THE Renaissance was not a political or religious movement. It was a state of mind.
The men of the Renaissance continued to be the obedient sons of the mother church. They were subjects of kings and emperors and dukes and murmured not.
But their outlook upon life was changed. They began to wear different clothes—to speak a different language—to live different lives in different houses.
They no longer concentrated all their thoughts and their efforts upon the blessed existence that awaited them in Heaven. They tried to establish their Paradise upon this planet, and, truth to tell, they succeeded in a remarkable5 degree.
I have quite often warned you against the danger that lies in historical dates. People take them too literally6. They think of the Middle Ages as a period of darkness and ignorance. "Click," says the clock, and the Renaissance begins and cities and palaces are flooded with the bright sunlight of an eager intellectual curiosity.
As a matter of fact, it is quite impossible to draw such sharp lines. The thirteenth century belonged most decidedly to the Middle Ages. All historians agree upon that. But was it a time of darkness and stagnation8 merely? By no means. People were tremendously alive. Great states were being founded. Large centres of commerce were being developed. High above the turretted towers of the castle and the peaked roof of the town-hall, rose the slender spire10 of the newly built Gothic cathedral. Everywhere the world was in motion. The high and mighty11 gentlemen of the city-hall, who had just become conscious of their own strength (by way of their recently acquired riches) were struggling for more power with their feudal12 masters. The members of the guilds14 who had just become aware of the important fact that "numbers count" were fighting the high and mighty gentlemen of the city-hall. The king and his shrewd advisers15 went fishing in these troubled waters and caught many a shining bass16 of profit which they proceeded to cook and eat before the noses of the surprised and disappointed councillors and guild13 brethren.
To enliven the scenery during the long hours of evening when the badly lighted streets did not invite further political and economic dispute, the Troubadours and Minnesingers told their stories and sang their songs of romance and adventure and heroism17 and loyalty18 to all fair women. Meanwhile youth, impatient of the slowness of progress, flocked to the universities, and thereby19 hangs a story.
The Middle Ages were "internationally minded." That sounds difficult, but wait until I explain it to you. We modern people are "nationally minded." We are Americans or Englishmen or Frenchmen or Italians and speak English or French or Italian and go to English and French and Italian universities, unless we want to specialise in some particular branch of learning which is only taught elsewhere, and then we learn another language and go to Munich or Madrid or Moscow. But the people of the thirteenth or fourteenth century rarely talked of themselves as Englishmen or Frenchmen or Italians. They said, "I am a citizen of Sheffield or Bordeaux or Genoa." Because they all belonged to one and the same church they felt a certain bond of brotherhood20. And as all educated men could speak Latin, they possessed21 an international language which removed the stupid language barriers which have grown up in modern Europe and which place the small nations at such an enormous disadvantage. Just as an example, take the case of Erasmus, the great preacher of tolerance22 and laughter, who wrote his books in the sixteenth century. He was the native of a small Dutch village. He wrote in Latin and all the world was his audience. If he were alive to-day, he would write in Dutch. Then only five or six million people would be able to read him. To be understood by the rest of Europe and America, his publishers would be obliged to translate his books into twenty different languages. That would cost a lot of money and most likely the publishers would never take the trouble or the risk.
Six hundred years ago that could not happen. The greater part of the people were still very ignorant and could not read or write at all. But those who had mastered the difficult art of handling the goose-quill23 belonged to an international republic of letters which spread across the entire continent and which knew of no boundaries and respected no limitations of language or nationality. The universities were the strongholds of this republic. Unlike modern fortifications, they did not follow the frontier. They were to be found wherever a teacher and a few pupils happened to find themselves together. There again the Middle Ages and the Renaissance differed from our own time. Nowadays, when a new university is built, the process (almost invariably) is as follows: Some rich man wants to do something for the community in which he lives or a particular religious sect25 wants to build a school to keep its faithful children under decent supervision26, or a state needs doc-tors and lawyers and teachers. The university begins as a large sum of money which is deposited in a bank. This money is then used to construct buildings and laboratories and dormitories. Finally professional teachers are hired, entrance examinations are held and the university is on the way.
But in the Middle Ages things were done differently. A wise man said to himself, "I have discovered a great truth. I must impart my knowledge to others." And he began to preach his wisdom wherever and whenever he could get a few people to listen to him, like a modern soap-box orator27. If he was an interesting speaker, the crowd came and stayed. If he was dull, they shrugged28 their shoulders and continued their way.
By and by certain young men began to come regularly to hear the words of wisdom of this great teacher. They brought copybooks with them and a little bottle of ink and a goose quill and wrote down what seemed to be important. One day it rained. The teacher and his pupils retired29 to an empty basement or the room of the "Professor." The learned man sat in his chair and the boys sat on the floor. That was the beginning of the University, the "universitas," a corporation of professors and students during the Middle Ages, when the "teacher" counted for everything and the building in which he taught counted for very little.
As an example, let me tell you of something that happened in the ninth century. In the town of Salerno near Naples there were a number of excellent physicians. They attracted people desirous of learning the medical profession and for almost a thousand years (until 1817) there was a university of Salerno which taught the wisdom of Hippocrates, the great Greek doctor who had practiced his art in ancient Hellas in the fifth century before the birth of Christ.
Then there was Abelard, the young priest from Brittany, who early in the twelfth century began to lecture on theology and logic30 in Paris. Thousands of eager young men flocked to the French city to hear him. Other priests who disagreed with him stepped forward to explain their point of view. Paris was soon filled with a clamouring multitude of Englishmen and Germans and Italians and students from Sweden and Hungary and around the old cathedral which stood on a little island in the Seine there grew the famous University of Paris. In Bologna in Italy, a monk31 by the name of Gratian had compiled a text-book for those whose business it was to know the laws of the church. Young priests and many laymen32 then came from all over Europe to hear Gratian explain his ideas. To protect themselves against the landlords and the innkeepers and the boarding-house ladies of the city, they formed a corporation (or University) and behold33 the beginning of the university of Bologna.
Next there was a quarrel in the University of Paris. We do not know what caused it, but a number of disgruntled teachers together with their pupils crossed the channel and found a hospitable34 home in a little village on the Thames called Oxford35, and in this way the famous University of Oxford came into being. In the same way, in the year 1222, there had been a split in the University of Bologna. The discontented teachers (again followed by their pupils) had moved to Padua and their proud city thenceforward boasted of a university of its own. And so it went from Valladolid in Spain to Cracow in distant Poland and from Poitiers in France to Rostock in Germany.
It is quite true that much of the teaching done by these early professors would sound absurd to our ears, trained to listen to logarithms and geometrical theorems. The point however, which I want to make is this—the Middle Ages and especially the thirteenth century were not a time when the world stood entirely36 still. Among the younger generation, there was life, there was enthusiasm, and there was a restless if somewhat bashful asking of questions. And out of this turmoil37 grew the Renaissance.
But just before the curtain went down upon the last scene of the Mediaeval world, a solitary38 figure crossed the stage, of whom you ought to know more than his mere9 name. This man was called Dante. He was the son of a Florentine lawyer who belonged to the Alighieri family and he saw the light of day in the year 1265. He grew up in the city of his ancestors while Giotto was painting his stories of the life of St. Francis of Assisi upon the walls of the Church of the Holy Cross, but often when he went to school, his frightened eyes would see the puddles39 of blood which told of the terrible and endless warfare40 that raged forever between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, the followers41 of the Pope and the adherents42 of the Emperors.
When he grew up, he became a Guelph, because his father had been one before him, just as an American boy might become a Democrat43 or a Republican, simply because his father had happened to be a Democrat or a Republican. But after a few years, Dante saw that Italy, unless united under a single head, threatened to perish as a victim of the disordered jealousies44 of a thousand little cities. Then he became a Ghilbeiline.
He looked for help beyond the Alps. He hoped that a mighty emperor might come and re-establish unity24 and order. Alas45! he hoped in vain. The Ghibellines were driven out of Florence in the year 1802. From that time on until the day of his death amidst the dreary46 ruins of Ravenna, in the year 1321, Dante was a homeless wanderer, eating the bread of charity at the table of rich patrons whose names would have sunk into the deepest pit of oblivion but for this single fact, that they had been kind to a poet in his misery47. During the many years of exile, Dante felt compelled to justify48 himself and his actions when he had been a political leader in his home-town, and when he had spent his days walking along the banks of the Arno that he might catch a glimpse of the lovely Beatrice Portinari, who died the wife of another man, a dozen years before the Ghibelline disaster.
He had failed in the ambitions of his career. He had faithfully served the town of is birth and before a corrupt49 court he had been accused of stealing the public funds and had been condemned50 to be burned alive should he venture back within the realm of the city of Florence. To clear himself before his own conscience and before his contemporaries, Dante then created an Imaginary World and with great detail he described the circumstances which had led to his defeat and depicted51 the hopeless condition of greed and lust52 and hatred53 which had turned his fair and beloved Italy into a battlefield for the pitiless mercenaries of wicked and selfish tyrants54.
He tells us how on the Thursday before Easter of the year 1300 he had lost his way in a dense55 forest and how he found his path barred by a leopard56 and a lion and a wolf. He gave himself up for lost when a white figure appeared amidst the trees. It was Virgil, the Roman poet and philosopher, sent upon his errand of mercy by the Blessed Virgin57 and by Beatrice, who from high Heaven watched over the fate of her true lover. Virgil then takes Dante through Purgatory58 and through Hell. Deeper and deeper the path leads them until they reach the lowest pit where Lucifer himself stands frozen into the eternal ice surrounded by the most terrible of sinners, traitors59 and liars60 and those who have achieved fame and success by lies and by deceit. But before the two wanderers have reached this terrible spot, Dante has met all those who in some way or other have played a role in the history of his beloved city. Emperors and Popes, dashing knights61 and whining62 usurers, they are all there, doomed63 to eternal punishment or awaiting the day of deliverance, when they shall leave Purgatory for Heaven.
It is a curious story. It is a handbook of everything the people of the thirteenth century did and felt and feared and prayed for. Through it all moves the figure of the lonely Florentine exile, forever followed by the shadow of his own despair.
And behold! when the gates of death were closing upon the sad poet of the Middle Ages, the portals of life swung open to the child who was to be the first of the men of the Renaissance. That was Francesco Petrarca, the son of the notary64 public of the little town of Arezzo.
Francesco's father had belonged to the same political party as Dante. He too had been exiled and thus it happened that Petrarca (or Petrarch, as we call him) was born away from Florence. At the age of fifteen he was sent to Montpellier in France that he might become a lawyer like his father. But the boy did not want to be a jurist. He hated the law. He wanted to be a scholar and a poet—and because he wanted to be a scholar and a poet beyond everything else, he became one, as people of a strong will are apt to do. He made long voyages, copying manuscripts in Flanders and in the cloisters65 along the Rhine and in Paris and Liege and finally in Rome. Then he went to live in a lonely valley of the wild mountains of Vaucluse, and there he studied and wrote and soon he had become so famous for his verse and for his learning that both the University of Paris and the king of Naples invited him to come and teach their students and subjects. On the way to his new job, he was obliged to pass through Rome. The people had heard of his fame as an editor of half-forgotten Roman authors. They decided7 to honour him and in the ancient forum66 of the Imperial City, Petrarch was crowned with the laurel wreath of the Poet.
From that moment on, his life was an endless career of honour and appreciation67. He wrote the things which people wanted most to hear. They were tired of theological disputations. Poor Dante could wander through hell as much as he wanted. But Petrarch wrote of love and of nature and the sun and never mentioned those gloomy things which seemed to have been the stock in trade of the last generation. And when Petrarch came to a city, all the people flocked out to meet him and he was received like a conquering hero. If he happened to bring his young friend Boccaccio, the story teller68, with him, so much the better. They were both men of their time, full of curiosity, willing to read everything once, digging in forgotten and musty libraries that they might find still another manuscript of Virgil or Ovid or Lucrece or any of the other old Latin poets. They were good Christians69. Of course they were! Everyone was. But no need of going around with a long face and wearing a dirty coat just because some day or other you were going to die. Life was good. People were meant to be happy. You desired proof of this? Very well. Take a spade and dig into the soil. What did you find? Beautiful old statues. Beautiful old vases. Ruins of ancient buildings. All these things were made by the people of the greatest empire that ever existed. They ruled all the world for a thousand years. They were strong and rich and handsome (just look at that bust70 of the Emperor Augustus!). Of course, they were not Christians and they would never be able to enter Heaven. At best they would spend their days in purgatory, where Dante had just paid them a visit.
But who cared? To have lived in a world like that of ancient Rome was heaven enough for any mortal being. And anyway, we live but once. Let us be happy and cheerful for the mere joy of existence.
Such, in short, was the spirit that had begun to fill the narrow and crooked71 streets of the many little Italian cities.
You know what we mean by the "bicycle craze" or the "automobile72 craze." Some one invents a bicycle. People who for hundreds of thousands of years have moved slowly and painfully from one place to another go "crazy" over the prospect73 of rolling rapidly and easily over hill and dale. Then a clever mechanic makes the first automobile. No longer is it necessary to pedal and pedal and pedal. You just sit and let little drops of gasoline do the work for you. Then everybody wants an automobile. Everybody talks about Rolls-Royces and Flivvers and carburetors and mileage74 and oil. Explorers penetrate75 into the hearts of unknown countries that they may find new supplies of gas. Forests arise in Sumatra and in the Congo to supply us with rubber. Rubber and oil become so valuable that people fight wars for their possession. The whole world is "automobile mad" and little children can say "car" before they learn to whisper "papa" and "mamma."
In the fourteenth century, the Italian people went crazy about the newly discovered beauties of the buried world of Rome. Soon their enthusiasm was shared by all the people of western Europe. The finding of an unknown manuscript became the excuse for a civic76 holiday. The man who wrote a grammar became as popular as the fellow who nowadays invents a new spark-plug. The humanist, the scholar who devoted77 his time and his energies to a study of "homo" or mankind (instead of wasting his hours upon fruitless theological investigations), that man was regarded with greater honour and a deeper respect than was ever bestowed78 upon a hero who had just conquered all the Cannibal Islands.
In the midst of this intellectual upheaval79, an event occurred which greatly favoured the study of the ancient philosophers and authors. The Turks were renewing their attacks upon Europe. Constantinople, capital of the last remnant of the original Roman Empire, was hard pressed. In the year 1393 the Emperor, Manuel Paleologue, sent Emmanuel Chrysoloras to western Europe to explain the desperate state of old Byzantium and to ask for aid. This aid never came. The Roman Catholic world was more than willing to see the Greek Catholic world go to the punishment that awaited such wicked heretics. But however indifferent western Europe might be to the fate of the Byzantines, they were greatly interested in the ancient Greeks whose colonists80 had founded the city on the Bosphorus ten centuries after the Trojan war. They wanted to learn Greek that they might read Aristotle and Homer and Plato. They wanted to learn it very badly, but they had no books and no grammars and no teachers. The magistrates81 of Florence heard of the visit of Chrysoloras. The people of their city were "crazy to learn Greek." Would he please come and teach them? He would, and behold! the first professor of Greek teaching alpha, beta, gamma to hundreds of eager young men, begging their way to the city of the Arno, living in stables and in dingy82 attics83 that they night learn how to decline the verb [gr paidenw paideneis paidenei] and enter into the companionship of Sophocles and Homer.
Meanwhile in the universities, the old schoolmen, teaching their ancient theology and their antiquated84 logic; explaining the hidden mysteries of the old Testament85 and discussing the strange science of their Greek-Arabic-Spanish-Latin edition of Aristotle, looked on in dismay and horror. Next, they turned angry. This thing was going too far. The young men were deserting the lecture halls of the established universities to go and listen to some wild-eyed "humanist" with his newfangled notions about a "reborn civilization."
They went to the authorities. They complained. But one cannot force an unwilling86 horse to drink and one cannot make unwilling ears listen to something which does not really interest them. The schoolmen were losing ground rapidly. Here and there they scored a short victory. They combined forces with those fanatics87 who hated to see other people enjoy a happiness which was foreign to their own souls. In Florence, the centre of the Great Rebirth, a terrible fight was fought between the old order and the new. A Dominican monk, sour of face and bitter in his hatred of beauty, was the leader of the mediaeval rear-guard. He fought a valiant89 battle. Day after day he thundered his warnings of God's holy wrath90 through the wide halls of Santa Maria del Fiore. "Repent91," he cried, "repent of your godlessness, of your joy in things that are not holy!" He began to hear voices and to see flaming swords that flashed through the sky. He preached to the little children that they might not fall into the errors of these ways which were leading their fathers to perdition. He organised companies of boy-scouts, devoted to the service of the great God whose prophet he claimed to be. In a sudden moment of frenzy92, the frightened people promised to do penance93 for their wicked love of beauty and pleasure. They carried their books and their statues and their paintings to the market place and celebrated94 a wild "carnival95 of the vanities" with holy singing and most unholy dancing, while Savonarola applied96 his torch to the accumulated treasures.
But when the ashes cooled down, the people began to realise what they had lost. This terrible fanatic88 had made them destroy that which they had come to love above all things. They turned against him, Savonarola was thrown into jail. He was tortured. But he refused to repent for anything he had done. He was an honest man. He had tried to live a holy life. He had willingly destroyed those who deliberately97 refused to share his own point of view. It had been his duty to eradicate98 evil wherever he found it. A love of heathenish books and heathenish beauty in the eyes of this faithful son of the Church, had been an evil. But he stood alone. He had fought the battle of a time that was dead and gone. The Pope in Rome never moved a finger to save him. On the contrary, he approved of his "faithful Florentines" when they dragged Savonarola to the gallows99, hanged him and burned his body amidst the cheerful howling and yelling of the mob.
It was a sad ending, but quite inevitable100. Savonarola would have been a great man in the eleventh century. In the fifteenth century he was merely the leader of a lost cause. For better or worse, the Middle Ages had come to an end when the Pope had turned humanist and when the Vatican became the most important museum of Roman and Greek antiquities101.
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1
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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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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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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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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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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mileage
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| n.里程，英里数；好处，利润 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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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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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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99
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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101
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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