Sonst stuerzte sich der Himmels-Liebe Kuss
Auf mich herab, in ernster Sabbathstille;
Da klang so ahndungsvoll des Glockentones Fuelle,
Und ein Gebet war bruenstiger Genuss:
Ein unbegreiflich holdes Sehnen
Trieb mich durch Wald und Wiesen hinzugehn,
Und unter tausend heissen Thraenen,
Fuehlt’ ich mir eine Welt entstehn.
Faust.
In other days, the kiss of heavenly love descended1 upon me in the solemn stillness of the Sabbath; then the full-toned bell sounded so fraught2 with mystic meaning, and a prayer was vivid enjoyment3. A longing4, inconceivably sweet, drove me forth5 to wander over wood and plain, and amid a thousand burning tears, I felt a world rise up to me.
Hayward’s Translation.
Goethe, in his Faust, has given a very lively description of a German multitude bursting out of the city to enjoy an Easter Sunday;—mechanics, students, citizens’ daughters, servant-girls, townsmen, beggars, old women ready to tell fortunes, soldiers, and amongst the rest, his hero Faust and his friend Wagner, proceeding6 to enjoy a country walk. They reach a rising ground; and Faust says—“Turn and look back from this rising ground upon the town. From forth the gloomy portal presses a motley crowd. Every one suns himself delightedly to-day. They celebrate the[556] rising of the Lord, for they themselves have arisen: from the dark rooms of mean houses; from the bondage7 of mechanical drudgery8; from the confinement9 of gables and roofs; from the stifling10 narrowness of streets; from the venerable gloom of churches—are they raised up to the open light of day. But look! look! how quickly the mass is scattering11 itself through the gardens and fields; how the river, broad and long, tosses many a merry bark upon its surface; and how this last wherry, overladen almost to sinking, moves off. Even from the farthest paths of the mountain, gay-coloured dresses glance upon us. I hear already the bustle14 of the village. This is the true heaven of the multitude; big and little are huzzaing joyously15. Here I am a man—here I may be one.”
Making allowance for the difference of national manners, this might serve for a picture of Sunday in the neighbourhood of a large town in England. Human nature is the same everywhere. The girls are looking out for sweethearts; and both mechanics and students are seeking after the best beer and the prettiest girl:
Ein starkes bier, ein beitzender Toback,
“Strong beer, stinging tobacco, and a girl all in her best,—that is the taste for me,” cries one: and so it is here and everywhere. See how the multitudes of our large manufacturing towns, and of London spend their Sundays. They pour out into the country in all directions, but it is not to enjoy the country only. They do enjoy the country; but it is because it heightens their wild delight in smoking, drinking, and flirtation17. Who does not know what innumerable haunts there are within five, ten, or even twenty miles round London, to which these classes repair on Sundays: tea-houses and tea-gardens, country inns, hedge-alehouses, all the old and noted18 places where good beer and tobacco, merry company, and noisy politics are to be found? Norwood, Greenwich, Richmond, Hampton-Court, Windsor, the Nore, Herne-Bay, Gravesend, Margate; and those old-fashioned places of resort that Hone gives you glimpses of; such as Copenhagen-House, the Sluice-House, Canonbury, etc.—what swarming19 votaries20 have they all.[30] And what an[557] immensity of new regions will the railroads that are now beginning to stretch their lines from the metropolis21 in different directions, lay open—terr? incognit?, as it were, to the millions that in the dense22 and ever-growing mass of monstrous23 London pant after an outburst into the country. Truly may these say, through the medium of this modern and most providential means of occasional dispersion:—
To morrow to fresh fields and pastures new!
[30] The following calculation, made on Whit-Monday 1835, may give some idea of the number of similar pleasure-seekers on a fine summer Sunday. On Monday, between eight in the morning and nine at night, 191 steam-vessels passed through the Pool to and from Margate, Herne-Bay, Sheerness, Southend, the Nore, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich, including several on their way to and from Scotland, Ireland, and the Continent. Each vessel24 averaged, at least, 500 persons. The above calculation was made by Mr. Brown, a boat-builder in Wapping, who with his servants, watched them all day. But many passed after nine, swelling26 the number to upwards27 of 200; so that more than 100,000 persons must have been afloat in the steamers on Monday, exclusive of the passengers in small boats. Several steam-vessels carried 800 and 900 souls each to the Nore and back, One steam-vessel brought back from Greenwich 1000 persons, another 1300, and a third was actually crowded with 1500 passengers.
I well remember two ladies of high reputation in the literary world, who, after reading Faust, were inspired with a desire to see how the lower classes amused themselves on a Sunday in this country. It was, they thought, a subject of profitable study. They could not divest28 themselves of the idea that the people must wonderfully enjoy themselves, in their own way; and perhaps they might imagine that they should be received and complimented, as Faust and his friend Wagner were. Well; the experiment was tried. Another gentleman and myself accompanied them; and of all schemes we hit upon that of going by the steam-packet to Richmond. It was a fine morning in May. Our packet and another sailed from St. Katherine’s wharf29 with crowded decks, and a bright sun over our heads, casting its animating30 glory upon tower and town, over the majestic31 river, and the green country to which, anon, we emerged. We swept under bridge after bridge, and saw the mighty32 metropolis, with its vast wilderness33 of houses, wharfs34, warehouses35, and great public buildings, rapidly glide36 away behind us; above all the towers and spires37 of churches St. Paul’s lifting its solemn dome38 and glittering cross; and then the villages, splendid villas39, and beautiful gardens, with the tall robinias in[558] their new leaves, and covered with their snow-white masses of flowers, in gay succession;—Lambeth, Vauxhall, Chelsea, Battersea, Fulham, Putney, Barnes, Chiswick, Kew, Richmond!—it was a fair and promising40 scene.
The people on board were well-dressed. There were some portly, middle-aged25 dames42, with gold watches at their sides, and clad in richest silks; and there were some as lovely young ones as London could shew. You were sure that there were plenty of the very-well-to-do-in-the-world about you, if there were none of the very refined; substantial tradespeople, that would have the best the world could procure43 in eating, drinking, and dressing44. And there was a knot of Germans too; men with great mustachios and laced coats; and damsels from whose tongues the strong, homely45, expressive46 German speech seemed to fall wondrous47 softly. It was quite an attractive circumstance: for our fair friends, being just in the fresh fervour of studying “Die Deutche Sprache,” and reading Faust, imagined every thing in them interesting, and doubtless fancied them just such characters as Goethe would have drawn48 much out of. All seemed promising, when lo! we were at Richmond, and every thing had been only orderly, cheerful, and nothing more.
Ah well! this was English decorum on a Sunday; if it were not very piquant49, it was at least, very commendable50. We stepped on shore, lunched, strolled about on the terrace, amid streams of gay people; sat on one of the seats, and gazed over that vast expanse of rich woodland, meads, and villas; wandered down the green meadows towards Petersham and Twickenham, into the woods below the Star-and-Garter, and back to the packet. And now we were destined51 to see the character of the common people on a Sunday jaunt52. The moment the packet began to move, it began to rain, and all the way it rained! rained! rained! The ladies took refuge in the cabin. What a cabin! There were all the sober, orderly throng53 of the morning, metamorphosed by the power of strong drink into a rackety, roaring, drinking, smoking, insolent54, and jammed-together crew. The cabin was crushing full. The stairs were densely55 packed with people. One of the ladies made a precipitate56 retreat upon deck, and there, with only the protection of her parasol, stood with the patience of a martyr57 and[559] the temper of a saint, all the weary length of the voyage, through dripping, drenching58, never-ceasing rain! The other, with more fear of her silks and satins, and determined59 to see what such a crowd was, persisted in staying below. It was an act which only the highest heroism60 could have maintained. There was a group taking tea at a side-table, all well, very well-dressed people, and holding a conversation of such language! such sentiments! such anecdotes61! and accompanied with such bursts of laughter! at what must have stricken people with any sense of decency62, dumb! And then there were those spruce youths, so modest in the morning, now drinking pots of porter and smoking cigars. Yes, smoking cigars, though the laws of the cabin, blazoned63 aloft, proclaimed—“No smoking allowed in the cabin!”—Spite of all cabin, or cabinet, or parliamentary laws, they drank, they smoked, they rolled voluminous clouds from one to another; and when requested to desist, said—“O, certainly! It is perfectly64 insufferable for people to smoke in such company; they ought to be turned out.” And then all laughed together at their own wit. The captain was called, and begged to enforce his own law; and they cried, “O yes, captain! certainly, certainly,” and then laughed again; and the captain smiled, and withdrew: for what captain could seriously forbid smoke and drink that were purchased of himself?
These drapers’ apprentices65 and shopmen, for such they seemed, gloried in annoying the whole company; and for this purpose, they placed themselves by the open window, so that the draft carried the smoke across all the place. There did but prove to be one real gentleman in the whole troop, who accommodated the lady with a seat—for not a soul besides would stir—and said, as he saw her annoyance66; for with all her endurance, this was visible—“Madam, what a hell we have got into!”
And such, thought I, is a specimen67 of the populace of the mighty and enlightened London! Truly the schoolmaster has work enough yet before him.
It was a party in a parlour,
All noisy, and all damned!
Our fair friends wished to see the character of the common[560] people in their Sunday recreations, and they saw here a specimen that, I feel persuaded, will satisfy them for life. One, at least, saw this; for the other stood stoically silent upon deck, and saw nothing but rain! rain! rain! O the weary time of that voyage! amid oaths and clamour, vulgarity in all its shapes of swaggering, or maudlin70 foolishness, riot of action, and indecorum of speech, drinking, smoking, crushing, laughing, swearing,—a confusion carried along the fair Thames, and into the heart of London, worse than that of Babel, and worthy71 of Pandemonium72. How many thousands of such Sunday revellers, steeped in drink, and roystering vulgarity, were pouring into that mighty heart of civilization and Christian73 knowledge, at the moment we joyfully74 skipped up Westminster-stairs, and thanked heaven that the Goethe experiment was over.
What London exhibits on its own great scale, all our populous75 manufacturing towns exhibit, each in its own degree. It is curious to observe from the earliest hour of a Sunday morning, in fine weather, what groups are pouring out into the country. There are mechanics who, in their shops and factories,—while they have been caged up by their imperious necessities during the week, and have only obtained thence sights of the clear blue sky above, of the green fields laughing far away, or have only caught the wafting76 of a refreshing77 gale78 on their fevered cheek as they hurried homeward to a hasty meal, or back again to the incarceration79 of Mammon,—have had their souls inflamed80 with desires for breaking away into the free country. These have been planning, day after day, whither they shall go on Sunday. To what distant village; to what object of attraction. There have come visions of a neat country alehouse to them; its clean hearth81, sanded floor; its capital ale, and aromatic82 pipe after a long walk; its pure unadulterated fare, sweet bread, savoury rashers of bacon, beef steaks and onions, and all with most mouth-watering odours. Others have seen clear hurrying trout83-streams, or deep still fish-ponds, lying all along wild moors84, or amid tangled86 woods; and they have determined to be with them. They will take angle and net; they will strip off clothes, and take the trout with their hands, from under the grassy87 banks of their little swift streams. They will have a dash at the squire’s carp, when he and all his people are at church.[561] And, in other seasons, mushroom gathering88, and nutting, and all kinds of what is called Sabbath-breaking, come before them with an unconquerable impetus89. For to their minds—neglected, but full of strong desires and pent-up energies—nature’s delights, wild pursuits, bodily refreshments90, and the enjoyment of one day’s full freedom from towns, red walls, dry pavements, shops, masters, and even wives and children, are mixed up into a strange, but wonderfully bewitching excitement. These are going off, before the world in general is awake, at four, five, or six o’clock in a morning, in clusters of twos and threes, sixes and sevens, with long and eager strides, stout91 sticks in their hands, and faces set towards the country with a determined expression of fresh-air hungriness. And there, again, are going the bird-catchers; two or three of them, with two or three children with them, perhaps. They have some far-off green lane, or furzy common, or airy down in their mind, to which they are hastening with their cages, carried under a piece of green baize, or blinded with a handkerchief. All the way will they stalk on at a four-mile rate, and these little lads—the least not more than five years old—will go on trotting93 after them, and never think of weariness till all the sport is over, and they are making their way homeward in the evening. Then shall you see them dragged along by one of their father’s hands; for the men will not slacken pace for them, but pull them along with them; and you will see those little legs go on, trot92, trot, trot, till you think they will actually be worn to the stumps94 before they reach home. These men and eager lads you will find in some solitary95 spot seven or eight miles off, if you go out so far, seated silently under a tall hedge or old tree, or in some moorland thicket96, watching their apparatus97, which is placed at a distance; their tame bird, of the species they are seeking to take, chained by its leg to a crossed stick, or a bough98 thrust into the ground. There it is, hopping99 about and chirping100 in the sunshine; and around stand cages containing other decoy birds, and other cages ready to receive the unsuspicious birds, that, attracted by the hopping and chirping of their captive kinsmen102, will presently come and alight near them, and speedily get entangled103 in the limed twigs104 that are disposed about, or will find the net that is ready spread for them, come swoop105 over them. Every person who has walked the streets[562] of London, has seen the crowds of these little captives, larks106, woodlarks, linnets, goldfinches, nightingales, etc., in the shops, which have been thus caught on all the great heaths and downs, for twenty miles round the metropolis, by fowlers, who are nearly always thus employed there.
Then, again, you see another Sunday class; tradesmen, shopkeepers, and their assistants and apprentices,—all those who have friends in the country,—on horseback or in gigs, driving off to spend the day with those that come occasionally and pay them a visit at markets and fairs. The faces of these are set for farm and other country-houses within twenty miles round. There is not a horse or gig to be had for love or money at any of the livery-stables on a Sunday. These hebdomadal rusticators,—these good dinner-eaters, fruit-devourers, curd-and-cream-consumers, pipe-smokers, and loungers in gardens, garden-arbours, crofts, orchards,—these soi-disant judges of cattle, crops, dogs, guns, game,—these haunters of country-houses, complimenters of country beauties, and lovers of good country fare,—have got them all. Yes, yes, many a pleasant Sunday in the country do these men spend after their fashion,—none of the worst, if none of the holiest; and yet they go to the village church too sometimes, and wonder that so fine a preacher should be hidden in such a place. Towards nine or ten o’clock in the evening, they will be pouring back into the town as blithely109 as they rolled out in the morning, being now primed with all those good things that lured110 them away so sharply after breakfast.
And, when they were gone, how sunnily and cheerily passed the day in the town; the merry bells all ringing, the gay people all abroad, streaming along the smooth pavements to church or chapel111, or for the forenoon and evening promenade112, in their fresh and handsome attire113. Such troops of lovely women, such counterpoising numbers of goodly and well-dressed men: all squalor, and poverty, and trouble, and distress114, shrunk backward into the alleys115 and dens12 out of sight; all cares and tradesmanship shut up in the closed shops and warehouses; and nothing but ease, leisure, bravery of equipment, and shew of wealth, walking in the face of the sun, as if there was no reason why they should not walk there for ever. The very beggars are gone, like swallows in autumn—not one to[563] be seen, except in the secret rendezvous116 where they pass one long day of luxurious117 idleness. The barrack has sent forth its troop of soldiers in their rich full-dress. They have marched with sounding music to the great church, with their usual crowd of boys and idle men after them. And then, morning, noon, or evening, you have seen a group of people collect in the market-place, or some open street, that has grown and grown into a large, dense crowd; and then you have seen a man suddenly appear, with bare head, and book in hand, in the centre. This is some field-preacher; one of many hundreds that on this day, in towns, villages, rural lanes, or on heaths and commons, go out to preach to them who are too indifferent, or too shabby, to come into a respectable place of worship.
We often think how strange it would have been to have lived in the days of the Reformation, or of the Puritans, when men full of zeal118 went to and fro, through the length and breadth of the land, to denounce the dominant119 form of religion, and preach repentance120 and salvation121 from the Bible. We have not the opposition122 and the persecution123 now, or we should have just such men and such scenes. There is such freedom for every man to choose his own mode of worship, and the religiously inclined have so many modes to choose from, and to associate them with a circle of people so much after their own hearts, that they have no impulse to seek further; no, not to seek after those who have no particular desire to be found; they think it enough that they have chapel-room and open doors for those who will come. It is chiefly, therefore, the poor that are left to seek after the poor; that feel it incumbent124 to “go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to come in.” The mechanic, who has been labouring hard all the week in his worldly vocation125, now shaves and washes, and dresses the best he may, and goes forth, fearing not the sneers126 and the scorn of the great and learned, of the worldly-wise and genteel, but comes into the very face of them, and before their gay windows in the open square; often before the lofty church and majestic cathedral, whose organ-tones are deeply pealing127 in his ears. There he lifts up his homely features, his rudely clipped head; there he lifts up his horny hand, that has for many a year dealt sturdy strokes to inanimate matter, and now deals, with tenfold zeal,[564] strokes as hard to hearts as hard. There he lifts up his voice in no finely modulated128 or practised tones, but with earnest pleadings and awful threatenings and unfoldings of God’s judgments129 on the wicked and careless; and then, with as earnest and affectionate expositions of his mercies, arrests, terrifies, melts, and fills with new sensations and desires the hearts of his fellows in the lowest regions of human life, who have lived beyond the sound of heavenly promises, and of God’s love and fear in a great measure, “because no one cared for their souls.”
The wise may wonder; the learned may curl the lip of classical pride; the gay and the happy, who live in splendid houses, and worship in splendid pews and beneath high and arched roofs, may pass by, and not even glance on the poor illiterate130 preacher and his spell-bound audience; but that man is, after all, a patriot131 and a scholar; a good subject of the realm—a good servant of heaven; and will probably effect more real benefit in one day, than a dozen of us, who think sufficiently132 well of our services to the commonwealth133, shall effect in all our lives: and till some comprehensive plan is adopted, by which the Sabbath may lay all its advantages, all its holy peace, all its knowledge and heavenly fruition, before every man, woman and child, in this great empire, he must and shall do what he can to supply the deficiency. With all his ignorance,—and he has much,—he has learned what is necessary for the good of his own spirit, and the strength of natural sympathy has taught him the way to communicate it to the hearts of his fellows. He knows the language, the style, the tone of sentiment and the species of argument that the soonest reaches them. He knows their besetments and their wants, for he has been pursued by the same needs, tainted134 by the same corruptions136, baptized into the same distresses137; he has an experimental knowledge that no man of another class can have. With all his extravagance,—and he has much,—he has not half the amount that we daily see in more dignified138 places; and for the wildness, the error, the eccentricity139 of his doctrines140, ah! how much more readily could we match them in those after whom carriages roll, and the world runs, and on whom honours and wealth are heaped as an inadequate141 reward. See there, how he extends his arms! how he beats the air! how he strains every muscle, and exerts every fibre of his[565] frame, till the perspiration142 rolls from his heated brow; how he thunders, and makes the whole great area ring with the outbreak of his terrors, his adjurations, and his appeals! And yet, from the simple table on which he is mounted shall no folly143 proceed, that has not its counterpart in the most dignified pulpit, wholly freed—and that is a world of advantage—from the freezing indifference144 that fills thousands with its torpidity145.
For the seamen146, London and Liverpool, and other ports, offer their floating or seamen’s chapels147, where they may hear the gospel preached in a language that goes straight to their hearts and understandings, but which a landsman would attempt in vain. Like the lower orders in general, they have a language and an experience of their own, and the man who preaches to them in another language, and with other imagery, cannot keep alive their attention, however eloquent148, or however learned; and he who attempts their language without a practical knowledge of their life, only excites their ridicule149. It is even necessary, occasionally, to accommodate the language of Scripture150 to their ideas and experience. A very popular preacher once requested permission to address the sailors in their floating chapel at Liverpool, and, attempting seamen’s language, told them that he who secured an interest in Christ, cast anchor on a rock! At once all eyebrows151 were elevated in amazement152, and broad grins overspread every face. “Hear him! Hear him!” they cried, one to another, “he talks of casting anchor on a rock!” Yet there was no uncommon153 hardness, or propensity154 to scoffing155 in these men; on the contrary, it was admirable to see, when Captain Scoresby, the well-known northern voyager, addressed them, how they kindled156 with interest, and melted down in emotion: when he told them how Christ preached in a ship, how he loved the mariners157 of his days, the tears started from their eyes, and rolled over scores of hardy158 cheeks that had faced the fiercest gales107, and been tanned by the hottest suns. It was, and is still, I doubt not, delightful159 to see such an audience. There was the smart sailor and his smart lass; others with their wives and families; and old men who had spent the greatest portion of a long life on the seas. Such a collection of black and curly heads, of bushy whiskers, of the thin and white hair of age, of eyes gleaming with youth and life, or dimmed[566] by the extremity160 of years!—such an intent and childlike throng of listeners! all so little accustomed to artifice,—to conceal161 or feel shame for their emotions,—that the changes of their expressions were as rapid and striking as those of the sun and wind on their own element. There sate162 some happy fathers, with their children on their knees, as though they saw so little of them, had found them so lately, or must leave them so soon, that they could not have them near enough. There sate strong men, touched to the depth of their hearts by the pathos163 of the preacher, leaning against the side of the cabin, and weeping unrestrained tears, or listening, with lips apart, in breathless attention; and there sate women, who, when winds and tempests were mentioned, turned a fond, anxious look to some dear one sitting by them; and others, who when the voyagers at sea were prayed for, clasped their hands, and looked to heaven unutterable things. Great must be the comfort and the blessing164 of thus bringing Christianity to the knowledge of our seafaring men. Great has been its effect amongst the fishermen of Cornwall, as any one may see, who will visit the crowded chapels of St. Ives, and other places.
But there is still another class of preachers that may be encountered on Sundays: the disciples165 of Irving. None of your simple mechanics, but gentlemen—gentlemen in appearance, in manners, in education. You will see such a one pulling out his pocket Bible, in some public situation, and beginning to address the two or three that happen to stand near. The singularity of the thing soon attracts others; there begins to be a moving from all parts towards that spot, till there is at length a large and dense crowd. There, in the midst of this wondering and promiscuous166 circle, in the most cultivated tones, with the most proper action, and in the purest language, you hear, perhaps, the Honourable167 and Reverend —— himself, “dealing damnation round the land;” depicting168 his audience in the most fearful colours, as fallen, utterly169 corrupt135, blackened with every imaginable sin, and wandering blindfold170 on the very brink171 of hell. In the opinion of some of these preachers, all the world is lying in ignorance and sin; all other preachers of all other creeds172 are blind leaders of the blind; to him and his few coadjutors alone has the mystery of godliness been revealed; “they are the men, and wisdom shall die with[567] them.” I must confess that to me, this cold Calvinism, this abusive and declamatory zeal, though coming from very gentlemanly mouths, is not a thousandth part so attractive as the warm-hearted, liberal, and affectionate addresses of the illiterate mechanic. Nay173, to me it is excessively repulsive174; and I would much rather find myself in some far-off village, in some green lane, or on the heath, where such are holding their summer camp-meeting.
Where all is still save praise; and where hard by
The ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun:
The wild bee hums more solemnly: the deep sky;
The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook,—
All look as if they knew the day, the hour,
And felt with man the need and joy of thanks.
Philip Bailey’s Festus.
There at least are warmth and enthusiasm; there at least, if there be extravagance, is also an exhibition of much character, and plenty of the picturesque176. A crowd of rustic108 people is assembled; a wagon177 is drawn thither178 for a stage, and in it stand men with black skull-caps, or coloured handkerchiefs tied upon their heads to prevent taking cold after their violent exertions179; men of those grave and massy, or thin, worn, and sharp features, that tell of strong, rude intellects, or active and consuming spirits; men in whose bright, quick eyes, or still, deep gaze, from beneath shaggy brows, you read passions that will lighten, or a shrewdness that will tell with strong effect. In their addresses you are continually catching180 the most picturesque expressions, the most unlooked-for illustrations,—often the most irresistibly181 amusing. I heard one edifying182 his audience with an account of the apples of the Dead Sea, gathered most likely, at a tenth transmission, from Adam Clarke’s Commentaries. “Ay,” said he, “sin is fair to look at, but foul183 to taste. It is like those apples that grow by the Red Sea. They are yellow as gold on one side, and rosy-cheeked as a fair maid of a morning on the other; but bite them,—yes, I say bite them, and they are full of pepper and mustard!”
Another was talking of God’s goodness, and applying Christ’s illustration: “‘If you ask your father for bread, will he give you a stone?’ Now, my brethren I don’t mean a stone of bread,—Christ[568] didn’t mean a stone of bread: for, may be, it was not sold by the stone in his time; and he would not be a bad father neither, that gave you a stone of bread at a time; but I mean a stone from the road,—a real pebble184, as cold as charity, as bare as the back of my hand, and as hard as the heart of a sinner.”
Now, none but those who had known the immense value of a stone of bread would be likely to think of such a thing, or to guard against such a mistake. But with such laughable errors, with much ignorance and outrageous185 cant186, there is often mixed up a rude intellectual strength, and a freshness of thought that never knew the process of taming and trammelling called education, and that fears no criticism; and flashes of poetical187 light, that please the more for the rudeness of their accompaniment. There are women, too, that exhort188 in soft voices and pathetic tones on such occasions; and, suddenly the crowd will divide itself into several companies, and go singing to different parts of the field. Their hymns have a wild vivacity189, a metaphoric190 boldness, and strange as it may seem, a greater spirituality about them than those of any other English sect191 that I have come in contact with. It is well known that they are set to some of the finest and liveliest, and most touching192 song-tunes; and hence, perhaps partly their startling effect; having divested193 themselves of that dry and dolorous194 monotony that hangs about sectarian hymns in general. They describe the Christian life under the figure of battles and campaigns, with “Christ their conquering captain” at their head; as pilgrimages, and night-watches; and hence their addresses are full of the most vivid imagery. I well remember, in the dusk of a fine summer evening, the moon hanging in the far western sky, the dark leaves of the brookside alders195 rustling196 in the twilight197 air, hearing, from the dim heath where they were holding their camp-meetings, the wild sound of one of these hymns. It was the dialogue of a spirit questioning and answering itself in the passage of death and the entrance into the happy land, and the chorused words of “All is well!—All is well!” came over the shadowy waste with an unearthly effect.
Singing then, such hymns,—but on these occasions chiefly of supplication198 or triumph,—they kneel down, each company in a circle; the leaders pray; and it is curious to see what looks of[569] holy jealousy199 are cast from one circle to another, as the voice of one leader predominates over those of the others by its vehemence200, its loudness, or its eloquence201; drawing speedily away all the audience of the less gifted. It is scarcely now to be expected that we shall ever find a Whitefield, a Wesley, a Fox, or a Bunyan, on such an occasion, but from the effect of the enthusiasm, the earnestness, the wild energy and rude eloquence, that I have seen in a few humble202 men, I can well imagine, with Lord Byron, what must be the impression made by one strong mind under the broad blue sky, and amid the accompanying picturesqueness203 of scene and people.
But let us away into the far, far country! Into the still, pure, unadulterated country. Ah! here indeed is a Sabbath! What a sunny peace, what a calm yet glad repose204 lies on its fair hills; over all its solemn woods! How its flowery dales, and deep, secluded205 valleys reflect the holy tranquillity206 of heaven! It is morning; and the sun comes up the sky as if he knew it was a day of universal pause in the workings of the world; he shines over the glittering dews, and green leaves, and ten thousand blossoms; and the birds fill the blue fresh air with a rapture207 of music. The earth looks new and beautiful as on the day of its creation; but it is as full of rest as if it drew near to its close—all its revolutions past, all its turbulence208 hushed, all its mighty griefs healed, its mysterious destinies accomplished210; and the light of eternity211 about to break over it with a new and imperishable power. Man rests from his labours, and every thing rests with him. There lie the weary steeds that have dragged the chain, and smarted under the lash—that have pulled the plough and the ponderous212 wagon, or flown over hill and dale at man’s bidding; there they lie, on the slope of the sunny field; and the very sheep and cattle seem imbued213 with their luxurious enjoyment of rest. The farmer has been walking into his fields, looking over this gate and that fence, into enclosures of grass, mottled with flowers like a carpet, or rich green corn growing almost visibly; at his cattle and his flock; and now he comes back with leisurely214 steps, and enters the shady quiet of his house. And it is a shady quiet. The sun glances about its porch, and flickers215 amongst the leaves on the wall, and the sparrows chirp101, and fly to and fro; but the dog lies[570] and slumbers216 on the step of the door, or only raises his head to snap at the flies that molest217 him. The very cat, coiled up on a sunbright border in the garden, sleeps voluptuously:—within, all is cleanness and rest. There is none of the running and racketing of the busy week-day: the pressing of curds218, and shaping and turning of cheese; the rolling of the barrel-churn; the scouring219 of pails; the pumping, and slopping, and working, and chattering220, and singing, and scolding of dairymaids. All that can be dispensed221 with, is, and what must be done is done quietly, and is early away. There is a clean, cool parlour; the open window lets in the odour of the garden—the yet cool and delicious odour, and the hum of bees. Flowers stand in their pots in the window; gathered flowers stand on the breakfast table; and the farmer’s comely222 wife, already dressed for the day, as she sees him come in, sits down to pour out his coffee. Over the croft-gate the labourers are leaning, talking of the last week’s achievements, and those of the week to come; and in many a cottage garden the cottagers, with their wives and children, are wandering up and down, admiring the growth of this and that; and every one settles in his own mind, that his cabbages, and peas, and beans are the best in the whole country; and that as for currants, gooseberries, apricots, and strawberries, there never were such crops since trees and bushes grew.
But the bells ring out from the old church tower. The pastor223 is already issuing from his pleasant parsonage; groups of peasantry are already seen streaming over the uplands towards the village. In the lanes, gay ribbons and Sunday-gowns glance from between the trees, and every house sends forth its inhabitants to worship. Blessings224 on those old grey fabrics225, that stand on many a hill and in many a lowly hollow, all over this beloved country; for much as we reprobate226 that system of private or political patronage227 by which unqualified, unholy, and unchristian men have sometimes been thrust into their ancient pulpits, I am of Sir Walter Scott’s opinion, that no places are so congenial to the holy simplicity228 of Christian worship as they are. They have an air of antiquity229 about them—a shaded sanctity, and stand so venerably amid the most English scenes, and the tombs of generations of the dead, that we cannot enter them without having our imaginations and our hearts[571] powerfully impressed with every feeling and thought that can make us love our country, and yet feel that it is not our abiding230 place. Those antique arches, those low massy doors, were raised in days that are long gone by; around these walls, nay, beneath our very feet, sleep those who, in their generations, helped, each in his little sphere, to build up England to her present pitch of greatness. We catch glimpses of that deep veneration231, of that unambitious simplicity of mind and manner that we would fain hold fast amid our growing knowledge, and its inevitable232 remodelling233 of the whole framework of society. We are made to feel earnestly the desire to pluck the spirit of faith, the integrity of character, and the whole heart of love to kin13 and country, out of the ignorance and blind subjection of the past. Therefore is it that I have always loved the village church, that I have delighted to stroll far through the summer fields; and hear still onward234 its bells ringing happily; to enter and sit down amongst its rustic congregation,—better pleased with their murmur235 of responses, and their artless but earnest chant, than with all the splendour and parade of more lofty fabrics. Therefore is it that I long to see the people rescued from the thraldom236 of aristocratic patronage, that they may select at their own will, the pious237 and pure hearted to fill every pulpit in the land, and station in every parish a lover of God, a lover of the country, and a lover of the poor.
But Sunday morning is past: the afternoon is rolling away; but it shall not roll away without its dower of happiness shed on every down, and into every beautiful vale of this fair kingdom. Closed are the doors of the church, but opened are those of thousands and tens of thousands of dwellings238 to receive friends and kindred. And around the pleasant tea-table, happy groups are gathering in each other’s houses, freed from the clinging, pressing, enslaving cares of the six days; and sweetly, and full of renewing strength to the heart, does the evening there roll away. And does it not roll as sweetly where, by many a cottage-door, the aged grandfather and grandmother sit with two generations about them, and bask239 in another glorious Sabbath sunset? And is it not sweet where friends stroll through the delicious fields, in high or cheerful talk; along the green lane, or broom-engoldened hill-side; or down into the woodland valley, where the waters run clear and[572] chimingly, amid the dipping grass and the brooklime; and the yellow beams of the descending240 sun glance serenely241 amongst the trees? And is it not sweet where, on some sequestered242 stile, sit two happy lovers, or where they stray along some twilight path, and the woodbine and the wild-rose are drooping243 their flowery boughs244 over them, while earth and heaven, supremely245 lovely in themselves, take new and divine hues246 from their own passionate247 spirits; and youth and truth are theirs: the present is theirs in love, the future is theirs in high confidence: all that makes glorious the life of angels is theirs for the time. Yes! all through the breadth of this great land,—through its cities, its villages, its fair fields, its liberated248 millions are walking in the eye of heaven, drinking in its sublime249 calm, refreshed by its gales, soothed250 by the peaceful beauty of the earth. There is a pause of profound, holy tranquillity, in which twilight drops down upon innumerable roofs, and prayers ascend251 from countless252 hearths253 in city and in field, on heath and mountain,—and then, ’tis gone; and the Sabbath is ended.
But blessings, and ten thousand blessings be upon that day; and let myriads254 of thanks stream up to the Throne of God, for this divine and regenerating255 gift to man. As I have sate in some flowery dale, with the sweetness of May around me, on a week-day, I have thought of all the millions of immortal256 creatures toiling257 for their daily life in factories and shops, amid the whirl of machinery259 and the greedy cravings of mercantile gain, and suddenly this golden interval260 of time has lain before me in all its brightness,—a time, and a perpetually recurring261 time, in which the iron grasp of earthly tyranny is loosed, and Peace, Faith, and Freedom, the angels of God, come down and walk once more amongst men!
Ten thousand blessings on this day, the friend of man and beast. The bigot would rob it of its healthful freedom, on the one hand, and coop man up in his work-a-day dungeons262, and cause him to walk with downcast eyes and demure263 steps; and the libertine264 would desecrate265 all its sober decorum on the other. God, and the sound heart and sterling266 sense of Englishmen, preserve it from both these evils! Let us still avoid Puritan rigidity267, and French dissipation. Let our children and our servants, and those who toil258 for[573] us in vaults268, and shops, and factories, between the intervals269 of solemn worship have freedom to walk in the face of heaven and the beauty of earth, for in the great temple of nature stand together, Health and Piety270. For myself, I speak from experience, it has always been my delight to go out on a Sunday, and like Isaac, meditate271 in the fields, and especially, in the sweet tranquillity and amid the gathering shadows of evening; and never in temple or in closet, did more hallowed influences fall upon my heart. With the twilight and the hush209 of earth, a tenderness has stolen upon me; a desire for every thing pure and holy; a love for every creature on which God has stamped the wonder of his handiwork; but especially for every child of humanity; and then have I been made to feel that there is no Oratory272 like that which has heaven itself for its roof, and no teaching like the teaching of the Spirit which created, and still overshadows the world with its Infinite wings.
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1
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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3
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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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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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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wharfs
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| 码头，停泊处 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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42
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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43
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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44
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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45
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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46
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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47
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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50
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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51
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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52
jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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53
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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54
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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55
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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56
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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57
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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58
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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62
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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63
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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64
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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66
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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67
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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68
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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69
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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70
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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71
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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72
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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76
wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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78
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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79
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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80
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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82
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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83
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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84
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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86
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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88
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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89
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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90
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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92
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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93
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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94
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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95
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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96
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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97
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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98
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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99
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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100
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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101
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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102
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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103
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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105
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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106
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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107
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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108
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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109
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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110
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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112
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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113
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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114
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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115
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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116
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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117
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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118
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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119
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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120
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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121
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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122
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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123
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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124
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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125
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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126
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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127
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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128
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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129
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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130
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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131
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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132
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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133
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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134
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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135
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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136
corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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137
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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138
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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139
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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140
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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141
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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142
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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143
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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144
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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145
torpidity
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| n.麻痹 | |
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146
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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147
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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148
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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149
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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150
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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151
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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152
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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153
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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154
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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155
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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156
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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157
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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158
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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159
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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160
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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161
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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162
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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163
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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164
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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165
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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166
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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167
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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168
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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169
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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170
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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171
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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172
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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173
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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174
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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175
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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176
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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177
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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178
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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179
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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180
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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181
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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182
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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183
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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184
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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185
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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186
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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187
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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188
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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189
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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190
metaphoric
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| adj. 使用隐喻的；比喻的；比喻意义的 | |
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191
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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192
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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193
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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194
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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195
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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196
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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197
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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198
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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199
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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200
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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201
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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202
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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203
picturesqueness
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204
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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205
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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206
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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207
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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208
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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209
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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210
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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211
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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213
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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215
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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216
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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218
curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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219
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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221
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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222
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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223
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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224
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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225
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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226
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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227
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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228
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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229
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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230
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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231
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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232
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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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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235
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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236
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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238
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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239
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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240
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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241
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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242
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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243
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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244
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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246
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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248
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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249
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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251
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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252
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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253
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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254
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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255
regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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256
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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257
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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258
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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259
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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260
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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261
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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262
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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263
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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264
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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265
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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266
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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267
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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268
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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269
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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270
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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271
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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272
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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