“I might, for instance, have contented15 myself with writing out the narratives16 of a veteran shipmaster, one of the inspectors17, whom I should be most ungrateful not to mention; since scarcely a day passed that he did not stir me to laughter and admiration18 by his marvellous gift as a story-teller. . . . Or I might readily have found a more serious task. It was a folly19, with the materiality of this daily life pressing so intrusively21 upon me, to attempt to fling myself back into another age; or to insist on creating a semblance22 of a world out of airy matter. . . . The wiser effort would have been, to diffuse23 thought and imagination through the opaque24 substance of today, and thus make it a bright transparency . . . to seek resolutely25 the true and indestructible value that lay hidden in the petty and wearisome incidents and ordinary characters with which I was now conversant26. The fault was mine. The page of life that was spread out before me was dull and commonplace, only because I had not fathomed27 its deeper import. A better book than I shall ever write was there. . . . These perceptions came too late. . . . I had ceased to be a writer of tolerably poor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good Surveyor of the Customs. That was all. But, nevertheless, it is anything but agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one’s intellect is dwindling28 away, or exhaling29, without your consciousness, like ether out of phial; so that at every glance you find a smaller and less volatile30 residuum.”
As, however, it was with what was left of his intellect after three years’ evaporation31, that Hawthorne wrote The Scarlet Letter, there is little reason to complain of the injury he suffered in his Surveyorship.
His publisher, Mr. Fields, in a volume entitled Yesterdays with Authors, has related the circumstances in which Hawthorne’s masterpiece came into the world. “In the winter of 1849, after he had been ejected from the Custom-house, I went down to Salem to see him and inquire after his health, for we heard he had been suffering from illness. He was then living in a modest wooden house. . . . I found him alone in a chamber32 over the sitting-room33 of the dwelling34, and as the day was cold he was hovering35 near a stove. We fell into talk about his future prospects36, and he was, as I feared I should find him, in a very desponding mood.” His visitor urged him to bethink himself of publishing something, and Hawthorne replied by calling his attention to the small popularity his published productions had yet acquired, and declaring that he had done nothing and had no spirit for doing anything. The narrator of the incident urged upon him the necessity of a more hopeful view of his situation, and proceeded to take leave. He had not reached the street, however, when Hawthorne hurried to overtake him, and, placing a roll of MS. in his hand, bade him take it to Boston, read it, and pronounce upon it. “It is either very good or very bad,” said the author; “I don’t know which.” “On my way back to Boston,” says Mr. Fields, “I read the germ of The Scarlet Letter; before I slept that night I wrote him a note all aglow37 with admiration of the marvellous story he had put into my hands, and told him that I would come again to Salem the next day and arrange for its publication. I went on in such an amazing state of excitement, when we met again in the little house, that he would not believe I was really in earnest. He seemed to think I was beside myself, and laughed sadly at my enthusiasm.” Hawthorne, however, went on with the book and finished it, but it appeared only a year later. His biographer quotes a passage from a letter which he wrote in February, 1850, to his friend Horatio Bridge. “I finished my book only yesterday; one end being in the press at Boston, while the other was in my head here at Salem, so that, as you see, my story is at least fourteen miles long. . . . My book, the publisher tells me, will not be out before April. He speaks of it in tremendous terms of approbation38, so does Mrs. Hawthorne, to whom I read the conclusion last night. It broke her heart, and sent her to bed with a grievous headache — which I look upon, as a triumphant39 success. Judging from the effect upon her and the publisher, I may calculate on what bowlers40 call a ten-strike. But I don’t make any such calculation.” And Mr. Lathrop calls attention, in regard to this passage, to an allusion41 in the English Note–Books (September 14, 1855). “Speaking of Thackeray, I cannot but wonder at his coolness in respect to his own pathos42, and compare it to my emotions when I read the last scene of The Scarlet Letter to my wife, just after writing it — tried to read it rather, for my voice swelled43 and heaved as if I were tossed up and down on an ocean as it subsides44 after a storm. But I was in a very nervous state then, having gone through a great diversity of emotion while writing it, for many months.”
The work has the tone of the circumstances in which it was produced. If Hawthorne was in a sombre mood, and if his future was painfully vague, The Scarlet Letter contains little enough of gaiety or of hopefulness. It is densely46 dark, with a single spot of vivid colour in it; and it will probably long remain the most consistently gloomy of English novels of the first order. But I just now called it the author’s masterpiece, and I imagine it will continue to be, for other generations than ours, his most substantial title to fame. The subject had probably lain a long time in his mind, as his subjects were apt to do; so that he appears completely to possess it, to know it and feel it. It is simpler and more complete than his other novels; it achieves more perfectly47 what it attempts, and it has about it that charm, very hard to express, which we find in an artist’s work the first time he has touched his highest mark — a sort of straightness and naturalness of execution, an unconsciousness of his public, and freshness of interest in his theme. It was a great success, and he immediately found himself famous. The writer of these lines, who was a child at the time, remembers dimly the sensation the book produced, and the little shudder48 with which people alluded49 to it, as if a peculiar50 horror were mixed with its attractions. He was too young to read it himself, but its title, upon which he fixed51 his eyes as the book lay upon the table, had a mysterious charm. He had a vague belief indeed that the “letter” in question was one of the documents that come by the post, and it was a source of perpetual wonderment to him that it should be of such an unaccustomed hue52. Of course it was difficult to explain to a child the significance of poor Hester Prynne’s blood-coloured A. But the mystery was at last partly dispelled53 by his being taken to see a collection of pictures (the annual exhibition of the National Academy), where he encountered a representation of a pale, handsome woman, in a quaint54 black dress and a white coif, holding between her knees an elfish-looking little girl, fantastically dressed and crowned with flowers. Embroidered55 on the woman’s breast was a great crimson56 A, over which the child’s fingers, as she glanced strangely out of the picture, were maliciously57 playing. I was told that this was Hester Prynne and little Pearl, and that when I grew older I might read their interesting history. But the picture remained vividly58 imprinted59 on my mind; I had been vaguely60 frightened and made uneasy by it; and when, years afterwards, I first read the novel, I seemed to myself to have read it before, and to be familiar with its two strange heroines, I mention this incident simply as an indication of the degree to which the success of The Scarlet Letter had made the book what is called an actuality. Hawthorne himself was very modest about it; he wrote to his publisher, when there was a question of his undertaking61 another novel, that what had given the history of Hester Prynne its “vogue” was simply the introductory chapter. In fact, the publication of The Scarlet Letter was in the United States a literary event of the first importance. The book was the finest piece of imaginative writing yet put forth62 in the country. There was a consciousness of this in the welcome that was given it — a satisfaction in the idea of America having produced a novel that belonged to literature, and to the forefront of it. Something might at last be sent to Europe as exquisite63 in quality as anything that had been received, and the best of it was that the thing was absolutely American; it belonged to the soil, to the air; it came out of the very heart of New England.
It is beautiful, admirable, extraordinary; it has in the highest degree that merit which I have spoken of as the mark of Hawthorne’s best things — an indefinable purity and lightness of conception, a quality which in a work of art affects one in the same way as the absence of grossness does in a human being. His fancy, as I just now said, had evidently brooded over the subject for a long time; the situation to be represented had disclosed itself to him in all its phases. When I say in all its phases, the sentence demands modification64; for it is to be remembered that if Hawthorne laid his hand upon the well-worn theme, upon the familiar combination of the wife, the lover, and the husband, it was after all but to one period of the history of these three persons that he attached himself. The situation is the situation after the woman’s fault has been committed, and the current of expiation65 and repentance66 has set in. In spite of the relation between Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale, no story of love was surely ever less of a “love story.” To Hawthorne’s imagination the fact that these two persons had loved each other too well was of an interest comparatively vulgar; what appealed to him was the idea of their moral situation in the long years that were to follow. The story indeed is in a secondary degree that of Hester Prynne; she becomes, really, after the first scene, an accessory figure; it is not upon her the déno?ment depends. It is upon her guilty lover that the author projects most frequently the cold, thin rays of his fitfully-moving lantern, which makes here and there a little luminous68 circle, on the edge of which hovers69 the livid and sinister70 figure of the injured and retributive husband. The story goes on for the most part between the lover and the husband — the tormented71 young Puritan minister, who carries the secret of his own lapse72 from pastoral purity locked up beneath an exterior73 that commends itself to the reverence74 of his flock, while he sees the softer partner of his guilt67 standing75 in the full glare of exposure and humbling76 herself to the misery77 of atonement — between this more wretched and pitiable culprit, to whom dishonour78 would come as a comfort and the pillory79 as a relief, and the older, keener, wiser man, who, to obtain satisfaction for the wrong he has suffered, devises the infernally ingenious plan of conjoining himself with his wronger, living with him, living upon him, and while he pretends to minister to his hidden ailment80 and to sympathise with his pain, revels81 in his unsuspected knowledge of these things and stimulates82 them by malignant83 arts. The attitude of Roger Chillingworth, and the means he takes to compensate84 himself — these are the highly original elements in the situation that Hawthorne so ingeniously treats. None of his works are so impregnated with that after-sense of the old Puritan consciousness of life to which allusion has so often been made. If, as M. Montégut says, the qualities of his ancestors filtered down through generations into his composition, The Scarlet Letter was, as it were, the vessel85 that gathered up the last of the precious drops. And I say this not because the story happens to be of so-called historical cast, to be told of the early days of Massachusetts and of people in steeple-crowned hats and sad coloured garments. The historical colouring is rather weak than otherwise; there is little elaboration of detail, of the modern realism of research; and the author has made no great point of causing his figures to speak the English of their period. Nevertheless, the book is full of the moral presence of the race that invented Hester’s penance86 — diluted87 and complicated with other things, but still perfectly recognisable. Puritanism, in a word, is there, not only objectively, as Hawthorne tried to place it there, but subjectively88 as well. Not, I mean, in his judgment89 of his characters, in any harshness of prejudice, or in the obtrusion90 of a moral lesson; but in the very quality of his own vision, in the tone of the picture, in a certain coldness and exclusiveness of treatment.
The faults of the book are, to my sense, a want of reality and an abuse of the fanciful element — of a certain superficial symbolism. The people strike me not as characters, but as representatives, very picturesquely91 arranged, of a single state of mind; and the interest of the story lies, not in them, but in the situation, which is insistently93 kept before us, with little progression, though with a great deal, as I have said, of a certain stable variation; and to which they, out of their reality, contribute little that helps it to live and move. I was made to feel this want of reality, this over-ingenuity, of The Scarlet Letter, by chancing not long since upon a novel which was read fifty years ago much more than today, but which is still worth reading — the story of Adam Blair, by John Gibson Lockhart. This interesting and powerful little tale has a great deal of analogy with Hawthorne’s novel — quite enough, at least, to suggest a comparison between them; and the comparison is a very interesting one to make, for it speedily leads us to larger considerations than simple resemblances and divergences95 of plot.
Adam Blair, like Arthur Dimmesdale, is a Calvinistic minister who becomes the lover of a married woman, is overwhelmed with remorse97 at his misdeed, and makes a public confession98 of it; then expiates99 it by resigning his pastoral office and becoming a humble100 tiller of the soil, as his father had been. The two stories are of about the same length, and each is the masterpiece (putting aside of course, as far as Lockhart is concerned, the Life of Scott) of the author. They deal alike with the manners of a rigidly101 theological society, and even in certain details they correspond. In each of them, between the guilty pair, there is a charming little girl; though I hasten to say that Sarah Blair (who is not the daughter of the heroine but the legitimate102 offspring of the hero, a widower) is far from being as brilliant and graceful10 an apparition103 as the admirable little Pearl of The Scarlet Letter. The main difference between the two tales is the fact that in the American story the husband plays an all-important part, and in the Scottish plays almost none at all. Adam Blair is the history of the passion, and The Scarlet Letter the history of its sequel; but nevertheless, if one has read the two books at a short interval104, it is impossible to avoid confronting them. I confess that a large portion of the interest of Adam Blair, to my mind, when once I had perceived that it would repeat in a great measure the situation of The Scarlet Letter, lay in noting its difference of tone. It threw into relief the passionless quality of Hawthorne’s novel, its element of cold and ingenious fantasy, its elaborate imaginative delicacy105. These things do not precisely106 constitute a weakness in The Starlet Letter; indeed, in a certain way they constitute a great strength; but the absence of a certain something warm and straightforward107, a trifle more grossly human and vulgarly natural, which one finds in Adam Blair, will always make Hawthorne’s tale less touching108 to a large number of even very intelligent readers, than a love-story told with the robust109, synthetic110 pathos which served Lockhart so well. His novel is not of the first rank (I should call it an excellent second-rate one), but it borrows a charm from the fact that his vigorous, but not strongly imaginative, mind was impregnated with the reality of his subject. He did not always succeed in rendering111 this reality; the expression is sometimes awkward and poor. But the reader feels that his vision was clear, and his feeling about the matter very strong and rich. Hawthorne’s imagination, on the other hand, plays with his theme so incessantly112, leads it such a dance through the moonlighted air of his intellect, that the thing cools off, as it were, hardens and stiffens113, and, producing effects much more exquisite, leaves the reader with a sense of having handled a splendid piece of silversmith’s work. Lockhart, by means much more vulgar, produces at moments a greater illusion, and satisfies our inevitable114 desire for something, in the people in whom it is sought to interest us, that shall be of the same pitch and the same continuity with ourselves. Above all, it is interesting to see how the same subject appears to two men of a thoroughly115 different cast of mind and of a different race. Lockhart was struck with the warmth of the subject that offered itself to him, and Hawthorne with its coldness; the one with its glow, its sentimental116 interest — the other with its shadow, its moral interest. Lockhart’s story is as decent, as severely117 draped, as The Scarlet Letter; but the author has a more vivid sense than appears to have imposed itself upon Hawthorne, of some of the incidents of the situation he describes; his tempted118 man and tempting119 woman are more actual and personal; his heroine in especial, though not in the least a delicate or a subtle conception, has a sort of credible120, visible, palpable property, a vulgar roundness and relief, which are lacking to the dim and chastened image of Hester Prynne. But I am going too far; I am comparing simplicity121 with subtlety122, the usual with the refined. Each man wrote as his turn of mind impelled123 him, but each expressed something more than himself. Lockhart was a dense45, substantial Briton, with a taste for the concrete, and Hawthorne was a thin New Englander, with a miasmatic124 conscience.
In The Scarlet Letter there is a great deal of symbolism; there is, I think, too much. It is overdone125 at times, and becomes mechanical; it ceases to be impressive, and grazes triviality. The idea of the mystic A which the young minister finds imprinted upon his breast and eating into his flesh, in sympathy with the embroidered badge that Hester is condemned126 to wear, appears to me to be a case in point. This suggestion should, I think, have been just made and dropped; to insist upon it and return to it, is to exaggerate the weak side of the subject. Hawthorne returns to it constantly, plays with it, and seems charmed by it; until at last the reader feels tempted to declare that his enjoyment127 of it is puerile128. In the admirable scene, so superbly conceived and beautifully executed, in which Mr. Dimmesdale, in the stillness of the night, in the middle of the sleeping town, feels impelled to go and stand upon the scaffold where his mistress had formerly129 enacted130 her dreadful penance, and then, seeing Hester pass along the street, from watching at a sick-bed, with little Pearl at her side, calls them both to come and stand there beside him — in this masterly episode the effect is almost spoiled by the introduction of one of these superficial conceits131. What leads up to it is very fine — so fine that I cannot do better than quote it as a specimen132 of one of the striking pages of the book.
“But before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far and wide over all the muffled133 sky. It was doubtless caused by one of those meteors which the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste in the vacant regions of the atmosphere. So powerful was its radiance that it thoroughly illuminated134 the dense medium of cloud, betwixt the sky and earth. The great vault135 brightened, like the dome136 of an immense lamp. It showed the familiar scene of the street with the distinctness of midday, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by an unaccustomed light. The wooden houses, with their jutting137 stories and quaint gable-peaks; the doorsteps and thresholds, with the early grass springing up about them; the garden-plots, black with freshly-turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and, even in the marketplace, margined138 with green on either side;— all were visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to give another moral interpretation139 to the things of this world than they had ever borne before. And there stood the minister, with his hand over his heart; and Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering140 on her bosom141; and little Pearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting-link between these two. They stood in the noon of that strange and solemn splendour, as if it were the light that is to reveal all secrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all that belong to one another.”
That is imaginative, impressive, poetic142; but when, almost immediately afterwards, the author goes on to say that “the minister looking upward to the zenith, beheld143 there the appearance of an immense letter — the letter A — marked out in lines of dull red light,” we feel that he goes too far and is in danger of crossing the line that separates the sublime144 from its intimate neighbour. We are tempted to say that this is not moral tragedy, but physical comedy. In the same way, too much is made of the intimation that Hester’s badge had a scorching145 property, and that if one touched it one would immediately withdraw one’s hand. Hawthorne is perpetually looking for images which shall place themselves in picturesque92 correspondence with the spiritual facts with which he is concerned, and of course the search is of the very essence of poetry. But in such a process discretion146 is everything, and when the image becomes importunate147 it is in danger of seeming to stand for nothing more serious than itself. When Hester meets the minister by appointment in the forest, and sits talking with him while little Pearl wanders away and plays by the edge of the brook148, the child is represented as at last making her way over to the other side of the woodland stream, and disporting149 herself there in a manner which makes her mother feel herself, “in some indistinct and tantalising manner, estranged150 from Pearl; as if the child, in her lonely ramble151 through the forest, had strayed out of the sphere in which she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly seeking to return to it.” And Hawthorne devotes a chapter to this idea of the child’s having, by putting the brook between Hester and herself, established a kind of spiritual gulf152, on the verge96 of which her little fantastic person innocently mocks at her mother’s sense of bereavement153. This conception belongs, one would say, quite to the lighter154 order of a story-teller’s devices, and the reader hardly goes with Hawthorne in the large development he gives to it. He hardly goes with him either, I think, in his extreme predilection155 for a small number of vague ideas which are represented by such terms as “sphere” and “sympathies.” Hawthorne makes too liberal a use of these two substantives156; it is the solitary157 defect of his style; and it counts as a defect partly because the words in question are a sort of specialty158 with certain writers immeasurably inferior to himself.
I had not meant, however, to expatiate159 upon his defects, which are of the slenderest and most venial160 kind. The Scarlet Letter has the beauty and harmony of all original and complete conceptions, and its weaker spots, whatever they are, are not of its essence; they are mere161 light flaws and inequalities of surface. One can often return to it; it supports familiarity and has the inexhaustible charm and mystery of great works of art. It is admirably written. Hawthorne afterwards polished his style to a still higher degree, but in his later productions — it is almost always the case in a writer’s later productions — there is a touch of mannerism162. In The Scarlet Letter there is a high degree of polish, and at the same time a charming freshness; his phrase is less conscious of itself. His biographer very justly calls attention to the fact that his style was excellent from the beginning; that he appeared to have passed through no phase of learning how to write, but was in possession of his means from the first of his handling a pen. His early tales, perhaps, were not of a character to subject his faculty163 of expression to a very severe test, but a man who had not Hawthorne’s natural sense of language would certainly have contrived164 to write them less well. This natural sense of language — this turn for saying things lightly and yet touchingly165, picturesquely yet simply, and for infusing a gently colloquial166 tone into matter of the most unfamiliar167 import, he had evidently cultivated with great assiduity. I have spoken of the anomalous168 character of his Note–Books — of his going to such pains often to make a record of incidents which either were not worth remembering or could be easily remembered without its aid. But it helps us to understand the Note–Books if we regard them as a literary exercise. They were compositions, as school boys say, in which the subject was only the pretext169, and the main point was to write a certain amount of excellent English. Hawthorne must at least have written a great many of these things for practice, and he must often have said to himself that it was better practice to write about trifles, because it was a greater tax upon one’s skill to make them interesting. And his theory was just, for he has almost always made his trifles interesting. In his novels his art of saying things well is very positively170 tested, for here he treats of those matters among which it is very easy for a blundering writer to go wrong — the subtleties171 and mysteries of life, the moral and spiritual maze172. In such a passage as one I have marked for quotation173 from The Scarlet Letter there is the stamp of the genius of style.
“Hester Prynne, gazing steadfastly174 at the clergyman, felt a dreary175 influence come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew not, unless that he seemed so remote from her own sphere and utterly176 beyond her reach. One glance of recognition she had imagined must needs pass between them. She thought of the dim forest with its little dell of solitude177, and love, and anguish178, and the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand in hand, they had mingled179 their sad and passionate180 talk with the melancholy181 murmur182 of the brook. How deeply had they known each other then! And was this the man? She hardly knew him now! He, moving proudly past, enveloped183 as it were in the rich music, with the procession of majestic184 and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his worldly position, and still more so in that far vista186 in his unsympathising thoughts, through which she now beheld him! Her spirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion187, and that vividly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real bond betwixt the clergyman and herself. And thus much of woman there was in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive him — least of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching fate might be heard, nearer, nearer, nearer!— for being able to withdraw himself so completely from their mutual188 world, while she groped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found him not!”
The House of the Seven Gables was written at Lenox, among the mountains of Massachusetts, a village nestling, rather loosely, in one of the loveliest corners of New England, to which Hawthorne had betaken himself after the success of The Scarlet Letter became conspicuous189, in the summer of 1850, and where he occupied for two years an uncomfortable little red house which is now pointed190 out to the inquiring stranger. The inquiring stranger is now a frequent figure at Lenox, for the place has suffered the process of lionisation. It has become a prosperous watering-place, or at least (as there are no waters), as they say in America, a summer-resort. It is a brilliant and generous landscape, and thirty years ago a man of fancy, desiring to apply himself, might have found both inspiration and tranquillity191 there. Hawthorne found so much of both that he wrote more during his two years of residence at Lenox than at any period of his career. He began with The House of the Seven Gables, which was finished in the early part of 1851. This is the longest of his three American novels, it is the most elaborate, and in the judgment of some persons it is the finest. It is a rich, delightful, imaginative work, larger and more various than its companions, and full of all sorts of deep intentions, of interwoven threads of suggestion But it is not so rounded and complete as The Scarlet Letter; it has always seemed to me more like a prologue to a great novel than a great novel itself. I think this is partly owing to the fact that the subject, the donnée, as the French say, of the story, does not quite fill it out, and that we get at the same time an impression of certain complicated purposes on the author’s part, which seem to reach beyond it. I call it larger and more various than its companions, and it has indeed a greater richness of tone and density193 of detail. The colour, so to speak, of The House of the Seven Gables is admirable. But the story has a sort of expansive quality which never wholly fructifies194, and as I lately laid it down, after reading it for the third time, I had a sense of having interested myself in a magnificent fragment. Yet the book has a great fascination195, and of all of those of its author’s productions which I have read over while writing this sketch, it is perhaps the one that has gained most by re-perusal. If it be true of the others that the pure, natural quality of the imaginative strain is their great merit, this is at least as true of The House of the Seven Gables, the charm of which is in a peculiar degree of the kind that we fail to reduce to its grounds — like that of the sweetness of a piece of music, or the softness of fine September weather. It is vague, indefinable, ineffable196; but it is the sort of thing we must always point to in justification197 of the high claim that we make for Hawthorne. In this case of course its vagueness is a drawback, for it is difficult to point to ethereal beauties; and if the reader whom we have wished to inoculate198 with our admiration inform us after looking a while that he perceives nothing in particular, we can only reply that, in effect, the object is a delicate one.
The House of the Seven Gables comes nearer being a picture of contemporary American life than either of its companions; but on this ground it would be a mistake to make a large claim for it. It cannot be too often repeated that Hawthorne was not a realist. He had a high sense of reality — his Note–Books super-abundantly testify to it; and fond as he was of jotting199 down the items that make it up, he never attempted to render exactly or closely the actual facts of the society that surrounded him. I have said — I began by saying — that his pages were full of its spirit, and of a certain reflected light that springs from it; but I was careful to add that the reader must look for his local and national quality between the lines of his writing and in the indirect testimony200 of his tone, his accent, his temper, of his very omissions201 and suppressions. The House of the Seven Gables has, however, more literal actuality than the others, and if it were not too fanciful an account of it, I should say that it renders, to an initiated202 reader, the impression of a summer afternoon in an elm-shadowed New England town. It leaves upon the mind a vague correspondence to some such reminiscence, and in stirring up the association it renders it delightful. The comparison is to the honour of the New England town, which gains in it more than it bestows203. The shadows of the elms, in The House of the Seven Gables, are exceptionally dense and cool; the summer afternoon is peculiarly still and beautiful; the atmosphere has a delicious warmth, and the long daylight seems to pause and rest. But the mild provincial204 quality is there, the mixture of shabbiness and freshness, the paucity205 of ingredients. The end of an old race — this is the situation that Hawthorne has depicted206, and he has been admirably inspired in the choice of the figures in whom he seeks to interest us. They are all figures rather than characters — they are all pictures rather than persons. But if their reality is light and vague, it is sufficient, and it is in harmony with the low relief and dimness of outline of the objects that surround them. They are all types, to the author’s mind, of something general, of something that is bound up with the history, at large, of families and individuals, and each of them is the centre of a cluster of those ingenious and meditative207 musings, rather melancholy, as a general thing, than joyous208, which melt into the current and texture209 of the story and give it a kind of moral richness. A grotesque210 old spinster, simple, childish, penniless, very humble at heart, but rigidly conscious of her pedigree; an amiable211 bachelor, of an epicurean temperament212 and an enfeebled intellect, who has passed twenty years of his life in penal213 confinement214 for a crime of which he was unjustly pronounced guilty; a sweet-natured and bright-faced young girl from the country, a poor relation of these two ancient decrepitudes, with whose moral mustiness her modern freshness and soundness are contrasted; a young man still more modern, holding the latest opinions, who has sought his fortune up and down the world, and, though he has not found it, takes a genial215 and enthusiastic view of the future: these, with two or three remarkable216 accessory figures, are the persons concerned in the little drama. The drama is a small one, but as Hawthorne does not put it before us for its own superficial sake, for the dry facts of the case, but for something in it which he holds to be symbolic217 and of large application, something that points a moral and that it behoves us to remember, the scenes in the rusty218 wooden house whose gables give its name to the story, have something of the dignity both of history and of tragedy. Miss Hephzibah Pyncheon, dragging out a disappointed life in her paternal219 dwelling, finds herself obliged in her old age to open a little shop for the sale of penny toys and gingerbread. This is the central incident of the tale, and, as Hawthorne relates it, it is an incident of the most impressive magnitude and most touching interest. Her dishonoured220 and vague-minded brother is released from prison at the same moment, and returns to the ancestral roof to deepen her perplexities. But, on the other hand, to alleviate221 them, and to introduce a breath of the air of the outer world into this long unventilated interior, the little country cousin also arrives, and proves the good angel of the feebly distracted household. All this episode is exquisite — admirably conceived, and executed with a kind of humorous tenderness, an equal sense of everything in it that is picturesque, touching, ridiculous, worthy222 of the highest praise. Hephzibah Pyncheon, with her near-sighted scowl223, her rusty joints224, her antique turban, her map of a great territory to the eastward225 which ought to have belonged to her family, her vain terrors and scruples226 and resentments227, the inaptitude and repugnance228 of an ancient gentlewoman to the vulgar little commerce which a cruel fate has compelled her to engage in-Hephzibah Pyncheon is a masterly picture. I repeat that she is a picture, as her companions are pictures; she is a charming piece of descriptive writing, rather than a dramatic exhibition. But she is described, like her companions too, so subtly and lovingly that we enter into her virginal old heart and stand with her behind her abominable229 little counter. Clifford Pyncheon is a still more remarkable conception, though he is perhaps not so vividly depicted. It was a figure needing a much more subtle touch, however, and it was of the essence of his character to be vague and unemphasised. Nothing can be more charming than the manner in which the soft, bright, active presence of Phoebe Pyncheon is indicated, or than the account of her relations with the poor dimly sentient230 kinsman231 for whom her light-handed sisterly offices, in the evening of a melancholy life, are a revelation of lost possibilities of happiness. “In her aspect,” Hawthorne says of the young girl, “there was a familiar gladness, and a holiness that you could play with, and yet reverence it as much as ever. She was like a prayer offered up in the homeliest beauty of one’s mother-tongue. Fresh was Phoebe, moreover, and airy, and sweet in her apparel; as if nothing that she wore — neither her gown, nor her small straw bonnet232, nor her little kerchief, any more than her snowy stockings — had ever been put on before; or if worn, were all the fresher for it, and with a fragrance233 as if they had lain among the rose-buds.” Of the influence of her maidenly234 salubrity upon poor Clifford, Hawthorne gives the prettiest description, and then, breaking off suddenly, renounces235 the attempt in language which, while pleading its inadequacy236, conveys an exquisite satisfaction to the reader. I quote the passage for the sake of its extreme felicity, and of the charming image with which it concludes.
“But we strive in vain to put the idea into words. No adequate expression of the beauty and profound pathos with which it impresses us is attainable185. This being, made only for happiness, and heretofore so miserably237 failing to be happy — his tendencies so hideously238 thwarted239 that some unknown time ago, the delicate springs of his character, never morally or intellectually strong, had given way, and he was now imbecile — this poor forlorn voyager from the Islands of the Blest, in a frail240 bark, on a tempestuous241 sea, had been flung by the last mountain-wave of his shipwreck242, into a quiet harbour. There, as he lay more than half lifeless on the strand243, the fragrance of an earthly rose-bud had come to his nostrils244, and, as odours will, had summoned up reminiscences or visions of all the living and breathing beauty amid which he should have had his home. With his native susceptibility of happy influences, he inhales245 the slight ethereal rapture246 into his soul, and expires!”
I have not mentioned the personage in The House of the Seven Gables upon whom Hawthorne evidently bestowed247 most pains, and whose portrait is the most elaborate in the book; partly because he is, in spite of the space he occupies, an accessory figure, and partly because, even more than the others, he is what I have called a picture rather than a character. Judge Pyncheon is an ironical248 portrait, very richly and broadly executed, very sagaciously composed and rendered — the portrait of a superb, full blown hypocrite, a large-based, full-nurtured Pharisee, bland249, urbane250, impressive, diffusing251 about him a “sultry” warmth of benevolence252, as the author calls it again and again, and basking253 in the noontide of prosperity and the consideration of society; but in reality hard, gross, and ignoble254. Judge Pyncheon is an elaborate piece of description, made up of a hundred admirable touches, in which satire255 is always winged with fancy, and fancy is linked with a deep sense of reality. It is difficult to say whether Hawthorne followed a model in describing Judge Pyncheon; but it is tolerably obvious that the picture is an impression — a copious256 impression — of an individual. It has evidently a definite starting-point in fact, and the author is able to draw, freely and confidently, after the image established in his mind. Holgrave, the modern young man, who has been a Jack-of-all-trades and is at the period of the story a daguerreotypist, is an attempt to render a kind of national type — that of the young citizen of the United States whose fortune is simply in his lively intelligence, and who stands naked, as it were, unbiased and unencumbered alike, in the centre of the far-stretching level of American life. Holgrave is intended as a contrast; his lack of traditions, his democratic stamp, his condensed experience, are opposed to the desiccated prejudices and exhausted257 vitality258 of the race of which poor feebly-scowling, rusty-jointed Hephzibah is the most heroic representative. It is perhaps a pity that Hawthorne should not have proposed to himself to give the old Pyncheon-qualities some embodiment which would help them to balance more fairly with the elastic259 properties of the young daguerreotypist — should not have painted a lusty conservative to match his strenuous260 radical261. As it is, the mustiness and mouldiness of the tenants262 of the House of the Seven Gables crumble263 away rather too easily. Evidently, however, what Hawthorne designed to represent was not the struggle between an old society and a new, for in this case he would have given the old one a better chance; but simply, as I have said, the shrinkage and extinction264 of a family. This appealed to his imagination; and the idea of long perpetuation265 and survival always appears to have filled him with a kind of horror and disapproval266. Conservative, in a certain degree, as he was himself, and fond of retrospect267 and quietude and the mellowing268 influences of time, it is singular how often one encounters in his writings some expression of mistrust of old houses, old institutions, long lines of descent. He was disposed apparently269 to allow a very moderate measure in these respects, and he condemns270 the dwelling of the Pyncheons to disappear from the face of the earth because it has been standing a couple of hundred years. In this he was an American of Americans; or rather he was more American than many of his countrymen, who, though they are accustomed to work for the short run rather than the long, have often a lurking271 esteem272 for things that show the marks of having lasted. I will add that Holgrave is one of the few figures, among those which Hawthorne created, with regard to which the absence of the realistic mode of treatment is felt as a loss. Holgrave is not sharply enough characterised; he lacks features; he is not an individual, but a type. But my last word about this admirable novel must not be a restrictive one. It is a large and generous production, pervaded273 with that vague hum, that indefinable echo, of the whole multitudinous life of man, which is the real sign of a great work of fiction.
After the publication of The House of the Seven Gables, which brought him great honour, and, I believe, a tolerable share of a more ponderable substance, he composed a couple of little volumes, for children — The Wonder–Book, and a small collection of stories entitled Tanglewood Tales. They are not among his most serious literary titles, but if I may trust my own early impression of them, they are among the most charming literary services that have been rendered to children in an age (and especially in a country) in which the exactions of the infant mind have exerted much too palpable an influence upon literature. Hawthorne’s stories are the old Greek myths, made more vivid to the childish imagination by an infusion274 of details which both deepen and explain their marvels275. I have been careful not to read them over, for I should be very sorry to risk disturbing in any degree a recollection of them that has been at rest since the appreciative276 period of life to which they are addressed. They seem at that period enchanting277, and the ideal of happiness of many American children is to lie upon the carpet and lose themselves in The Wonder–Book. It is in its pages that they first make the acquaintance of the heroes and heroines of the antique mythology278, and something of the nursery fairy-tale quality of interest which Hawthorne imparts to them always remains279.
I have said that Lenox was a very pretty place, and that he was able to work there Hawthorne proved by composing The House of the Seven Gables with a good deal of rapidity. But at the close of the year in which this novel was published he wrote to a friend (Mr. Fields, his publisher,) that “to tell you a secret I am sick to death of Berkshire, and hate to think of spending another winter here. . . . The air and climate do not agree with my health at all, and for the first time since I was a boy I have felt languid and dispirited. . . . O that Providence280 would build me the merest little shanty281, and mark me out a rood or two of garden ground, near the sea-coast!” He was at this time for a while out of health; and it is proper to remember that though the Massachusetts Berkshire, with its mountains and lakes, was charming during the ardent282 American summer, there was a reverse to the medal, consisting of December snows prolonged into April and May. Providence failed to provide him with a cottage by the sea; but he betook himself for the winter of 1852 to the little town of West Newton, near Boston, where he brought into the world The Blithedale Romance.
This work, as I have said, would not have been written if Hawthorne had not spent a year at Brook Farm, and though it is in no sense of the word an account of the manners or the inmates283 of that establishment, it will preserve the memory of the ingenious community at West Roxbury for a generation unconscious of other reminders284. I hardly know what to say about it save that it is very charming; this vague, unanalytic epithet286 is the first that comes to one’s pen in treating of Hawthorne’s novels, for their extreme amenity287 of form invariably suggests it; but if on the one hand it claims to be uttered, on the other it frankly288 confesses its inconclusiveness. Perhaps, however, in this case, it fills out the measure of appreciation289 more completely than in others, for The Blithedale Romance is the lightest, the brightest, the liveliest, of this company of unhumorous fictions.
The story is told from a more joyous point of view — from a point of view comparatively humorous — and a number of objects and incidents touched with the light of the profane290 world — the vulgar, many-coloured world of actuality, as distinguished291 from the crepuscular292 realm of the writer’s own reveries — are mingled with its course. The book indeed is a mixture of elements, and it leaves in the memory an impression analogous293 to that of an April day — an alternation of brightness and shadow, of broken sun-patches and sprinkling clouds. Its déno?ment is tragical294 — there is indeed nothing so tragical in all Hawthorne, unless it be the murder-of Miriam’s persecutor295 by Donatello, in Transformation296, as the suicide of Zenobia; and yet on the whole the effect of the novel is to make one think more agreeably of life. The standpoint of the narrator has the advantage of being a concrete one; he is no longer, as in the preceding tales, a disembodied spirit, imprisoned297 in the haunted chamber of his own contemplations, but a particular man, with a certain human grossness.
Of Miles Coverdale I have already spoken, and of its being natural to assume that in so far as we may measure this lightly indicated identity of his, it has a great deal in common with that of his creator. Coverdale is a picture of the contemplative, observant, analytic285 nature, nursing its fancies, and yet, thanks to an element of strong good sense, not bringing them up to be spoiled children; having little at stake in life, at any given moment, and yet indulging, in imagination, in a good many adventures; a portrait of a man, in a word, whose passions are slender, whose imagination is active, and whose happiness lies, not in doing, but in perceiving — half a poet, half a critic, and all a spectator. He is contrasted, excellently, with the figure of Hollingsworth, the heavily treading Reformer, whose attitude with regard to the world is that of the hammer to the anvil298, and who has no patience with his friend’s indifferences and neutralities. Coverdale is a gentle sceptic, a mild cynic; he would agree that life is a little worth living — or worth living a little; but would remark that, unfortunately, to live little enough, we have to live a great deal. He confesses to a want of earnestness, but in reality he is evidently an excellent fellow, to whom one might look, not for any personal performance on a great scale, but for a good deal of generosity299 of detail. “As Hollingsworth once told me, I lack a purpose,” he writes, at the close of his story. “How strange! He was ruined, morally, by an over plus of the same ingredient the want of which, I occasionally suspect, has rendered my own life all an emptiness. I by no means wish to die. Yet were there any cause in this whole chaos300 of human struggle, worth a sane301 man’s dying for, and which my death would benefit, then — provided, however, the effort did not involve an unreasonable302 amount of trouble — methinks I might be bold to offer up my life. If Kossuth, for example, would pitch the battle-field of Hungarian rights within an easy ride of my abode303, and choose a mild sunny morning, after breakfast, for the conflict, Miles Coverdale would gladly be his man, for one brave rush upon the levelled bayonets. Further than that I should be loth to pledge myself.”
The finest thing in The Blithdale Romance is the character of Zenobia, which I have said elsewhere strikes me as the nearest approach that Hawthorne has made to the complete creation of a person. She is more concrete than Hester or Miriam, or Hilda or Phoebe; she is a more definite image, produced by a greater multiplicity of touches. It is idle to inquire too closely whether Hawthorne had Margaret Fuller in his mind in constructing the figure of this brilliant specimen of the strong-minded class and endowing her with the genius of conversation; or, on the assumption that such was the case, to compare the image at all strictly304 with the model. There is no strictness in the representation by novelists of persons who have struck them in life, and there can in the nature of things be none. From the moment the imagination takes a hand in the game, the inevitable tendency is to divergence94, to following what may be called new scents305. The original gives hints, but the writer does what he likes with them, and imports new elements into the picture. If there is this amount of reason for referring the wayward heroine of Blithedale to Hawthorne’s impression of the most distinguished woman of her day in Boston, that Margaret Fuller was the only literary lady of eminence306 whom there is any sign of his having known, that she was proud, passionate, and eloquent307, that she was much connected with the little world of Transcendentalism out of which the experiment of Brook Farm sprung, and that she had a miserable308 end and a watery309 grave — if these are facts to be noted310 on one side, I say; on the other, the beautiful and sumptuous311 Zenobia, with her rich and picturesque temperament and physical aspects, offers many points of divergence from the plain and strenuous invalid312 who represented feminine culture in the suburbs of the New England metropolis313. This picturesqueness314 of Zenobia is very happily indicated and maintained; she is a woman, in all the force of the term, and there is something very vivid and powerful in her large expression of womanly gifts and weaknesses. Hollingsworth is, I think, less successful, though there is much reality in the conception of the type to which he belongs — the strong-willed, narrow-hearted apostle of a special form of redemption for society. There is nothing better in all Hawthorne than the scene between him and Coverdale, when the two men are at work together in the field (piling stones on a dyke), and he gives it to his companion to choose whether he will be with him or against him. It is a pity, perhaps, to have represented him as having begun life as a blacksmith, for one grudges315 him the advantage of so logical a reason for his roughness and hardness.
“Hollingsworth scarcely said a word, unless when repeatedly and pertinaciously316 addressed. Then indeed he would glare upon us from the thick shrubbery of his meditations317, like a tiger out of a jungle, make the briefest reply possible, and betake himself back into the solitude of his heart and mind. . . . His heart, I imagine, was never really interested in our socialist318 scheme, but was for ever busy with his strange, and as most people thought, impracticable plan for the reformation of criminals through an appeal to their higher instincts. Much as I liked Hollingsworth, it cost me many a groan319 to tolerate him on this point. He ought to have commenced his investigation320 of the subject by committing some huge sin in his proper person, and examining the condition of his-higher instincts afterwards.”
The most touching element in the novel is the history of the grasp that this barbarous fanatic321 has laid upon the fastidious and high-tempered Zenobia, who, disliking him and shrinking, from him at a hundred points, is drawn322 into the gulf of his omnivorous323 egotism. The portion of the story that strikes me as least felicitous324 is that which deals with Priscilla and with her mysterious relation to Zenobia — with her mesmeric gifts, her clairvoyance325, her identity with the Veiled Lady, her divided subjection to Hollingsworth and Westervelt, and her numerous other graceful but fantastic properties — her Sibylline326 attributes, as the author calls them. Hawthorne is rather too fond of Sibylline attributes — a taste of the same order as his disposition327, to which I have already alluded, to talk about spheres and sympathies. As the action advances, in The Blithdale Romance, we get too much out of reality, and cease to feel beneath our feet the firm ground of an appeal to our own vision of the world, our observation. I should have liked to see the story concern itself more with the little community in which its earlier scenes are laid, and avail itself of so excellent an opportunity for describing unhackneyed specimens328 of human nature. I have already spoken of the absence of satire in the novel, of its not aiming in the least at satire, and of its offering no grounds for complaint as an invidious picture. Indeed the brethren of Brook Farm should have held themselves slighted rather than misrepresented, and have regretted that the admirable genius who for a while was numbered among them should have treated their institution mainly as a perch329 for starting upon an imaginative flight. But when all is said about a certain want of substance and cohesion330 in the latter portions of The Blithedale Romance, the book is still a delightful and beautiful one. Zenobia and Hollingsworth live in the memory, and even Priscilla and Coverdale, who linger there less importunately331, have a great deal that touches us and that we believe in. I said just now that Priscilla was infelicitous332; but immediately afterwards I open the volume at a page in which the author describes some of the out-of-door amusements at Blithedale, and speaks of a foot-race across the grass, in which some of the slim young girls of the society joined. “Priscilla’s peculiar charm in a foot-race was the weakness and irregularity with which she ran. Growing up without exercise, except to her poor little fingers, she had never yet acquired the perfect use of her legs. Setting buoyantly forth therefore, as if no rival less swift than Atalanta could compete with her, she ran falteringly333, and often tumbled on the grass. Such an incident — though it seems too slight to think of — was a thing to laugh at, but which brought the water into one’s eyes, and lingered in the memory after far greater joys and sorrows were wept out of it, as antiquated334 trash. Priscilla’s life, as I beheld it, was full of trifles that affected335 me in just this way.” That seems to me exquisite, and the book is full of touches as deep and delicate.
After writing it, Hawthorne went back to live in Concord336, where he had bought a small house in which, apparently, he expected to spend a large portion of his future. This was in fact the dwelling in which he passed that part of the rest of his days that he spent in his own country. He established himself there before going to Europe, in 1853, and he returned to the Wayside, as he called his house, on coming back to the United States seven years later. Though he actually occupied the place no long time, he had made it his property, and it was more his own home than any of his numerous provisional abodes337. I may therefore quote a little account of the house which he wrote to a distinguished friend, Mr. George Curtis.
“As for my old house, you will understand it better after spending a day or two in it. Before Mr. Alcott took it in hand, it was a mean-looking affair, with two peaked gables; no suggestiveness about it, and no venerableness, although from the style of its construction it seems to have survived beyond its first century. He added a porch in front, and a central peak, and a piazza338 at each end, and painted it a rusty olive hue, and invested the whole with a modest picturesqueness; all which improvements, together with its situation at the foot of a wooded hill, make it a place that one notices and remembers for a few moments after passing. Mr. Alcott expended339 a good deal of taste and some money (to no great purpose) in forming the hillside behind the house into terraces, and building arbours and summer-houses of rough stems and branches and trees, on a system of his own. They must have been very pretty in their day, and are so still, although much decayed, and shattered more and more by every breeze that blows. The hillside is covered chiefly with locust340 trees, which come into luxuriant blossom in the month of June, and look and smell very sweetly, intermixed with a few young elms, and white pines and infant oaks — the whole forming rather a thicket341 than a wood. Nevertheless, there is some very good shade to be found there. I spend delectable342 hours there in the hottest part of the day, stretched out at my lazy length, with a book in my hand, or some unwritten book in my thoughts. There is almost always a breeze stirring along the sides or brow of the hill. From the hill-top there is a good view along the extensive level surfaces and gentle hilly outlines, covered with wood, that characterise the scenery of Concord. . . . I know nothing of the history of the house except Thoreau’s telling me that it was inhabited, a generation or two ago, by a man who believed he should never die. I believe, however, he is dead; at least, I hope so; else he may probably reappear and dispute my title to his residence.”
As Mr. Lathrop points out, this allusion to a man who believed he should never die is “the first intimation of the story of Septimius Felton.” The scenery of that romance, he adds, “was evidently taken from the Wayside and its hill.” Septimius Felton is in fact a young man who, at the time of the war of the Revolution, lives in the village of Concord, on the Boston road, at the base of a woody hill which rises abruptly343 behind his house, and of which the level summit supplies him with a promenade344 continually mentioned in the course of the tale. Hawthorne used to exercise himself upon this picturesque eminence, and, as he conceived the brooding Septimius to have done before him, to betake himself thither345 when he found the limits of his dwelling too narrow. But he had an advantage which his imaginary hero lacked; he erected346 a tower as an adjunct to the house, and it was a jocular tradition among his neighbours, in allusion to his attributive tendency to evade347 rather than hasten the coming guest, that he used to ascend348 this structure and scan the road for provocations349 to retreat.
In so far, however, as Hawthorne suffered the penalties of celebrity350 at the hands of intrusive20 fellow-citizens, he was soon to escape from this honourable351 incommodity. On the 4th of March, 1853, his old college-mate and intimate friend, Franklin Pierce, was installed as President of the United States. He had been the candidate of the Democratic party, and all good Democrats352, accordingly, in conformity353 to the beautiful and rational system under which the affairs of the great Republic were carried on, begun to open their windows to the golden sunshine of Presidential patronage354. When General Pierce was put forward by the Democrats, Hawthorne felt a perfectly loyal and natural desire that his good friend should be exalted355 to so brilliant a position, and he did what was in him to further the good cause, by writing a little book about its hero. His Life of Franklin Pierce belongs to that class of literature which is known as the “campaign biography,” and which consists of an attempt, more or less successful, to persuade the many-headed monster of universal suffrage356 that the gentleman on whose behalf it is addressed is a paragon357 of wisdom and virtue358. Of Hawthorne’s little book there is nothing particular to say, save that it is in very good taste, that he is a very fairly ingenious advocate, and that if he claimed for the future President qualities which rather faded in the bright light of a high office, this defect of proportion was essential to his undertaking. He dwelt chiefly upon General Pierce’s exploits in the war with Mexico (before that, his record, as they say in America, had been mainly that of a successful country lawyer), and exercised his descriptive powers so far as was possible in describing the advance of the United States troops from Vera Cruz to the city of the Montezumas. The mouthpieces of the Whig party spared him, I believe, no reprobation359 for “prostituting” his exquisite genius; but I fail to see anything reprehensible360 in Hawthorne’s lending his old friend the assistance of his graceful quill192. He wished him to be President — he held afterwards that he filled the office with admirable dignity and wisdom — and as the only thing he could do was to write, he fell to work and wrote for him. Hawthorne was a good lover and a very sufficient partisan361, and I suspect that if Franklin Pierce had been made even less of the stuff of a statesman, he would still have found in the force of old associations an injunction to hail him as a ruler. Our hero was an American of the earlier and simpler type — the type of which it is doubtless premature362 to say that it has wholly passed away, but of which it may at least be said that the circumstances that produced it have been greatly modified. The generation to which he belonged, that generation which grew up with the century, witnessed during a period of fifty years the immense, uninterrupted material development of the young Republic; and when one thinks of the scale on which it took place, of the prosperity that walked in its train and waited on its course, of the hopes it fostered and the blessings363 it conferred, of the broad morning sunshine, in a word, in which it all went forward, there seems to be little room for surprise that it should have implanted a kind of superstitious364 faith in the grandeur365 of the country, its duration, its immunity366 from the usual troubles of earthly empires. This faith was a simple and uncritical one, enlivened with an element of genial optimism, in the light of which it appeared that the great American state was not as other human institutions are, that a special Providence watched over it, that it would go on joyously367 for ever, and that a country whose vast and blooming bosom offered a refuge to the strugglers and seekers of all the rest of the world, must come off easily, in the battle of the ages. From this conception of the American future the sense of its having problems to solve was blissfully absent; there were no difficulties in the programme, no looming368 complications, no rocks ahead. The indefinite multiplication369 of the population, and its enjoyment of the benefits of a common-school education and of unusual facilities for making an income — this was the form in which, on the whole, the future most vividly presented itself, and in which the greatness of the country was to be recognised of men. There was indeed a faint shadow in the picture — the shadow projected by the “peculiar institution” of the Southern States; but it was far from sufficient to darken the rosy370 vision of most good Americans, and above all, of most good Democrats. Hawthorne alludes371 to it in a passage of his life of Pierce, which I will quote not only as a hint of the trouble that was in store for a cheerful race of men, but as an example of his own easy-going political attitude.
“It was while in the lower house of Congress that Franklin Pierce took that stand on the Slavery question from which he has never since swerved372 by a hair’s breadth. He fully12 recognised by his votes and his voice, the rights pledged to the South by the Constitution. This, at the period when he declared himself, was an easy thing to do. But when it became more difficult, when the first imperceptible murmur of agitation373 had grown almost to a convulsion, his course was still the same. Nor did he ever shun374 the obloquy375 that sometimes threatened to pursue the Northern man who dared to love that great and sacred reality — his whole united country — better than the mistiness376 of a philanthropic theory.”
This last invidious allusion is to the disposition, not infrequent at the North, but by no means general, to set a decisive limit to further legislation in favour of the cherished idiosyncrasy of the other half of the country. Hawthorne takes the license377 of a sympathetic biographer in speaking of his hero’s having incurred378 obloquy by his conservative attitude on the question of Slavery. The only class in the American world that suffered in the smallest degree, at this time, from social persecution379, was the little band of Northern Abolitionists, who were as unfashionable as they were indiscreet — which is saying much. Like most of his fellow-countrymen, Hawthorne had no idea that the respectable institution which he contemplated381 in impressive contrast to humanitarian382 “mistiness,” was presently to cost the nation four long years of bloodshed and misery, and a social revolution as complete as any the world has seen. When this event occurred, he was therefore proportionately horrified383 and depressed384 by it; it cut from beneath his feet the familiar ground which had long felt so firm, substituting a heaving and quaking medium in which his spirit found no rest. Such was the bewildered sensation of that earlier and simpler generation of which I have spoken; their illusions were rudely dispelled, and they saw the best of all possible republics given over to fratricidal carnage. This affair had no place in their scheme, and nothing was left for them but to hang their heads and close their eyes. The subsidence of that great convulsion has left a different tone from the tone it found, and one may say that the Civil War marks an era in the history of the American mind. It introduced into the national consciousness a certain sense of proportion and relation, of the world being a more complicated place than it had hitherto seemed, the future more treacherous385, success more difficult. At the rate at which things are going, it is obvious that good Americana will be more numerous than ever; but the good American, in days to come, will be a more critical person than his complacent386 and confident grandfather. He has eaten of the tree of knowledge. He will not, I think, be a sceptic, and still less, of course, a cynic; but he will be, without discredit387 to his well-known capacity for action, an observer. He will remember that the ways of the Lord are inscrutable, and that this is a world in which everything happens; and eventualities, as the late Emperor of the French used to say, will not find him intellectually unprepared. The good American of which Hawthorne was so admirable a specimen was not critical, and it was perhaps for this reason that Franklin Pierce seemed to him a very proper President.
The least that General Pierce could do in exchange for so liberal a confidence was to offer his old friend one of the numerous places in his gift. Hawthorne had a great desire to go abroad and see something of the world, so that a consulate389 seemed the proper thing. He never stirred in the matter himself, but his friends strongly urged that something should be done; and when he accepted the post of consul388 at Liverpool there was not a word of reasonable criticism to be offered on the matter. If General Pierce, who was before all things good-natured and obliging, had been guilty of no greater indiscretion than to confer this modest distinction upon the most honourable and discreet380 of men of letters, he would have made a more brilliant mark in the annals of American statesmanship. Liverpool had not been immediately selected, and Hawthorne had written to his friend and publisher, Mr. Fields, with some humorous vagueness of allusion to his probable expatriation.
“Do make some inquiries390 about Portugal; as, for instance, in what part of the world it lies, and whether it is an empire, a kingdom, or a republic. Also, and more particularly, the expenses of living there, and whether the Minister would be likely to be much pestered391 with his own countrymen. Also, any other information about foreign countries would be acceptable to an inquiring mind.”
It would seem from this that there had been a question of offering him a small diplomatic post; but the emoluments392 of the place were justly taken into account, and it is to be supposed that those of the consulate at Liverpool were at least as great as the salary of the American representative at Lisbon. Unfortunately, just after Hawthorne had taken possession of the former post, the salary attached to it was reduced by Congress, in an economical hour, to less than half the sum enjoyed by his predecessors393. It was fixed at 7,500 dollars (￡1,500); but the consular394 fees, which were often copious, were an added resource. At midsummer then, in 1853, Hawthorne was established in England.
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1
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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intrusively
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| adv.干扰地，侵入地 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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27
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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28
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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29
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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32
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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33
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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bowlers
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| n.（板球）投球手( bowler的名词复数 )；圆顶高帽 | |
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41
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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42
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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43
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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44
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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45
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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46
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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49
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
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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52
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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53
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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55
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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56
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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57
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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58
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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59
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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61
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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64
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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65
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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66
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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67
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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68
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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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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70
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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71
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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72
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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73
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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74
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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76
humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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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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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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79
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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80
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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81
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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82
stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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83
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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84
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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85
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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86
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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87
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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88
subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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89
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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obtrusion
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| n.强制，莽撞 | |
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picturesquely
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92
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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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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94
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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95
divergences
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| n.分叉( divergence的名词复数 )；分歧；背离；离题 | |
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96
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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expiates
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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101
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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102
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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103
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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104
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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105
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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106
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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107
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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108
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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109
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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113
stiffens
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| （使）变硬，（使）强硬( stiffen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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115
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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116
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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117
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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118
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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119
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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120
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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121
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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122
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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123
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
miasmatic
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| adj.毒气的，沼气的 | |
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125
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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126
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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127
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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128
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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129
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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130
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
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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132
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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133
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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134
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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135
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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136
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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137
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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138
margined
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| [医]具边的 | |
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139
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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140
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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141
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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142
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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143
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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144
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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145
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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146
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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147
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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148
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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149
disporting
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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150
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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151
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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152
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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153
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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154
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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155
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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156
substantives
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| n.作名词用的词或词组（substantive的复数形式） | |
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157
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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158
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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159
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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160
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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161
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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162
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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163
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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164
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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165
touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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166
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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167
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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168
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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169
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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170
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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171
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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172
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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173
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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174
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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175
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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176
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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177
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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178
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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179
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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180
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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181
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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182
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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183
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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185
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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186
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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187
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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188
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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189
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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190
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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191
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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192
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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193
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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194
fructifies
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| vi.结果实（fructify的第三人称单数形式） | |
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195
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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196
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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197
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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198
inoculate
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| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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199
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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200
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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201
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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202
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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203
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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204
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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205
paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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206
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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207
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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208
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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209
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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210
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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211
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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212
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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213
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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214
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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215
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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216
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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217
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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218
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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219
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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220
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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221
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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222
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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223
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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224
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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225
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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226
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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227
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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228
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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229
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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230
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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231
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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232
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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233
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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234
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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235
renounces
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的第三人称单数 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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236
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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237
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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238
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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239
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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240
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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241
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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242
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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243
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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244
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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245
inhales
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| v.吸入( inhale的第三人称单数 ) | |
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246
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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247
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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248
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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249
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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250
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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251
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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252
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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253
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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254
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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255
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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256
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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257
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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258
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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259
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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260
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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261
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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262
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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263
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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264
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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265
perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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266
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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267
retrospect
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|
| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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268
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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269
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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270
condemns
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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271
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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272
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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273
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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274
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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275
marvels
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|
| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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276
appreciative
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|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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277
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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278
mythology
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|
| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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279
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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280
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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281
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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282
ardent
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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283
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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284
reminders
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|
| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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285
analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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286
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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287
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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288
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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289
appreciation
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|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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290
profane
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|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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291
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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292
crepuscular
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|
| adj.晨曦的；黄昏的；昏暗的 | |
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293
analogous
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|
| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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294
tragical
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|
| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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295
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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296
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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297
imprisoned
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|
| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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298
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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299
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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300
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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301
sane
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|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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302
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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303
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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304
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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305
scents
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|
| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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306
eminence
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|
| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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307
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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308
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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309
watery
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|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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310
noted
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|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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311
sumptuous
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|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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312
invalid
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|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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313
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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314
picturesqueness
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315
grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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316
pertinaciously
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|
| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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317
meditations
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|
| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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318
socialist
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|
| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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319
groan
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|
| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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320
investigation
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|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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321
fanatic
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|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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322
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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323
omnivorous
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|
| adj.杂食的 | |
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324
felicitous
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|
| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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325
clairvoyance
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|
| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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326
sibylline
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|
| adj.预言的；神巫的 | |
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327
disposition
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|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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328
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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329
perch
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|
| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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330
cohesion
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|
| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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331
importunately
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332
infelicitous
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|
| adj.不适当的 | |
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333
falteringly
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|
| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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334
antiquated
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|
| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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335
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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336
concord
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|
| n.和谐；协调 | |
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337
abodes
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|
| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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338
piazza
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|
| n.广场；走廊 | |
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339
expended
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|
| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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340
locust
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|
| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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341
thicket
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|
| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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342
delectable
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|
| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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343
abruptly
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|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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344
promenade
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|
| n./v.散步 | |
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345
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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346
ERECTED
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|
| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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347
evade
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|
| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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348
ascend
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|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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349
provocations
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|
| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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350
celebrity
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|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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351
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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352
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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353
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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354
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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355
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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356
suffrage
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|
| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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357
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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358
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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359
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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360
reprehensible
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|
| adj.该受责备的 | |
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361
partisan
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|
| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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362
premature
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|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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363
blessings
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|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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364
superstitious
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|
| adj.迷信的 | |
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365
grandeur
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|
| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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366
immunity
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|
| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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367
joyously
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|
| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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368
looming
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|
| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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369
multiplication
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|
| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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370
rosy
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|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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371
alludes
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|
| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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372
swerved
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|
| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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373
agitation
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|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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374
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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375
obloquy
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|
| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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376
mistiness
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|
| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
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377
license
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|
| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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378
incurred
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|
| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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379
persecution
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|
| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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380
discreet
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|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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381
contemplated
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|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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382
humanitarian
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|
| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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383
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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384
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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385
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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386
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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387
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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388
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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389
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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390
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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391
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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392
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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393
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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394
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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