The twelve years that followed were not the happiest or most brilliant phase of Hawthorne’s life; they strike me indeed as having had an altogether peculiar1 dreariness2. They had their uses; they were the period of incubation of the admirable compositions which eventually brought him reputation and prosperity. But of their actual aridity3 the young man must have had a painful consciousness; he never lost the impression of it. Mr. Lathrop quotes a phrase to this effect from one of his letters, late in life. “I am disposed to thank God for the gloom and chill of my early life, in the hope that my share of adversity came then, when I bore it alone.” And the same writer alludes5 to a touching7 passage in the English Note–Books, which I shall quote entire:—
“I think I have been happier this Christmas (1854) than ever before — by my own fireside, and with my wife and children about me — more content to enjoy what I have, less anxious for anything beyond it, in this life. My early life was perhaps a good preparation for the declining half of life; it having been such a blank that any thereafter would compare favourably8 with it. For a long, long while, I have occasionally been visited with a singular dream; and I have an impression that I have dreamed it ever since I have been in England. It is, that I am still at college, or, sometimes, even, at school — and there is a sense that I have been there unconscionably long, and have quite failed to make such progress as my contemporaries have done; and I seem to meet some of them with a feeling of shame and depression that broods over me as I think of it, even when awake. This dream, recurring9 all through these twenty or thirty years, must be one of the effects of that heavy seclusion10 in which I shut myself up for twelve years after leaving college, when everybody moved onward11 and left me behind. How strange that it should come now, when I may call myself famous and prosperous!— when I am happy too.”
The allusion12 here is to a state of solitude13 which was the young man’s positive choice at the time — or into which he drifted at least under the pressure of his natural shyness and reserve. He was not expansive, he was not addicted14 to experiments and adventures of intercourse15, he was not, personally, in a word, what is called sociable16. The general impression of this silence-loving and shade-seeking side of his character is doubtless exaggerated, and, in so far as it points to him as a sombre and sinister17 figure, is almost ludicrously at fault. He was silent, diffident, more inclined to hesitate, to watch and wait and meditate18, than to produce himself, and fonder, on almost any occasion, of being absent than of being present. This quality betrays itself in all his writings. There is in all of them something cold and light and thin, something belonging to the imagination alone, which indicates a man but little disposed to multiply his relations, his points of contact, with society. If we read the six volumes of Note–Books with an eye to the evidence of this unsocial side of his life, we find it in sufficient abundance. But we find at the same time that there was nothing unamiable or invidious in his shyness, and above all that there was nothing preponderantly gloomy. The qualities to which the Note–Books most testify are, on the whole, his serenity19 and amenity20 of mind. They reveal these characteristics indeed in an almost phenomenal degree. The serenity, the simplicity21, seem in certain portions almost child-like; of brilliant gaiety, of high spirits, there is little; but the placidity22 and evenness of temper, the cheerful and contented23 view of the things he notes, never belie24 themselves. I know not what else he may have written in this copious25 record, and what passages of gloom and melancholy26 may have been suppressed; but as his Diaries stand, they offer in a remarkable27 degree the reflection of a mind whose development was not in the direction of sadness. A very clever French critic, whose fancy is often more lively than his observation is deep, M. Emile Montégut, writing in the Revue des Deux Mondes, in the year 1860, invents for our author the appellation28 of “Un Romancier Pessimiste.” Superficially speaking, perhaps, the title is a happy one; but only superficially. Pessimism29 consists in having morbid30 and bitter views and theories about human nature; not in indulging in shadowy fancies and conceits31. There is nothing whatever to show that Hawthorne had any such doctrines32 or convictions; certainly, the note of depression, of despair, of the disposition33 to undervalue the human race, is never sounded in his Diaries. These volumes contain the record of very few convictions or theories of any kind; they move with curious evenness, with a charming, graceful34 flow, on a level which lies above that of a man’s philosophy. They adhere with such persistence35 to this upper level that they prompt the reader to believe that Hawthorne had no appreciable36 philosophy at all — no general views that were, in the least uncomfortable. They are the exhibition of an unperplexed intellect. I said just now that the development of Hawthorne’s mind was not towards sadness; and I should be inclined to go still further, and say that his mind proper — his mind in so far as it was a repository of opinions and articles of faith — had no development that it is of especial importance to look into. What had a development was his imagination — that delicate and penetrating37 imagination which was always at play, always entertaining itself, always engaged in a game of hide and seek in the region in which it seemed to him, that the game could best be played — among the shadows and substructions, the dark-based pillars and supports, of our moral nature. Beneath this movement and ripple38 of his imagination — as free and spontaneous as that of the sea surface — lay directly his personal affections. These were solid and strong, but, according to my impression, they had the place very much to themselves.
His innocent reserve, then, and his exaggerated, but by no means cynical39, relish40 for solitude, imposed themselves upon him, in a great measure, with a persistency41 which helped to make the time a tolerably arid4 one — so arid a one indeed that we have seen that in the light of later happiness he pronounced it a blank. But in truth, if these were dull years, it was not all Hawthorne’s fault. His situation was intrinsically poor — poor with a poverty that one almost hesitates to look into. When we think of what the conditions of intellectual life, of taste, must have been in a small New England town fifty years ago; and when we think of a young man of beautiful genius, with a love of literature and romance, of the picturesque42, of style and form and colour, trying to make a career for himself in the midst of them, compassion43 for the young man becomes our dominant44 sentiment, and we see the large dry village picture in perhaps almost too hard a light. It seems to me then that it was possibly a blessing45 for Hawthorne that he was not expansive and inquisitive46, that he lived much to himself and asked but little of his milieu47. If he had been exacting48 and ambitious, if his appetite had been large and his knowledge various, he would probably have found the bounds of Salem intolerably narrow. But his culture had been of a simple sort — there was little of any other sort to be obtained in America in those days, and though he was doubtless haunted by visions of more suggestive opportunities, we may safely assume that he was not to his own perception the object of compassion that he appears to a critic who judges him after half a century’s civilization has filtered into the twilight49 of that earlier time. If New England was socially a very small place in those days, Salem was a still smaller one; and if the American tone at large was intensely provincial50, that of New England was not greatly helped by having the best of it. The state of things was extremely natural, and there could be now no greater mistake than to speak of it with a redundancy of irony51. American life had begun to constitute itself from the foundations; it had begun to be, simply; it was at an immeasurable distance from having begun to enjoy. I imagine there was no appreciable group of people in New England at that time proposing to itself to enjoy life; this was not an undertaking52 for which any provision had been made, or to which any encouragement was offered. Hawthorne must have vaguely53 entertained some such design upon destiny; but he must have felt that his success would have to depend wholly upon his own ingenuity54. I say he must have proposed to himself to enjoy, simply because he proposed to be an artist, and because this enters inevitably55 into the artist’s scheme. There are a thousand ways of enjoying life, and that of the artist is one of the most innocent. But for all that, it connects itself with the idea of pleasure. He proposes to give pleasure, and to give it he must first get it. Where he gets it will depend upon circumstances, and circumstances were not encouraging to Hawthorne.
He was poor, he was solitary56, and he undertook to devote himself to literature in a community in which the interest in literature was as yet of the smallest. It is not too much to say that even to the present day it is a considerable discomfort57 in the United States not to be “in business.” The young man who attempts to launch himself in a career that does not belong to the so-called practical order; the young man who has not, in a word, an office in the business-quarter of the town, with his name painted on the door, has but a limited place in the social system, finds no particular bough58 to perch59 upon. He is not looked at askance, he is not regarded as an idler; literature and the arts have always been held in extreme honour in the American world, and those who practise them are received on easier terms than in other countries. If the tone of the American world is in some respects provincial, it is in none more so than in this matter of the exaggerated homage60 rendered to authorship. The gentleman or the lady who has written a book is in many circles the object of an admiration61 too indiscriminating to operate as an encouragement to good writing. There is no reason to suppose that this was less the case fifty years ago; but fifty years ago, greatly more than now, the literary man must have lacked the comfort and inspiration of belonging to a class. The best things come, as a general thing, from the talents that are members of a group; every man works better when he has companions working in the same line, and yielding the stimulus62 of suggestion, comparison, emulation63. Great things of course have been done by solitary workers; but they have usually been done with double the pains they would have cost if they had been produced in more genial64 circumstances. The solitary worker loses the profit of example and discussion; he is apt to make awkward experiments; he is in the nature of the case more or less of an empiric. The empiric may, as I say, be treated by the world as an expert; but the drawbacks and discomforts65 of empiricism remain to him, and are in fact increased by the suspicion that is mingled66 with his gratitude67, of a want in the public taste of a sense of the proportions of things. Poor Hawthorne, beginning to write subtle short tales at Salem, was empirical enough; he was one of, at most, some dozen Americans who had taken up literature as a profession. The profession in the United States is still very young, and of diminutive68 stature69; but in the year 1830 its head could hardly have been seen above ground. It strikes the observer of today that Hawthorne showed great courage in entering a field in which the honours and emoluments70 were so scanty71 as the profits of authorship must have been at that time. I have said that in the United States at present authorship is a pedestal, and literature is the fashion; but Hawthorne’s history is a proof that it was possible, fifty years ago, to write a great many little masterpieces without becoming known. He begins the preface to the Twice–Told Tales by remarking that he was “for many years the obscurest man of letters in America.” When once this work obtained recognition, the recognition left little to be desired. Hawthorne never, I believe, made large sums of money by his writings, and the early profits of these charming sketches72 could not have been considerable; for many of them, indeed, as they appeared in journals and magazines, he had never been paid at all; but the honour, when once it dawned — and it dawned tolerably early in the author’s career — was never thereafter wanting. Hawthorne’s countrymen are solidly proud of him, and the tone of Mr. Lathrop’s Study is in itself sufficient evidence of the manner in which an American story-teller may in some cases look to have his eulogy74 pronounced.
Hawthorne’s early attempt to support himself by his pen appears to have been deliberate; we hear nothing of those experiments in counting-houses or lawyers’ offices, of which a permanent invocation to the Muse75 is often the inconsequent sequel. He began to write, and to try and dispose of his writings; and he remained at Salem apparently76 only because his family, his mother and his two sisters, lived there. His mother had a house, of which during the twelve years that elapsed until 1838, he appears to have been an inmate77. Mr. Lathrop learned from his surviving sister that after publishing Fanshawe he produced a group of short stories entitled Seven Tales of my Native Land, and that this lady retained a very favourable78 recollection of the work, which her brother had given her to read. But it never saw the light; his attempts to get it published were unsuccessful, and at last, in a fit of irritation79 and despair, the young author burned the manuscript.
There is probably something autobiographic in the striking little tale of The Devil in Manuscript. “They have been offered to seventeen publishers,” says the hero of that sketch73 in regard to a pile of his own lucubrations.
“It would make you stare to read their answers. . . . One man publishes nothing but school-books; another has five novels already under examination; . . . another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, I verily believe, to avoid publishing my book. In short, of all the seventeen booksellers, only one has vouchsafed80 even to read my tales; and he — a literary dabbler81 himself, I should judge — has the impertinence to criticise82 them, proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, after a general sentence of condemnation83, with the definitive84 assurance that he will not be concerned on any terms. . . . But there does seem to be one righteous man among these seventeen unrighteous ones, and he tells me, fairly, that no American publisher will meddle85 with an American work — seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new one — unless at the writer’s risk.”
But though the Seven Tales were not printed, Hawthorne, proceeded to write others that were; the two collections of the Twice–Told Tales, and the Snow Image, are gathered from a series of contributions to the local journals and the annuals of that day. To make these three volumes, he picked out the things he thought the best. “Some very small part,” he says of what remains86, “might yet be rummaged87 out (but it would not be worth the trouble), among the dingy88 pages of fifteen or twenty-years-old periodicals, or within the shabby morocco covers of faded Souvenirs.” These three volumes represent no large amount of literary labour for so long a period, and the author admits that there is little to show “for the thought and industry of that portion of his life.” He attributes the paucity89 of his productions to a “total lack of sympathy at the age when his mind would naturally have been most effervescent.” “He had no incitement90 to literary effort in a reasonable prospect91 of reputation or profit; nothing but the pleasure itself of composition, an enjoyment92 not at all amiss in its way, and perhaps essential to the merit of the work in hand, but which in the long run will hardly keep the chill out of a writer’s heart, or the numbness93 out of his fingers.” These words occur in the preface attached in 1851 to the second edition of the Twice–Told Tales; à propos of which I may say that there is always a charm in Hawthorne’s prefaces which makes one grateful for a pretext94 to quote from them. At this time The Scarlet95 Letter had just made his fame, and the short tales were certain of a large welcome; but the account he gives of the failure of the earlier edition to produce a sensation (it had been published in two volumes, at four years apart), may appear to contradict my assertion that, though he was not recognised immediately, he was recognised betimes. In 1850, when The Scarlet Letter appeared, Hawthorne was forty-six years old, and this may certainly seem a long-delayed popularity. On the other hand, it must be remembered that he had not appealed to the world with any great energy. The Twice–Told Tales, charming as they are, do not constitute a very massive literary pedestal. As soon as the author, resorting to severer measures, put forth96 The Scarlet Letter, the public ear was touched and charmed, and after that it was held to the end. “Well it might have been!” the reader will exclaim. “But what a grievous pity that the dulness of this same organ should have operated so long as a deterrent97, and by making Hawthorne wait till he was nearly fifty to publish his first novel, have abbreviated98 by so much his productive career!” The truth is, he cannot have been in any very high degree ambitious; he was not an abundant producer, and there was manifestly a strain of generous indolence in his composition. There was a loveable want of eagerness about him. Let the encouragement offered have been what it might, he had waited till he was lapsing99 from middle-life to strike his first noticeable blow; and during the last ten years of his career he put forth but two complete works, and the fragment of a third.
It is very true, however, that during this early period he seems to have been very glad to do whatever came to his hand. Certain of his tales found their way into one of the annuals of the time, a publication endowed with the brilliant title of The Boston Token and Atlantic Souvenir. The editor of this graceful repository was S. G. Goodrich, a gentleman who, I suppose, may be called one of the pioneers of American periodical literature. He is better known to the world as Mr. Peter Parley100, a name under which he produced a multitude of popular school-books, story-books, and other attempts to vulgarize human knowledge and adapt it to the infant mind. This enterprising purveyor101 of literary wares102 appears, incongruously enough, to have been Hawthorne’s earliest protector, if protection is the proper word for the treatment that the young author received from him. Mr. Goodrich induced him in 1836 to go to Boston to edit a periodical in which he was interested, The American Magazine of Useful and Entertaining Knowledge. I have never seen the work in question, but Hawthorne’s biographer gives a sorry account of it. It was managed by the so-called Bewick Company, which “took its name from Thomas Bewick, the English restorer of the art of wood-engraving, and the magazine was to do his memory honour by his admirable illustrations. But in fact it never did any one honour, nor brought any one profit. It was a penny popular affair, containing condensed information about innumerable subjects, no fiction, and little poetry. The woodcuts were of the crudest and most frightful103 sort. It passed through the hands of several editors and several publishers. Hawthorne was engaged at a salary of five hundred dollars a year; but it appears that he got next to nothing, and did not stay in the position long.” Hawthorne wrote from Boston in the winter of 1836: “I came here trusting to Goodrich’s positive promise to pay me forty-five dollars as soon as I arrived; and he has kept promising104 from one day to another, till I do not see that he means to pay at all. I have now broke off all intercourse with him, and never think of going near him. . . . I don’t feel at all obliged to him about the editorship, for he is a stockholder and director in the Bewick Company . . . and I defy them to get another to do for a thousand dollars, what I do for five hundred.”—“I make nothing,” he says in another letter, “of writing a history or biography before dinner.” Goodrich proposed to him to write a Universal History for the use of schools, offering him a hundred dollars for his share in the work. Hawthorne accepted the offer and took a hand — I know not how large a one — in the job. His biographer has been able to identify a single phrase as our author’s. He is speaking of George IV: “Even when he was quite a young man this King cared as much about dress as any young coxcomb105. He had a great deal of taste in such matters, and it is a pity that he was a King, for he might otherwise have made an excellent tailor.” The Universal History had a great vogue106 and passed through hundreds of editions; but it does not appear that Hawthorne ever received more than his hundred dollars. The writer of these pages vividly107 remembers making its acquaintance at an early stage of his education — a very fat, stumpy-looking book, bound in boards covered with green paper, and having in the text very small woodcuts, of the most primitive108 sort. He associates it to this day with the names of Sesostris and Semiramis whenever he encounters them, there having been, he supposes, some account of the conquests of these potentates109 that would impress itself upon the imagination of a child. At the end of four months, Hawthorne had received but twenty dollars — four pounds — for his editorship of the American Magazine.
There is something pitiful in this episode, and something really touching in the sight of a delicate and superior genius obliged to concern himself with such paltry110 undertakings111. The simple fact was that for a man attempting at that time in America to live by his pen, there were no larger openings; and to live at all Hawthorne had, as the phrase is, to make himself small. This cost him less, moreover, than it would have cost a more copious and strenuous112 genius, for his modesty113 was evidently extreme, and I doubt whether he had any very ardent114 consciousness of rare talent. He went back to Salem, and from this tranquil115 standpoint, in the spring of 1837, he watched the first volume of his Twice–Told Tales come into the world. He had by this time been living some ten years of his manhood in Salem, and an American commentator116 may be excused for feeling the desire to construct, from the very scanty material that offers itself, a slight picture of his life there. I have quoted his own allusions117 to its dulness and blankness, but I confess that these observations serve rather to quicken than to depress my curiosity. A biographer has of necessity a relish for detail; his business is to multiply points of characterisation. Mr. Lathrop tells us that our author “had little communication with even the members of his family. Frequently his meals were brought and left at his locked door, and it was not often that the four inmates118 of the old Herbert Street mansion119 met in family circle. He never read his stories aloud to his mother and sisters. . . . It was the custom in this household for the several members to remain very much by themselves; the three ladies were perhaps nearly as rigorous recluses120 as himself, and, speaking of the isolation121 which reigned122 among them, Hawthorne once said, ‘We do not even live at our house!’” It is added that he was not in the habit of going to church. This is not a lively picture, nor is that other sketch of his daily habits much more exhilarating, in which Mr. Lathrop affirms that though the statement that for several years “he never saw the sun” is entirely123 an error, yet it is true that he stirred little abroad all day and “seldom chose to walk in the town except at night.” In the dusky hours he took walks of many miles along the coast, or else wandered about the sleeping streets of Salem. These were his pastimes, and these were apparently his most intimate occasions of contact with life. Life, on such occasions, was not very exuberant124, as any one will reflect who has been acquainted with the physiognomy of a small New England town after nine o’clock in the evening. Hawthorne, however, was an inveterate125 observer of small things, and he found a field for fancy among the most trivial accidents. There could be no better example of this happy faculty126 than the little paper entitled “Night Sketches,” included among the Twice–Told Tales. This small dissertation127 is about nothing at all, and to call attention to it is almost to overrate its importance. This fact is equally true, indeed, of a great many of its companions, which give even the most appreciative128 critic a singular feeling of his own indiscretion — almost of his own cruelty. They are so light, so slight, so tenderly trivial, that simply to mention them is to put them in a false position. The author’s claim for them is barely audible, even to the most acute listener. They are things to take or to leave — to enjoy, but not to talk about. Not to read them would be to do them an injustice129 (to read them is essentially130 to relish them), but to bring the machinery131 of criticism to bear upon them would be to do them a still greater wrong. I must remember, however, that to carry this principle too far would be to endanger the general validity of the present little work — a consummation which it can only be my desire to avert132. Therefore it is that I think it permissible133 to remark that in Hawthorne, the whole class of little descriptive effusions directed upon common things, to which these just-mentioned Night Sketches belong, have a greater charm than there is any warrant for in their substance. The charm is made up of the spontaneity, the personal quality, of the fancy that plays through them, its mingled simplicity and subtlety134, its purity and its bonhomie. The Night Sketches are simply the light, familiar record of a walk under an umbrella, at the end of a long, dull, rainy day, through the sloppy135, ill-paved streets of a country town, where the rare gas-lamps twinkle in the large puddles136, and the blue jars in the druggist’s window shine through the vulgar drizzle137. One would say that the inspiration of such a theme could have had no great force, and such doubtless was the case; but out of the Salem puddles, nevertheless, springs, flower-like, a charming and natural piece of prose.
I have said that Hawthorne was an observer of small things, and indeed he appears to have thought nothing too trivial to be suggestive. His Note–Books give us the measure of his perception of common and casual things, and of his habit of converting them into memoranda138. These Note–Books, by the way — this seems as good a place as any other to say it — are a very singular series of volumes; I doubt whether there is anything exactly corresponding to them in the whole body of literature. They were published — in six volumes, issued at intervals139 — some years after Hawthorne’s death, and no person attempting to write an account of the romancer could afford to regret that they should have been given to the world. There is a point of view from which this may be regretted; but the attitude of the biographer is to desire as many documents as possible. I am thankful, then, as a biographer, for the Note–Books, but I am obliged to confess that, though I have just re-read them carefully, I am still at a loss to perceive how they came to be written — what was Hawthorne’s purpose in carrying on for so many years this minute and often trivial chronicle. For a person desiring information about him at any cost, it is valuable; it sheds a vivid light upon his character, his habits, the nature of his mind. But we find ourselves wondering what was its value to Hawthorne himself. It is in a very partial degree a register of impressions, and in a still smaller sense a record of emotions. Outward objects play much the larger part in it; opinions, convictions, ideas pure and simple, are almost absent. He rarely takes his Note–Book into his confidence or commits to its pages any reflections that might be adapted for publicity140; the simplest way to describe the tone of these extremely objective journals is to say that they read like a series of very pleasant, though rather dullish and decidedly formal, letters, addressed to himself by a man who, having suspicions that they might be opened in the post, should have determined141 to insert nothing compromising. They contain much that is too futile142 for things intended for publicity; whereas, on the other hand, as a receptacle of private impressions and opinions, they are curiously143 cold and empty. They widen, as I have said, our glimpse of Hawthorne’s mind (I do not say that they elevate our estimate of it), but they do so by what they fail to contain, as much as by what we find in them. Our business for the moment, however, is not with the light that they throw upon his intellect, but with the information they offer about his habits and his social circumstances.
I know not at what age he began to keep a diary; the first entries in the American volumes are of the summer of 1835. There is a phrase in the preface to his novel of Transformation144, which must have lingered in the minds of many Americans who have tried to write novels and to lay the scene of them in the western world. “No author, without a trial, can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity145, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity, in broad and simple daylight, as is happily the case with my dear native land.” The perusal146 of Hawthorne’s American Note–Books operates as a practical commentary upon this somewhat ominous147 text. It does so at least to my own mind; it would be too much perhaps to say that the effect would be the same for the usual English reader. An American reads between the lines — he completes the suggestions — he constructs a picture. I think I am not guilty of any gross injustice in saying that the picture he constructs from Hawthorne’s American diaries, though by no means without charms of its own, is not, on the whole, an interesting one. It is characterised by an extraordinary blankness — a curious paleness of colour and paucity of detail. Hawthorne, as I have said, has a large and healthy appetite for detail, and one is therefore the more struck with the lightness of the diet to which his observation was condemned148. For myself, as I turn the pages of his journals, I seem to see the image of the crude and simple society in which he lived. I use these epithets149, of course, not invidiously, but descriptively; if one desire to enter as closely as possible into Hawthorne’s situation, one must endeavour to reproduce his circumstances. We are struck with the large number of elements that were absent from them, and the coldness, the thinness, the blankness, to repeat my epithet150, present themselves so vividly that our foremost feeling is that of compassion for a romancer looking for subjects in such a field. It takes so many things, as Hawthorne must have felt later in life, when he made the acquaintance of the denser151, richer, warmer-European spectacle — it takes such an accumulation of history and custom, such a complexity152 of manners and types, to form a fund of suggestion for a novelist. If Hawthorne had been a young Englishman, or a young Frenchman of the same degree of genius, the same cast of mind, the same habits, his consciousness of the world around him would have been a very different affair; however obscure, however reserved, his own personal life, his sense of the life of his fellow-mortals would have been almost infinitely153 more various. The negative side of the spectacle on which Hawthorne looked out, in his contemplative saunterings and reveries, might, indeed, with a little ingenuity, be made almost ludicrous; one might enumerate154 the items of high civilization, as it exists in other countries, which are absent from the texture155 of American life, until it should become a wonder to know what was left. No State, in the European sense of the word, and indeed barely a specific national name. No sovereign, no court, no personal loyalty156, no aristocracy, no church, no clergy157, no army, no diplomatic service, no country gentlemen, no palaces, no castles, nor manors158, nor old country-houses, nor parsonages, nor thatched cottages nor ivied ruins; no cathedrals, nor abbeys, nor little Norman churches; no great Universities nor public schools — no Oxford159, nor Eton, nor Harrow; no literature, no novels, no museums, no pictures, no political society, no sporting class — no Epsom nor Ascot! Some such list as that might be drawn160 up of the absent things in American life — especially in the American life of forty years ago, the effect of which, upon an English or a French imagination, would probably as a general thing be appalling161. The natural remark, in the almost lurid162 light of such an indictment163, would be that if these things are left out, everything is left out. The American knows that a good deal remains; what it is that remains — that is his secret, his joke, as one may say. It would be cruel, in this terrible denudation164, to deny him the consolation165 of his national gift, that “American humour” of which of late years we have heard so much.
But in helping166 us to measure what remains, our author’s Diaries, as I have already intimated, would give comfort rather to persons who might have taken the alarm from the brief sketch I have just attempted of what I have called the negative side of the American social situation, than to those reminding themselves of its fine compensations. Hawthorne’s entries are to a great degree accounts of walks in the country, drives in stage-coaches, people he met in taverns167. The minuteness of the things that attract his attention and that he deems worthy169 of being commemorated171 is frequently extreme, and from this fact we get the impression of a general vacancy172 in the field of vision. “Sunday evening, going by the jail, the setting sun kindled173 up the windows most cheerfully; as if there were a bright, comfortable light within its darksome stone wall.” “I went yesterday with Monsieur S—— to pick raspberries. He fell through an old log-bridge, thrown over a hollow; looking back, only his head and shoulders appeared through the rotten logs and among the bushes.— A shower coming on, the rapid running of a little barefooted boy, coming up unheard, and dashing swiftly past us, and showing us the soles of his naked feet as he ran adown the path and up the opposite side.” In another place he devotes a page to a description of a dog whom he saw running round after its tail; in still another he remarks, in a paragraph by itself —“The aromatic174 odor of peat-smoke, in the sunny autumnal air is very pleasant.” The reader says to himself that when a man turned thirty gives a place in his mind — and his inkstand — to such trifles as these, it is because nothing else of superior importance demands admission. Everything in the Notes indicates a simple, democratic, thinly-composed society; there is no evidence of the writer finding himself in any variety or intimacy176 of relations with any one or with anything. We find a good deal of warrant for believing that if we add that statement of Mr. Lathrop’s about his meals being left at the door of his room, to rural rambles177 of which an impression of the temporary phases of the local apple-crop were the usual, and an encounter with an organ-grinder, or an eccentric dog, the rarer, outcome, we construct a rough image of our author’s daily life during the several years that preceded his marriage. He appears to have read a good deal, and that he must have been familiar with the sources of good English we see from his charming, expressive178, slightly self-conscious, cultivated, but not too cultivated, style. Yet neither in these early volumes of his Note–Books, nor in the later, is there any mention of his reading. There are no literary judgments179 or impressions — there is almost no allusion to works or to authors. The allusions to individuals of any kind are indeed much less numerous than one might have expected; there is little psychology180, little description of manners. We are told by Mr. Lathrop that there existed at Salem during the early part of Hawthorne’s life “a strong circle of wealthy families,” which “maintained rigorously the distinctions of class,” and whose “entertainments were splendid, their manners magnificent.” This is a rather pictorial181 way of saying that there were a number of people in the place — the commercial and professional aristocracy, as it were — who lived in high comfort and respectability, and who, in their small provincial way, doubtless had pretensions182 to be exclusive. Into this delectable183 company Mr. Lathrop intimates that his hero was free to penetrate184. It is easy to believe it, and it would be difficult to perceive why the privilege should have been denied to a young man of genius and culture, who was very good-looking (Hawthorne must have been in these days, judging by his appearance later in life, a strikingly handsome fellow), and whose American pedigree was virtually as long as the longest they could show. But in fact Hawthorne appears to have ignored the good society of his native place almost completely; no echo of its conversation is to be found in his tales or his journals. Such an echo would possibly not have been especially melodious185, and if we regret the shyness and stiffness, the reserve, the timidity, the suspicion, or whatever it was, that kept him from knowing what there was to be known, it is not because we have any very definite assurance that his gains would have been great. Still, since a beautiful writer was growing up in Salem, it is a pity that he should not have given himself a chance to commemorate170 some of the types that flourished in the richest soil of the place. Like almost all people who possess in a strong degree the storytelling faculty, Hawthorne had a democratic strain in his composition and a relish for the commoner stuff of human nature. Thoroughly186 American in all ways, he was in none more so than in the vagueness of his sense of social distinctions and his readiness to forget them if a moral or intellectual sensation were to be gained by it. He liked to fraternise with plain people, to take them on their own terms, and put himself if possible into their shoes. His Note–Books, and even his tales, are full of evidence of this easy and natural feeling about all his unconventional fellow-mortals — this imaginative interest and contemplative curiosity — and it sometimes takes the most charming and graceful forms. Commingled187 as it is with his own subtlety and delicacy188, his complete exemption189 from vulgarity, it is one of the points in his character which his reader comes most to appreciate — that reader I mean for whom he is not as for some few, a dusky and malarious190 genius.
But even if he had had, personally, as many pretensions as he had few, he must in the nature of things have been more or less of a consenting democrat175, for democracy was the very key-stone of the simple social structure in which he played his part. The air of his journals and his tales alike are full of the genuine democratic feeling. This feeling has by no means passed out of New England life; it still flourishes in perfection in the great stock of the people, especially in rural communities; but it is probable that at the present hour a writer of Hawthorne’s general fastidiousness would not express it quite so artlessly. “A shrewd gentlewoman, who kept a tavern168 in the town,” he says, in Chippings with a Chisel191, “was anxious to obtain two or three gravestones for the deceased members of her family, and to pay for these solemn commodities by taking the sculptor192 to board.” This image of a gentlewoman keeping a tavern and looking out for boarders, seems, from the point of view to which I allude6, not at all incongruous. It will be observed that the lady in question was shrewd; it was probable that she was substantially educated, and of reputable life, and it is certain that she was energetic. These qualities would make it natural to Hawthorne to speak of her as a gentlewoman; the natural tendency in societies where the sense of equality prevails, being to take for granted the high level rather than the low. Perhaps the most striking example of the democratic sentiment in all our author’s tales, however, is the figure of Uncle Venner, in The House of the Seven Gables. Uncle Venner is a poor old man in a brimless hat and patched trousers, who picks up a precarious193 subsistence by rendering194, for a compensation, in the houses and gardens of the good people of Salem, those services that are know in New England as “chores.” He carries parcels, splits firewood, digs potatoes, collects refuse for the maintenance of his pigs, and looks forward with philosophic195 equanimity196 to the time when he shall end his days in the almshouse. But in spite of the very modest place that he occupies in the social scale, he is received on a footing of familiarity in the household of the far-descended Miss Pyncheon; and when this ancient lady and her companions take the air in the garden of a summer evening, he steps into the estimable circle and mingles197 the smoke of his pipe with their refined conversation. This obviously is rather imaginative — Uncle Venner is a creation with a purpose. He is an original, a natural moralist, a philosopher; and Hawthorne, who knew perfectly198 what he was about in introducing him — Hawthorne always knew perfectly what he was about — wished to give in his person an example of humorous resignation and of a life reduced to the simplest and homeliest elements, as opposed to the fantastic pretensions of the antiquated199 heroine of the story. He wished to strike a certain exclusively human and personal note. He knew that for this purpose he was taking a licence; but the point is that he felt he was not indulging in any extravagant200 violation201 of reality. Giving in a letter, about 1830, an account of a little journey he was making in Connecticut, he says, of the end of a seventeen miles’ stage, that “in the evening, however, I went to a Bible-class with a very polite and agreeable gentleman, whom I afterwards discovered to be a strolling tailor of very questionable202 habits.”
Hawthorne appears on various occasions to have absented himself from Salem, and to have wandered somewhat through the New England States. But the only one of these episodes of which there is a considerable account in the Note–Books is a visit that he paid in the summer of 1837 to his old college-mate, Horatio Bridge, who was living upon his father’s property in Maine, in company with an eccentric young Frenchman, a teacher of his native tongue, who was looking for pupils among the northern forests. I have said that there was less psychology in Hawthorne’s Journals than might have been looked for; but there is nevertheless a certain amount of it, and nowhere more than in a number of pages relating to this remarkable “Monsieur S.” (Hawthorne, intimate as he apparently became with him, always calls him “Monsieur,” just as throughout all his Diaries he invariably speaks of all his friends, even the most familiar, as “Mr.” He confers the prefix203 upon the unconventional Thoreau, his fellow-woodsman at Concord204, and upon the emancipated205 brethren at Brook206 Farm.) These pages are completely occupied with Monsieur S., who was evidently a man of character, with the full complement207 of his national vivacity208. There is an elaborate effort to analyse the poor young Frenchman’s disposition, something conscientious209 and painstaking210, respectful, explicit211, almost solemn. These passages are very curious as a reminder212 of the absence of the off-hand element in the manner in which many Americans, and many New Englanders especially, make up their minds about people whom they meet. This, in turn, is a reminder of something that may be called the importance of the individual in the American world; which is a result of the newness and youthfulness of society and of the absence of keen competition. The individual counts for more, as it were, and, thanks to the absence of a variety of social types and of settled heads under which he may be easily and conveniently pigeon-holed, he is to a certain extent a wonder and a mystery. An Englishman, a Frenchman — a Frenchman above all — judges quickly, easily, from his own social standpoint, and makes an end of it. He has not that rather chilly213 and isolated214 sense of moral responsibility which is apt to visit a New Englander in such processes; and he has the advantage that his standards are fixed215 by the general consent of the society in which he lives. A Frenchman, in this respect, is particularly happy and comfortable, happy and comfortable to a degree which I think is hardly to be over-estimated; his standards being the most definite in the world, the most easily and promptly216 appealed to, and the most identical with what happens to be the practice of the French genius itself. The Englishman is not-quite so well off, but he is better off than his poor interrogative and tentative cousin beyond the seas. He is blessed with a healthy mistrust of analysis, and hair-splitting is the occupation he most despises. There is always a little of the Dr. Johnson in him, and Dr. Johnson would have had woefully little patience with that tendency to weigh moonbeams which in Hawthorne was almost as much a quality of race as of genius; albeit217 that Hawthorne has paid to Boswell’s hero (in the chapter on “Lichfield and Uttoxeter,” in his volume on England), a tribute of the finest appreciation218. American intellectual standards are vague, and Hawthorne’s countrymen are apt to hold the scales with a rather uncertain hand and a somewhat agitated219 conscience.
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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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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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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91
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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92
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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93
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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94
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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95
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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96
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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97
deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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98
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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99
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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100
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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101
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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102
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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103
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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104
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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105
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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106
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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107
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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108
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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109
potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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110
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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111
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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112
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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113
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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114
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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115
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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116
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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117
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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118
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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119
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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120
recluses
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| n.隐居者，遁世者，隐士( recluse的名词复数 ) | |
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121
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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122
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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123
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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124
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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125
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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126
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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127
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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128
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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129
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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130
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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131
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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132
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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133
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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134
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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135
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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136
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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137
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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138
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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139
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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140
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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141
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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142
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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143
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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144
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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145
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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146
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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147
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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148
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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149
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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150
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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151
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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152
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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153
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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154
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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155
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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156
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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157
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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158
manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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159
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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160
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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161
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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162
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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163
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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164
denudation
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| n.剥下；裸露；滥伐；剥蚀 | |
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165
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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166
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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167
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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168
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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169
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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170
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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171
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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173
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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174
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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175
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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176
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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177
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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178
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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179
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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180
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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181
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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182
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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183
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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184
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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185
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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186
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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187
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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189
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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190
malarious
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| （患）疟疾的，（有）瘴气的 | |
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191
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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192
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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193
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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194
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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195
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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196
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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197
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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198
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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199
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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200
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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201
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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202
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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203
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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204
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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205
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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207
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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208
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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209
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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210
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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211
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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212
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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213
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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214
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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215
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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216
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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217
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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218
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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219
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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