The second volume of the Twice–Told Tales was published in 1845, in Boston; and at this time a good many of the stories which were afterwards collected into the Mosses1 from an Old Manse had already appeared, chiefly in The Democratic Review, a sufficiently3 flourishing periodical of that period. In mentioning these things I anticipate; but I touch upon the year 1845 in order to speak of the two collections of Twice–Told Tales at once. During the same year Hawthorne edited an interesting volume, the Journals of an African Cruiser, by his friend Bridge, who had gone into the Navy and seen something of distant waters. His biographer mentions that even then Hawthorne’s name was thought to bespeak4 attention for a book, and he insists on this fact in contradiction to the idea that his productions had hitherto been as little noticed as his own declaration that he remained “for a good many years the obscurest man of letters in America,” might lead one, and has led many people, to suppose. “In this dismal5 chamber6 FAME was won,” he writes in Salem in 1836. And we find in the Note–Books (1840), this singularly beautiful and touching7 passage:—
“Here I sit in my old accustomed chamber, where I used to sit in days gone by. . . . Here I have written many tales — many that have been burned to ashes, many that have doubtless deserved the same fate. This claims to be called a haunted chamber, for thousands upon thousands of visions have appeared to me in it; and some few of them have become visible to the world. If ever I should have a biographer, he ought to make great mention of this chamber in my memoirs8, because so much of my lonely youth was wasted here, and here my mind and character were formed; and here I have been glad and hopeful, and here I have been despondent9. And here I sat a long, long time, waiting patiently for the world to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not know me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at all — at least till I were in my grave. And sometimes it seems to me as if I were already in the grave, with only life enough to be chilled and benumbed. But oftener I was happy — at least as happy as I then knew how to be, or was aware of the possibility of being. By and by the world found me out in my lonely chamber and called me forth10 — not indeed with a loud roar of acclamation, but rather with a still small voice — and forth I went, but found nothing in the world I thought preferable to my solitude11 till now. . . . And now I begin to understand why I was imprisoned12 so many years in this lonely chamber, and why I could never break through the viewless bolts and bars; for if I had sooner made my escape into the world, I should have grown hard and rough, and been covered with earthly dust, and my heart might have become callous13 by rude encounters with the multitude. . . . But living in solitude till the fulness of time was come, I still kept the dew of my youth and the freshness of my heart. . . . I used to think that I could imagine all passions, all feelings, and states of the heart and mind; but how little did I know! . . . Indeed, we are but shadows; we are not endowed with real life, and all that seems most real about us is but the thinnest substance of a dream — till the heart be touched. That touch creates us — then we begin to be — thereby14 we are beings of reality and inheritors of eternity15.”
There is something exquisite16 in the soft philosophy of this little retrospect17, and it helps us to appreciate it to know that the writer had at this time just become engaged to be married to a charming and accomplished19 person, with whom his union, which took place two years later, was complete and full of happiness. But I quote it more particularly for the evidence it affords that, already in 1840, Hawthorne could speak of the world finding him out and calling him forth, as of an event tolerably well in the past. He had sent the first of the Twice–Told series to his old college friend, Longfellow, who had already laid, solidly, the foundation of his great poetic20 reputation, and at the time of his sending it had written him a letter from which it will be to our purpose to quote a few lines:—
“You tell me you have met with troubles and changes. I know not what these may have been; but I can assure you that trouble is the next best thing to enjoyment21, and that there is no fate in the world so horrible as to have no share in either its joys or sorrows. For the last ten years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living. It may be true that there may have been some unsubstantial pleasures here in the shade, which I might have missed in the sunshine, but you cannot conceive how utterly22 devoid23 of satisfaction all my retrospects24 are. I have laid up no treasure of pleasant remembrances against old age; but there is some comfort in thinking that future years may be more varied25, and therefore more tolerable, than the past. You give me more credit than I deserve in supposing that I have led a studious life. I have indeed turned over a good many books, but in so desultory26 a way that it cannot be called study, nor has it left me the fruits of study. . . . I have another great difficulty in the lack of materials; for I have seen so little of the world that I have nothing but thin air to concoct27 my stories of, and it is not easy to give a life-like semblance28 to such shadowy stuff. Sometimes, through a peephole, I have caught a glimpse of the real world, and the two or three articles in which I have portrayed29 these glimpses please me better than the others.”
It is more particularly for the sake of the concluding lines that I have quoted this passage; for evidently no portrait of Hawthorne at this period is at all exact which, fails to insist upon the constant struggle which must have gone on between his shyness and his desire to know something of life; between what may be called his evasive and his inquisitive30 tendencies. I suppose it is no injustice31 to Hawthorne to say that on the whole his shyness always prevailed; and yet, obviously, the struggle was constantly there. He says of his Twice–Told Tales, in the preface, “They are not the talk of a secluded32 man with his own mind and heart (had it been so they could hardly have failed to be more deeply and permanently33 valuable,) but his attempts, and very imperfectly successful ones, to open an intercourse35 with the world.” We are speaking here of small things, it must be remembered — of little attempts, little sketches36, a little world. But everything is relative, and this smallness of scale must not render less apparent the interesting character of Hawthorne’s efforts. As for the Twice–Told Tales themselves, they are an old story now; every one knows them a little, and those who admire them particularly have read them a great many times. The writer of this sketch37 belongs to the latter class, and he has been trying to forget his familiarity with them, and ask himself what impression they would have made upon him at the time they appeared, in the first bloom of their freshness, and before the particular Hawthorne-quality, as it may be called, had become an established, a recognised and valued, fact. Certainly, I am inclined to think, if one had encountered these delicate, dusky flowers in the blossomless garden of American journalism38, one would have plucked them with a very tender hand; one would have felt that here was something essentially39 fresh and new; here, in no extraordinary force or abundance, but in a degree distinctly appreciable40, was an original element in literature. When I think of it, I almost envy Hawthorne’s earliest readers; the sensation of opening upon The Great Carbuncle, The Seven Vagabonds, or The Threefold Destiny in an American annual of forty years ago, must have been highly agreeable.
Among these shorter things (it is better to speak of the whole collection, including the Snow Image, and the Mosses from an Old Manse at once) there are three sorts of tales, each one of which has an original stamp. There are, to begin with, the stories of fantasy and allegory — those among which the three I have just mentioned would be numbered, and which on the whole, are the most original. This is the group to which such little masterpieces as Malvin’s Burial, Rappacini’s Daughter, and Young Goodman Brown also belong — these two last perhaps representing the highest point that Hawthorne reached in this direction. Then there are the little tales of New England history, which are scarcely less admirable, and of which The Grey Champion, The Maypole of Merry Mount, and the four beautiful Legends of the Province House, as they are called, are the most successful specimens42. Lastly come the slender sketches of actual scenes and of the objects and manners about him, by means of which, more particularly, he endeavoured “to open an intercourse with the world,” and which, in spite of their slenderness, have an infinite grace and charm. Among these things A Rill from the Town Pump, The Village Uncle, The Toll–Gatherer’s Day, the Chippings with a Chisel43, may most naturally be mentioned. As we turn over these volumes we feel that the pieces that spring most directly from his fancy, constitute, as I have said (putting his four novels aside), his most substantial claim to our attention. It would be a mistake to insist too much upon them; Hawthorne was himself the first to recognise that. “These fitful sketches,” he says in the preface to the Mosses from an Old Manse, “with so little of external life about them, yet claiming no profundity44 of purpose — so reserved even while they sometimes seem so frank — often but half in earnest, and never, even when most so, expressing satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess45 to image — such trifles, I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation.” This is very becomingly uttered; but it may be said, partly in answer to it, and partly in confirmation46, that the valuable element in these things was not what Hawthorne put into them consciously, but what passed into them without his being able to measure it — the element of simple genius, the quality of imagination. This is the real charm of Hawthorne’s writing — this purity and spontaneity and naturalness of fancy. For the rest, it is interesting to see how it borrowed a particular colour from the other faculties47 that lay near it — how the imagination, in this capital son of the old Puritans, reflected the hue48 of the more purely49 moral part, of the dusky, overshadowed conscience. The conscience, by no fault of its own, in every genuine offshoot of that sombre lineage, lay under the shadow of the sense of sin. This darkening cloud was no essential part of the nature of the individual; it stood fixed50 in the general moral heaven, under which he grew up and looked at life. It projected from above, from outside, a black patch over his spirit, and it was for him to do what he could with the black patch. There were all sorts of possible ways of dealing51 with it; they depended upon the personal temperament52. Some natures would let it lie as it fell, and contrive53 to be tolerably comfortable beneath it. Others would groan54 and sweat and suffer; but the dusky blight55 would remain, and their lives would be lives of misery56. Here and there an individual, irritated beyond endurance, would throw it off in anger, plunging57 probably into what would be deemed deeper abysses of depravity. Hawthorne’s way was the best, for he contrived58, by an exquisite process, best known to himself, to transmute59 this heavy moral burden into the very substance of the imagination, to make it evaporate in the light and charming fumes60 of artistic61 production. But Hawthorne, of course, was exceptionally fortunate; he had his genius to help him. Nothing is more curious and interesting than this almost exclusively imported character of the sense of sin in Hawthorne’s mind; it seems to exist there merely for an artistic or literary purpose. He had ample cognizance of the Puritan conscience; it was his natural heritage; it was reproduced in him; looking into his soul, he found it there. But his relation to it was only, as one may say, intellectual; it was not moral and theological. He played with it and used it as a pigment63; he treated it, as the metaphysicians say, objectively. He was not discomposed, disturbed, haunted by it, in the manner of its usual and regular victims, who had not the little postern door of fancy to slip through, to the other side of the wall. It was, indeed, to his imaginative vision, the great fact of man’s nature; the light element that had been mingled64 with his own composition always clung to this rugged65 prominence66 of moral responsibility, like the mist that hovers67 about the mountain. It was a necessary condition for a man of Hawthorne’s stock that if his imagination should take licence to amuse itself, it should at least select this grim precinct of the Puritan morality for its play-ground. He speaks of the dark disapproval68 with which his old ancestors, in the case of their coming to life, would see him trifling69 himself away as a story-teller. But how far more darkly would they have frowned could they have understood that he had converted the very principle of their own being into one of his toys!
It will be seen that I am far from being struck with the justice of that view of the author of the Twice–Told Tales, which is so happily expressed by the French critic to whom I alluded70 at an earlier stage of this essay. To speak of Hawthorne, as M. Emile Montégut does, as a romancier pessimiste, seems to me very much beside the mark. He is no more a pessimist72 than an optimist73, though he is certainly not much of either. He does not pretend to conclude, or to have a philosophy of human nature; indeed, I should even say that at bottom he does not take human nature as hard as he may seem to do. “His bitterness,” says M. Montégut, “is without abatement74, and his bad opinion of man is without compensation. . . . His little tales have the air of confessions75 which the soul makes to itself; they are so many little slaps which the author applies to our face.” This, it seems to me, is to exaggerate almost immeasurably the reach of Hawthorne’s relish76 of gloomy subjects. What pleased him in such subjects was their picturesqueness77, their rich duskiness of colour, their chiaroscuro79; but they were not the expression of a hopeless, or even of a predominantly melancholy80, feeling about the human soul. Such at least is my own impression. He is to a considerable degree ironical81 — this is part of his charm — part even, one may say, of his brightness; but he is neither bitter nor cynical82 — he is rarely even what I should call tragical83. There have certainly been story-tellers of a gayer and lighter84 spirit; there have been observers more humorous, more hilarious85 — though on the whole Hawthorne’s observation has a smile in it oftener than may at first appear; but there has rarely been an observer more serene86, less agitated87 by what he sees and less disposed to call things deeply into question. As I have already intimated, his Note–Books are full of this simple and almost child-like serenity88. That dusky preoccupation with the misery of human life and the wickedness of the human heart which such a critic as M. Emile Montégut talks about, is totally absent from them; and if we may suppose a person to have read these Diaries before looking into the tales, we may be sure that such a reader would be greatly surprised to hear the author described as a disappointed, disdainful genius. “This marked love of cases of conscience,” says M. Montégut, “this taciturn, scornful cast of mind, this habit of seeing sin everywhere and hell always gaping90 open, this dusky gaze bent91 always upon a damned world and a nature draped in mourning, these lonely conversations of the imagination with the conscience, this pitiless analysis resulting from a perpetual examination of one’s self, and from the tortures of a heart closed before men and open to God — all these elements of the Puritan character have passed into Mr. Hawthorne, or to speak more justly, have filtered into him, through a long succession of generations.” This is a very pretty and very vivid account of Hawthorne, superficially considered; and it is just such a view of the case as would commend itself most easily and most naturally to a hasty critic. It is all true indeed, with a difference; Hawthorne was all that M. Montégut says, minus the conviction. The old Puritan moral sense, the consciousness of sin and hell, of the fearful nature of our responsibilities and the savage92 character of our Taskmaster — these things had been lodged93 in the mind of a man of Fancy, whose fancy had straightway begun to take liberties and play tricks with them — to judge them (Heaven forgive him!) from the poetic and ?sthetic point of view, the point of view of entertainment and irony94. This absence of conviction makes the difference; but the difference is great.
Hawthorne was a man of fancy, and I suppose that in speaking of him it is inevitable95 that we should feel ourselves confronted with the familiar problem of the difference between the fancy and the imagination. Of the larger and more potent96 faculty97 he certainly possessed98 a liberal share; no one can read The House of the Seven Gables without feeling it to be a deeply imaginative work. But I am often struck, especially in the shorter tales, of which I am now chiefly speaking, with a kind of small ingenuity99, a taste for conceits100 and analogies, which bears more particularly what is called the fanciful stamp. The finer of the shorter tales are redolent of a rich imagination.
“Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest and only dreamed a wild dream of witch-meeting? Be it so, if you will; but, alas101, it was a dream of evil omen102 for young Goodman Brown! a stern, a sad, a darkly meditative103, a distrustful, if not a desperate, man, did he become from the night of that fearful dream. On the Sabbath-day, when the congregation were singing a holy psalm104, he could not listen, because an anthem105 of sin rushed loudly upon his ear and drowned all the blessed strain. When the minister spoke106 from the pulpit, with power and fervid107 eloquence108, and with his hand on the open Bible of the sacred truth of our religion, and of saint-like lives and triumphant109 deaths, and of future bliss110 or misery unutterable, then did Goodman Brown grow pale, dreading111 lest the roof should thunder down upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, awaking suddenly at midnight, he shrank from the bosom112 of Faith; and at morning or eventide, when the family knelt down at prayer, he scowled113 and muttered to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife, and turned away. And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary114 corpse115, followed by Faith, an aged18 woman, and children, and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbours not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom.”
There is imagination in that, and in many another passage that I might quote; but as a general thing I should characterise the more metaphysical of our author’s short stories as graceful116 and felicitous117 conceits. They seem to me to be qualified118 in this manner by the very fact that they belong to the province of allegory. Hawthorne, in his metaphysical moods, is nothing if not allegorical, and allegory, to my sense, is quite one of the lighter exercises of the imagination. Many excellent judges, I know, have a great stomach for it; they delight in symbols and correspondences, in seeing a story told as if it were another and a very different story. I frankly119 confess that I have as a general thing but little enjoyment of it and that it has never seemed to me to be, as it were, a first-rate literary form. It has produced assuredly some first-rate works; and Hawthorne in his younger years had been a great reader and devotee of Bunyan and Spenser, the great masters of allegory. But it is apt to spoil two good things — a story and a moral, a meaning and a form; and the taste for it is responsible for a large part of the forcible-feeble writing that has been inflicted120 upon the world. The only cases in which it is endurable is when it is extremely spontaneous, when the analogy presents itself with eager promptitude. When it shows signs of having been groped and fumbled121 for, the needful illusion is of course absent and the failure complete. Then the machinery122 alone is visible, and the end to which it operates becomes a matter of indifference123. There was but little literary criticism in the United States at the time Hawthorne’s earlier works were published; but among the reviewers Edgar Poe perhaps held the scales the highest. He at any rate rattled124 them loudest, and pretended, more than any one else, to conduct the weighing-process on scientific principles. Very remarkable125 was this process of Edgar Poe’s, and very extraordinary were his principles; but he had the advantage of being a man of genius, and his intelligence was frequently great. His collection of critical sketches of the American writers flourishing in what M. Taine would call his milieu126 and moment, is very curious and interesting reading, and it has one quality which ought to keep it from ever being completely forgotten. It is probably the most complete and exquisite specimen41 of provincialism ever prepared for the edification of men. Poe’s judgments127 are pretentious128, spiteful, vulgar; but they contain a great deal of sense and discrimination as well, and here and there, sometimes at frequent intervals129, we find a phrase of happy insight imbedded in a patch of the most fatuous130 pedantry131. He wrote a chapter upon Hawthorne, and spoke of him on the whole very kindly132; and his estimate is of sufficient value to make it noticeable that he should express lively disapproval of the large part allotted133 to allegory in his tales — in defence of which, he says, “however, or for whatever object employed, there is scarcely one respectable word to be said. . . . The deepest emotion,” he goes on, “aroused within us by the happiest allegory as allegory, is a very, very imperfectly satisfied sense of the writer’s ingenuity in overcoming a difficulty we should have preferred his not having attempted to overcome. . . . One thing is clear, that if allegory ever establishes a fact, it is by dint134 of overturning a fiction;” and Poe has furthermore the courage to remark that the Pilgrim’s Progress is a “ludicrously overrated book.” Certainly, as a general thing, we are struck with the ingenuity and felicity of Hawthorne’s analogies and correspondences; the idea appears to have made itself at home in them easily. Nothing could be better in this respect than The Snow–Image (a little masterpiece), or The Great Carbuncle, or Doctor Heidegger’s Experiment, or Rappacini’s Daughter. But in such things as The Birth–Mark and The Bosom–Serpent, we are struck with something stiff and mechanical, slightly incongruous, as if the kernel135 had not assimilated its envelope. But these are matters of light impression, and there would be a want of tact136 in pretending to discriminate137 too closely among things which all, in one way or another, have a charm. The charm — the great charm — is that they are glimpses of a great field, of the whole deep mystery of man’s soul and conscience. They are moral, and their interest is moral; they deal with something more than the mere62 accidents and conventionalities, the surface occurrences of life. The fine thing in Hawthorne is that he cared for the deeper psychology138, and that, in his way, he tried to become familiar with it. This natural, yet fanciful familiarity with it, this air, on the author’s part, of being a confirmed habitué of a region of mysteries and subtleties139, constitutes the originality140 of his tales. And then they have the further merit of seeming, for what they are, to spring up so freely and lightly. The author has all the ease, indeed, of a regular dweller141 in the moral, psychological realm; he goes to and fro in it, as a man who knows his way. His tread is a light and modest one, but he keeps the key in his pocket.
His little historical stories all seem to me admirable; they are so good that you may re-read them many times. They are not numerous, and they are very short; but they are full of a vivid and delightful142 sense of the New England past; they have, moreover, the distinction, little tales of a dozen and fifteen pages as they are, of being the only successful attempts at historical fiction that have been made in the United States. Hawthorne was at home in the early New England history; he had thumbed its records and he had breathed its air, in whatever odd receptacles this somewhat pungent143 compound still lurked144. He was fond of it, and he was proud of it, as any New Englander must be, measuring the part of that handful of half-starved fanatics145 who formed his earliest precursors146, in laying the foundations of a mighty147 empire. Hungry for the picturesque78 as he always was, and not finding any very copious148 provision of it around him, he turned back into the two preceding centuries, with the earnest determination that the primitive149 annals of Massachusetts should at least appear picturesque. His fancy, which was always alive, played a little with the somewhat meagre and angular facts of the colonial period and forthwith converted a great many of them into impressive legends and pictures. There is a little infusion150 of colour, a little vagueness about certain details, but it is very gracefully151 and discreetly152 done, and realities are kept in view sufficiently to make us feel that if we are reading romance, it is romance that rather supplements than contradicts history. The early annals of New England were not fertile in legend, but Hawthorne laid his hands upon everything that would serve his purpose, and in two or three cases his version of the story has a great deal of beauty. The Grey Champion is a sketch of less than eight pages, but the little figures stand up in the tale as stoutly153, at the least, as if they were propped154 up on half-a-dozen chapters by a dryer155 annalist, and the whole thing has the merit of those cabinet pictures in which the artist has been able to make his persons look the size of life. Hawthorne, to say it again, was not in the least a realist — he was not to my mind enough of one; but there is no genuine lover of the good city of Boston but will feel grateful to him for his courage in attempting to recount the “traditions” of Washington Street, the main thoroughfare of the Puritan capital. The four Legends of the Province House are certain shadowy stories which he professes156 to have gathered in an ancient tavern157 lurking158 behind the modern shop-fronts of this part of the city. The Province House disappeared some years ago, but while it stood it was pointed89 to as the residence of the Royal Governors of Massachusetts before the Revolution. I have no recollection of it, but it cannot have been, even from Hawthorne’s account of it, which is as pictorial159 as he ventures to make it, a very imposing160 piece of antiquity161. The writer’s charming touch, however, throws a rich brown tone over its rather shallow venerableness; and we are beguiled162 into believing, for instance, at the close of Howe’s Masquerade (a story of a strange occurrence at an entertainment given by Sir William Howe, the last of the Royal Governors, during the siege of Boston by Washington), that “superstition, among other legends of this mansion163, repeats the wondrous164 tale that on the anniversary night of Britain’s discomfiture165 the ghosts of the ancient governors of Massachusetts still glide166 through the Province House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded167 in a military cloak, tossing his clenched168 hands into the air and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the freestone steps, with a semblance of feverish169 despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp.” Hawthorne had, as regards the two earlier centuries of New England life, that faculty which is called now-a-days the historic consciousness. He never sought to exhibit it on a large scale; he exhibited it indeed on a scale so minute that we must not linger too much upon it. His vision of the past was filled with definite images — images none the less definite that they were concerned with events as shadowy as this dramatic passing away of the last of King George’s representatives in his long loyal but finally alienated170 colony.
I have said that Hawthorne had become engaged in about his thirty-fifth-year; but he was not married until 1842. Before this event took place he passed through two episodes which (putting his falling in love aside) were much the most important things that had yet happened to him. They interrupted the painful monotony of his life, and brought the affairs of men within his personal experience. One of these was moreover in itself a curious and interesting chapter of observation, and it fructified171, in Hawthorne’s memory, in one of his best productions. How urgently he needed at this time to be drawn172 within the circle of social accidents, a little anecdote173 related by Mr. Lathrop in connection with his first acquaintance with the young lady he was to marry, may serve as an example. This young lady became known to him through her sister, who had first approached him as an admirer of the Twice–Told Tales (as to the authorship of which she had been so much in the dark as to have attributed it first, conjecturally174, to one of the two Miss Hathornes); and the two Miss Peabodys, desiring to see more of the charming writer, caused him to be invited to a species of conversazione at the house of one of their friends, at which they themselves took care to be punctual. Several other ladies, however, were as punctual as they, and Hawthorne presently arriving, and seeing a bevy175 of admirers where he had expected but three or four, fell into a state of agitation176, which is vividly177 described by his biographer. He “stood perfectly34 motionless, but with the look of a sylvan178 creature on the point of fleeing away. . . . He was stricken with dismay; his face lost colour and took on a warm paleness . . . his agitation was-very great; he stood by a table and, taking up some small object that lay upon it, he found his hand trembling so that he was obliged to lay it down.” It was desirable, certainly, that something should occur to break the spell of a diffidence that might justly be called morbid179. There is another little sentence dropped by Mr. Lathrop in relation to this period of Hawthorne’s life, which appears to me worth quoting, though I am by no means sure that it will seem so to the reader. It has a very simple and innocent air, but to a person not without an impression of the early days of “culture” in New England, it will be pregnant with historic meaning. The elder Miss Peabody, who afterwards was Hawthorne’s sister-inlaw and who acquired later in life a very honourable180 American fame as a woman of benevolence181, of learning, and of literary accomplishment182, had invited the Miss Hathornes to come to her house for the evening, and to bring with them their brother, whom she wished to thank for his beautiful tales. “Entirely to her surprise,” says Mr. Lathrop, completing thereby his picture of the attitude of this remarkable family toward society —“entirely to her surprise they came. She herself opened the door, and there, before her, between his sisters, stood a splendidly handsome youth, tall and strong, with no appearance whatever of timidity, but instead, an almost fierce determination making his face stern. This was his resource for carrying off the extreme inward tremor183 which he really felt. His hostess brought out Flaxman’s designs for Dante, just received from Professor Felton, of Harvard, and the party made an evening’s entertainment out of them.” This last sentence is the one I allude71 to; and were it not for fear of appearing too fanciful I should say that these few words were, to the initiated184 mind, an unconscious expression of the lonely frigidity185 which characterised most attempts at social recreation in the New England world some forty years ago. There was at that time a great desire for culture, a great interest in knowledge, in art, in ?sthetics, together with a very scanty186 supply of the materials for such pursuits. Small things were made to do large service; and there is something even touching in the solemnity of consideration that was bestowed187 by the emancipated188 New England conscience upon little wandering books and prints, little echoes and rumours189 of observation and experience. There flourished at that time in Boston a very remarkable and interesting woman, of whom we shall have more to say, Miss Margaret Fuller by name. This lady was the apostle of culture, of intellectual curiosity, and in the peculiarly interesting account of her life, published in 1852 by Emerson and two other of her friends, there are pages of her letters and diaries which narrate190 her visits to the Boston Athen?um and the emotions aroused in her mind by turning over portfolios191 of engravings. These emotions were ardent192 and passionate193 — could hardly have been more so had she been prostrate194 with contemplation in the Sistine Chapel195 or in one of the chambers196 of the Pitti Palace. The only analogy I can recall to this earnestness of interest in great works of art at a distance from them, is furnished by the great Goethe’s elaborate study of plaster-casts and pencil-drawings at Weimar. I mention Margaret Fuller here because a glimpse of her state of mind — her vivacity197 of desire and poverty of knowledge — helps to define the situation. The situation lives for a moment in those few words of Mr. Lathrop’s. The initiated mind, as I have ventured to call it, has a vision of a little unadorned parlour, with the snow-drifts of a Massachusetts winter piled up about its windows, and a group of sensitive and serious people, modest votaries198 of opportunity, fixing their eyes upon a bookful of Flaxman’s attenuated199 outlines.
At the beginning of the year 1839 he received, through political interest, an appointment as weigher and gauger200 in the Boston Custom-house. Mr. Van Buren then occupied the Presidency201, and it appears that the Democratic party, whose successful candidate he had been, rather took credit for the patronage202 it had bestowed upon literary men. Hawthorne was a Democrat2, and apparently203 a zealous204 one; even in later years, after the Whigs had vivified their principles by the adoption205 of the Republican platform, and by taking up an honest attitude on the question of slavery, his political faith never wavered. His Democratic sympathies were eminently206 natural, and there would have been an incongruity207 in his belonging to the other party. He was not only by conviction, but personally and by association, a Democrat. When in later years he found himself in contact with European civilisation208, he appears to have become conscious of a good deal of latent radicalism209 in his disposition210; he was oppressed with the burden of antiquity in Europe, and he found himself sighing for lightness and freshness and facility of change. But these things are relative to the point of view, and in his own country Hawthorne cast his lot with the party of conservatism, the party opposed to change and freshness. The people who found something musty and mouldy in his literary productions would have regarded this quite as a matter of course; but we are not obliged to use invidious epithets211 in describing his political preferences. The sentiment that attached him to the Democracy was a subtle and honourable one, and the author of an attempt to sketch a portrait of him, should be the last to complain of this adjustment of his sympathies. It falls much more smoothly212 into his reader’s conception of him than any other would do; and if he had had the perversity213 to be a Republican, I am afraid our ingenuity would have been considerably214 taxed in devising a proper explanation of the circumstance. At any rate, the Democrats215 gave him a small post in the Boston Custom-house, to which an annual salary of $1,200 was attached, and Hawthorne appears at first to have joyously216 welcomed the gift. The duties of the office were not very congruous to the genius of a man of fancy; but it had the advantage that it broke the spell of his cursed solitude, as he called it, drew him away from Salem, and threw him, comparatively speaking, into the world. The first volume of the American Note–Books contains some extracts from letters written during his tenure217 of this modest office, which indicate sufficiently that his occupations cannot have been intrinsically gratifying.
“I have been measuring coal all day,” he writes, during the winter of 1840, “on board of a black little British schooner218, in a dismal dock at the north end of the city. Most of the time I paced the deck to keep myself warm; for the wind (north-east, I believe) blew up through the dock as if it had been the pipe of a pair of bellows219. The vessel220 lying deep between two wharves221, there was no more delightful prospect222, on the right hand and on the left, than the posts and timbers, half immersed in the water and covered with ice, which the rising and falling of successive tides had left upon them, so that they looked like immense icicles. Across the water, however, not more than half a mile off, appeared the Bunker’s Hill Monument, and what interested me considerably more, a church-steeple, with the dial of a clock upon it, whereby I was enabled to measure the march of the weary hours. Sometimes I descended223 into the dirty little cabin of the schooner, and warmed myself by a red-hot stove, among biscuit-barrels, pots and kettles, sea-chests, and innumerable lumber224 of all sorts — my olfactories225 meanwhile being greatly refreshed with the odour of a pipe, which the captain, or some one of his crew, was smoking. But at last came the sunset, with delicate clouds, and a purple light upon the islands; and I blessed it, because it was the signal of my release.”
A worse man than Hawthorne would have measured coal quite as well, and of all the dismal tasks to which an unremunerated imagination has ever had to accommodate itself, I remember none more sordid226 than the business depicted227 in the foregoing lines. “I pray,” he writes some weeks later, “that in one year more I may find some way of escaping from this unblest Custom-house; for it is a very grievous thraldom228. I do detest229 all offices; all, at least, that are held on a political tenure, and I want nothing to do with politicians. Their hearts wither230 away and die out of their bodies. Their consciences are turned to india-rubber, or to some substance as black as that and which will stretch as much. One thing, if no more, I have gained by my Custom-house experience — to know a politician. It is a knowledge which no previous thought or power of sympathy could have taught me; because the animal, or the machine rather, is not in nature.” A few days later he goes on in the same strain:—
“I do not think it is the doom231 laid upon me of murdering so many of the brightest hours of the day at the Custom-house that makes such havoc232 with my wits, for here I am again trying to write worthily233 . . . yet with a sense as if all the noblest part of man had been left out of my composition, or had decayed out of it since my nature was given to my own keeping. . . . Never comes any bird of Paradise into that dismal region. A salt or even a coal-ship is ten million times preferable; for there the sky is above me, and the fresh breeze around me, and my thoughts having hardly anything to do with my occupation, are as free as air. Nevertheless . . . it is only once in a while that the image and desire of a better and happier life makes me feel the iron of my chain; for after all a human spirit may find no insufficiency of food for it, even in the Custom-house. And with such materials as these I do think and feel and learn things that are worth knowing, and which I should not know unless I had learned them there; so that the present position of my life shall not be quite left out of the sum of my real existence. . . . It is good for me, on many accounts, that my life has had this passage in it. I know much more than I did a year ago. I have a stronger sense of power to act as a man among men. I have gained worldly wisdom, and wisdom also that is not altogether of this world. And when I quit this earthy career where I am now buried, nothing will cling to me that ought to be left behind. Men will not perceive, I trust, by my look or the tenor234 of my thoughts and feelings, that I have been a Custom-house officer.”
He says, writing shortly afterwards, that “when I shall be free again, I will enjoy all things with the fresh simplicity235 of a child of five years old. I shall grow young again, made all over anew. I will go forth and stand in a summer shower, and all the worldly dust that has collected on me shall be washed away at once, and my heart will be like a bank of fresh flowers for the weary to rest upon.”
This forecast of his destiny was sufficiently exact. A year later, in April 1841, he went to take up his abode236 in the socialistic community of Brook237 Farm. Here he found himself among fields and flowers and other natural products — as well as among many products that could not very justly be called natural. He was exposed to summer showers in plenty; and his personal associations were as different as possible from, those he had encountered in fiscal238 circles. He made acquaintance with Transcendentalism and the Transcendentalists.
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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retrospects
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| n.回顾，回想( retrospect的名词复数 )v.回顾，回想( retrospect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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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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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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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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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pigment
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| n.天然色素，干粉颜料 | |
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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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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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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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picturesqueness
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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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chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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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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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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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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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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99
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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100
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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101
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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102
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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103
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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104
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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105
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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106
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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107
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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108
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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109
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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110
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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111
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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112
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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113
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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115
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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116
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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117
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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118
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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119
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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120
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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122
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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123
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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124
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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125
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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126
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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127
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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128
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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129
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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130
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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131
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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132
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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133
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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135
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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136
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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137
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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138
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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139
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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140
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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141
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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142
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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143
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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144
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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145
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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146
precursors
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| n.先驱( precursor的名词复数 )；先行者；先兆；初期形式 | |
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147
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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148
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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149
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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150
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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151
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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152
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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153
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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154
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
dryer
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| n.干衣机，干燥剂 | |
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156
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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157
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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158
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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159
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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160
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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161
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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162
beguiled
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|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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163
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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164
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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165
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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166
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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167
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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168
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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170
alienated
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|
| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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171
fructified
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| v.结果实( fructify的过去式和过去分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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172
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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173
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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174
conjecturally
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|
| adj.推测的，好推测的 | |
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175
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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176
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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177
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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178
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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179
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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180
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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181
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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182
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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183
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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184
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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185
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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186
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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187
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
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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189
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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190
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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191
portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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192
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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193
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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194
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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195
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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196
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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197
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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198
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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199
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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200
gauger
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| n.收税官 | |
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201
presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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202
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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203
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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204
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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205
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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206
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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207
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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208
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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209
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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210
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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211
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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212
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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213
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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214
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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215
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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216
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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217
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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218
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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219
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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220
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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221
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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222
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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223
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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224
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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225
olfactories
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| n.嗅觉的( olfactory的名词复数 ) | |
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226
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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227
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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228
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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229
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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230
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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231
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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232
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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233
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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234
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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235
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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236
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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237
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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238
fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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