we owe a signal increase of country delight,—Thomas Bewick. Every painter of landscape is a friend to the best feelings and tastes of humanity; but Bewick has, in a manner, created a new art. He has struck out a peculiar157 mode of embellishing158 books with snatches of rural scenery, that will, if pursued in the true spirit, do more to diffuse a love of the country than all other modes of engraving159 put together. To see what may be done, let us only see what he has done. Through his revival160 of the art of wood-cutting, we have now hundreds of wood-engravers, and thousands of wood-embellished books: yet lay your hands on any one of these volumes, and, with all deference161 to the great talent evinced, the great beauty produced,—till you open Bewick you shall not know what wood-cutting is capable of doing for books on the country.
I have heard some wood-engravers speak with contempt of Bewick, and say—“Why he was very well for his time of day, but we have scores that can excel him now.” To such men I have only one reply—“you don’t understand the country. I grant you there are many who can produce a more showy print; but it was not show which Bewick aimed at,—it was truth: and if you will know which is most excellent, take the one and the other; and let them be both opened before some country family of taste, and you will see that your print will dazzle the eye for a moment; it will be a moment of surprise and delight; but when the moment is past, the eye will fall on Bewick, and there it will be riveted162; and there, the longer it dwells the stronger will be its fascination88, and it will be the beginning of an everlasting163 love.” And why is this? Simply because we have in one, splendour of style; in the other, Nature! pure, faithful, and picturesque Nature,—Nature in her most felicitous164, or most solemn moments. I have heard those who loved the country, and loved it because they knew it, say, that the opening of Bewick was a new era in their lives. I have seen how his volumes are loved, and treasured, and reverted165 to, time after time, in many a country house; the more familiar, the more prized; the oftener seen, the oftener desired.
And why should it not be so? It is not so much as a triumph of art, as a triumph of genius, that they are love-worthy. Yet as[334] specimens of art they have eminent119 merit. See, in what a small space he gives you a whole landscape—a whole wide heath, or stormy coast, with their appropriate objects. See, with a single line, a single touch, what a world of effect he has achieved! But it is the spirit of the conception, and the sacred fidelity166 to Nature, which stamp their value upon his works. They are the works of an eye which sees in a moment what in a scene advances beyond common-place; what in it has a story, a moral, a sarcasm167, or touch of transcendent beauty. They are the works of a heart bound by a bond of indissoluble love to the sweetness and peace of nature; rich in recollections of all her forms and hues168; and of a spirit which cherished no ambition, no hope on earth, superior to that of throwing into his transcriptions the express image of his beloved Nature.
This is the great secret of the delight in his wood-cuts. They are full of all those beauties, those fine yet impressive beauties, that arrest the gaze of the lovers of nature; and they are so faithful that they never deceive, or disappoint the experienced eye. The vignettes of his Natural History are in themselves a series of stories so clearly told that they require no explanation, and are full of the most varied170 human interest. He delights in the picturesque and beautiful in nature, and the grotesque171 in life. Whatever he introduces, its genuine characteristics are all about it; beast or bird, there it is in the very scenery, and amid the very concomitants that you see it surrounded by in nature. You miss nothing that you find in the same situation in the real scene and circumstance; and, what is of more consequence, you never see a single thing introduced which has no business there. He is the very Burns of wood-engraving. He has the same intense love of nature; his bold freedom of spirit; his flashes of indignant feeling; his love of satire172; and his ridicule173 of human vanity and cant174. In his landscapes, he gives you every thing the most poetical:—wide, wild moors175; the desolation of winter; the falling fane, and the crumbling176 tower; wild scenes on northern shores, with their rocks and sea-fowl, their wrecks177 and tempests. In his village scenes you have every feature of village life given with a precision and a spirit equally admirable. He delights to seize hold on humanity even in some of its degradations178, as drunkenness and gluttony, and Hogarth-like, to excite[335] your disgust against the abuse of God’s good things and man’s high nature. He delights equally to exhibit those ragged179 rapscallions that abound in the streets of towns, and the purlieus of villages; uncultivated, neglected, and therefore graceless, reckless—vulgarity and wickedness stamped on their features, and even in their strong, close-cut, thick-set heads of hair; full of mischief180 and cruelty from top to toe. There you have them, just in the commission of those barbarities or depredations181 that speak volumes for the necessity of better popular education: and as for beggars, strollers with bear and monkey, lame121 soldiers, and all the groups of tatterdemalions that are scattered182 all over this country, there is no end of them. At times he is full of whim183; at others half in jest, and half in solemn earnest. Again, he touches you with pity for the aged114 and forlorn; and often rises into a tone of deep moral warning, and into actual demonstrations184 of the sublime and beautiful.
The elements in their majesty185 are made to laugh to scorn the inflated186 vanity of man. A stately church has sometime been reared on a pleasant and commanding mount near the sea. You are made to call to mind the pride and the gratulation in which it was erected187 in the palmy days of the Catholic faith. You see it in its newness, with all its fair proportions and noble completeness—a beautiful temple to the Christian92 Deity188. You see how the country people come in awe189 and wonder to behold190 it; into what a silence of veneration191 they drop as they approach; with what a prostration192 of astonishment193 of heart they enter, while the new and merry bells sound above their heads; and all abroad the glad sunshine of summer is pouring, and casts its light into the glorious interior; and the sea-breeze comes fluttering with a full delight; and every thing seems to speak of triumph, stability, and enduring joy. You know with what solemn pomp the prelate, in full canonicals, and followed by his train of clerical brethren in their becoming robes, and surrounded by the powerful and the beautiful of the neighbourhood, proceeds to perform the rites194 of consecration195. And with what pride the great family, who have given the land to God, and expended196 the revenues of ample estates for many years in erecting197 this goodly fabric198, see all, hear all, and find hard work to conceal199 the inward swell200 of gratified ambition. How they[336] look on all the accomplished201 miracle of the place; the lofty, arched roof above; the stately columns along the aisles202; the priest in his pulpit; the people in their seats. With what proud gratulation they hear the voices of the choristers break forth, and fill “this house which they have built.” With what a high, elating, intoxicating203 feeling, with what a proud joy they kneel down on the silken cushions, and open the golden clasps of their richly-painted missals! All this we see; and then the dream of strength and glory and endurance is gone;—is gone from them and you. There stands the ancient church! Ancient? Yes, it is now ancient. All that dream of delight, all that throng204 of wondering people, have long passed away. Yes! the very founders205, whose hearts beat in pride, are now dust and ashes beneath your feet;—ay, and their children and children’s children to the sixth or seventh generation. That noble fabric, then so fair of hue169; so admirable in its workmanship; so sharp in all its mouldings, and delicate in its tracery; that temple in which so many prayers were put up for the mariner206 tossed on that wilderness207 of mighty waters on which it looked—is a ruin! The winds and the tempests of ages have blown and beaten upon it. The ocean has come in fury, and rent away its western front, that so gloriously used to fling back the splendours of the setting sun; and the very mound208 of the dead is rifled by the billows. What is that which I read upon a fallen stone, over which the waves, at every returning tide, wash with insulting strength? “This stone is erected to perpetuate209 the memory of ——.” O pride! O vanity and swelling210 confidence of “man that is a worm”—what a rebuke211! But what is this? Another stone fallen—and fallen yet lower;—“Custos Rotulorum, of the County of ——.” And have time and tide not spared even this great man? Is the very keeper of the Rolls gone, and his monument after him? Where then is human stability? The waves, and that ransacked212 monument, and that stately ruin of a church, all say, not on earth; not in the works of man. The very house which he had raised, the very ground which he had consecrated213, are pulled down by the elements; and even the bones of himself and children are swept into the great deep. I do not know, in the catalogue of the paintings with which this country is enriched, one that speaks with a more sublime power to the[337] imagination than this wood-cut of the littleness of human pride; and of the only sure hope of honour and endurance, in the eternity of virtue214.
There is another sketch215 of a similar class, but of an opposite inculcation. While that strikes at the vaunting spirit of human pride, this speaks a sad consolation216 to the struggling and miserable217. It is a moonlight view of a solitary burial-ground. It is like one of those in Scotland, distant from the place of worship; perhaps on a lonely heath. There is not a building in view to give the least feeling of proximity218 to human life. It is still—far off—and alone. The moon pours a melancholy light on the wild, grassy219 turf, and the foliage220 that overhangs the enclosing wall; and here and there, stoop the heavy headstones of the dead. On one in the foreground is inscribed—“Good times, bad times, and all times get over.”
His churchyard scenes, indeed, are all full of the most beautiful and truly human sentiment. In one, you have an old man reading a headstone,—“Vanitas, vanitatum, omnia vanitas.” It is a sentiment which strikes down to the bottom of his soul, as a voice of warning from heaven, and the voice of memory from the days of his past life. The old man stands propt on his staff, and you cannot misinterpret the thoughts which throng upon him. He is carried back through all his days; his days of boyhood and buoyant youth; his days of manly ardour and triumph; his days of trial and decay—to the very hour in which he stands here. The wife of his youth lies in the dust at his feet; his very children are all gone before him, or remain to neglect him; his friends have dropped away, one after another; he alone is left, a shattered remnant of other and happier times: left in a noisy and a crowded world. Truly it is—“vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
But see, here comes a boy driving his hoop221. He bounds over the very ground, past the very stone which has conjured222 up in the old man’s heart such a host of sad thoughts. But none of them come to him. To him all is new; the world is fair; the present is Paradise. He scarcely looks around him, and yet he enjoys all nature. The sunshine plays upon his head; the air visits his cheek; the earth is green beneath him. He thinks not of the dead under his feet; of the awful stones around him. He does not even[338] see the old man himself,—a more striking memorial of mortality and the vanity of life than all the rest. This is true human life: age, sad and observant of every solemn memento223; youth, in the reckless happiness of its own charmed existence.
There is but a slight step, and hardly that, from his satire to his humour, for one commonly partakes of the other, and in no instance are these mingled224 qualities more happily shewn than in the cut now engraved225, for the first time, and placed at the head of this chapter. But in humorous incidents he abounds226. Here is a good woman hanging out her clothes. A gipsy-like beggar-woman, with a child at her back, is going out of the garden, and in true beggar recklessness leaves the gate open. While the unconscious dame227 is busy at her line, in come the hens. One of them is already strutting228 across her clean white linen229, that lies on the grass-plot, and leaving conspicuous230 marks of her dirty feet; and in are marching a whole drove of young pigs, with the old sow at their heels. In another place is seen the snug231 garden of some curious florist232, with auriculas blooming in pots, and some choice plant under a large glass; and here too a mischievous233 sow has conducted her brood; and some of them have made their way through the paling, and are in full career towards the auriculas. Another moment, and glass, flowers, all will be one piece of destruction. The old sow, shut out by her bulk, and a yoke234 upon her neck, the token of her propensities235, stands watching from beneath her huge slouch ears, with the utmost satisfaction, this scene of devastation236.
Here again, is a country lad mounted on a shaggy pony237, and doubtless sent on some important errand; but a flight of birds has captivated his attention, and so engaged is he in watching, that the pony has wandered out of the way, and has reached the precipitous brink238 of a river. The lad still gazing after the birds, finding the pony halt, bangs him with his cudgel; the pony hangs back, and the little dog behind with uplifted foot wonders what the lad can mean. There are two men fetching a tub of water from a water-cask, but they are so lost in gossip, that the water is running all away. A countryman to avoid paying toll239 at a bridge, is fording the river below, holding the tail of his cow. But his hat is blown off, and he dare not let go his hold to save it. He will get a good wetting, and suffer greater loss than the toll; while the tollman and[339] a traveller on the bridge witness and enjoy his dilemma240. Another countryman is crossing a river in a style grotesque enough. The old man is wading241; on his back is his wife, on her’s a child, and on her head a loaded basket. If the old man’s foot slip, what a catastrophe242! In one place is an old dame going to the village spring, and finding a whole flock of geese frolicking in it. Her looks of execration243 and her uplifted stick are infinitely244 amusing. In another, is an old dame about to mount a stile, and a tremendous bull presenting himself on the other side. Notwithstanding the bold bearing and protruded245 cudgel of the old dame, one knows not whether it be most dangerous to fight or flee. And here is the string of a kite caught on the hat of a countryman crossing a stream on horseback. It would be difficult to decide whether the distress246 of the man or that of the boys is the greater. On goes the horse, and the rider tries in vain to get rid of the string. His fate is to be pulled backward off the horse, or that of the boys to be dragged into the stream, or to lose their kite.
There is another class of vignettes, in which cruelty to animals is held up to abhorrence247. There is the man with his cart, striking his horse on the head with a bludgeon; his hat has fallen off in his passion. Ragged lads are belabouring an ass2 with a gorse bush. A hardened lad has a cat and dog harnessed to a little cart in which is a child; the cat is nearly terrified to death at the dog, the child is crying amain; and the lad is trying to force the whole team into the water. In most of these cuts a gallows248 is seen in the distance, as the probable goal of the career.
Another class is that of country accidents, full of appropriate spirit; men crossing streams by means of the long boughs249 of trees, which are breaking and letting them fall. A blind man led by his dog, crossing a narrow foot-bridge, where the hand-rail is broken down, and his hat is blown away by the wind. Old people caught in storms on wide, open heaths; old, weary people far away from any town, as indicated by a milestone250 marked XI. miles on one side, and XV. on the other. But they are endless, and of endless variety. There are some, as I have said, truly sublime. A shipwrecked man on a rock in mid-ocean praying; the waves leaping and thundering around him; no single vessel251 in view, his only hope in God. The hull252 of a vessel lying stranded253 on a solitary[340] coast. It is evident that it has been there for years; for its ribbed timbers are laid bare, and it speaks both of human catastrophe, and solitude254, and decay. A fine contrast,—a circle of men on a village green witnessing a fight, all vulgar eagerness and tumultuous passion; the rainbow, that circle of heaven, spanning the sky beyond them in such pure beauty—in the profound calm and holiness of nature.
Through all these representations, the spirit of the picturesque is poured without measure. Such winter scenes! such summer scenes! all the occupations and figures of rustic existence; fishermen, hunters, shooters, ploughmen, all in their peculiar scenery and costume. There are anglers in such delicious places, by such clear, rapid, winding255 waters, with such overhanging rocks and foliage, that one longs instantaneously to be an angler. We have all the spirit of Izaak Walton’s book, in two square inches of wood-engraving: his descriptions of natural beauty, his deep feeling of country enjoyment256, and his single and thankful contentment in his art. There are men and boys sleeping on sunny grass, or beneath the shade of summer trees! O! so luxuriously257, that we long to be sleeping there too. There are such wild sea-shores, and caverned rocks, with boys climbing up to get at the sea-fowls’ eggs, and such stormy waters, that we are wild with desire to wander by those rocks and waves. The sedgy water-sides, such as are found on moors where the wild ducks and snipes and herons haunt, are inimitable. Nature is everywhere so gloriously, yet so unostentatiously portrayed, as none but the most ardent258 and devoted259 of her lovers can portray80 her. There is nothing gaudy260, shewy, or ambitious; she is most simple, and therefore most beautiful.
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1
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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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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47
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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49
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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50
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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51
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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52
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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53
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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56
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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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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60
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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64
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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fertilize
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| v.使受精，施肥于，使肥沃 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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67
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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68
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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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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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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101
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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102
natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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104
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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105
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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106
toils
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| 网 | |
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107
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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108
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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109
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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110
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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111
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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112
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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113
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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114
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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115
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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116
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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117
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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118
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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119
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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120
quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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121
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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122
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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123
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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124
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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125
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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126
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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127
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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128
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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129
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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130
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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131
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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132
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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133
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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134
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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135
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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136
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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137
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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138
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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139
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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140
trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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141
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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142
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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143
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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144
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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145
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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146
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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147
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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148
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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149
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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150
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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151
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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152
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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153
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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154
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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155
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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156
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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157
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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158
embellishing
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| v.美化( embellish的现在分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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159
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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160
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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161
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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162
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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163
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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164
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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165
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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166
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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167
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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168
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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169
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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170
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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171
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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172
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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173
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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174
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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175
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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176
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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177
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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178
degradations
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| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
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179
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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180
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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181
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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182
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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183
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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184
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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185
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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186
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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187
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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188
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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189
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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190
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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191
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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192
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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193
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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194
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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195
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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196
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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197
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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198
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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199
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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200
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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201
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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202
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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203
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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204
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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205
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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206
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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207
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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208
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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209
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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210
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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211
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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212
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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213
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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214
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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215
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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216
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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217
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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218
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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219
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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220
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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221
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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222
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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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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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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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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230
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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238
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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239
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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241
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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242
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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243
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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244
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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248
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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249
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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251
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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254
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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256
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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257
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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258
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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