Between two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone (the gate itself having fallen from its hinges at some unknown epoch2) we beheld3 the gray front of the old parsonage, terminating the vista5 of an avenue of black-ash trees. It was now a twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman, its last inhabitant, had turned from that gateway6 towards the village burying-ground. The wheel-track leading to the door, as well as the whole breadth of the avenue, was almost overgrown with grass, affording dainty mouthfuls to two or three vagrant8 cows and an old white horse who had his own living to pick up along the roadside. The glimmering9 shadows that lay half asleep between the door of the house and the public highway were a kind of spiritual medium, seen through which the edifice10 had not quite the aspect of belonging to the material world. Certainly it had little in common with those ordinary abodes11 which stand so imminent12 upon the road that every passer-by can thrust his head, as it were, into the domestic circle. From these quiet windows the figures of passing travellers looked too remote and dim to disturb the sense of privacy. In its near retirement13 and accessible seclusion14, it was the very spot for the residence of a clergyman — a man not estranged15 from human life, yet enveloped16, in the midst of it, with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and brightness. It was worthy18 to have been one of the time-honored parsonages of England, in which, through many generations, a succession of holy occupants pass from youth to age, and bequeath each an inheritance of sanctity to pervade19 the house and hover20 over it as with an atmosphere.
Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been profaned21 by a lay occupant until that memorable22 summer afternoon when I entered it as my home. A priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other priestly men from time to time had dwelt in it; and children born in its chambers23 had grown up to assume the priestly character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons must have been written there. The latest inhabitant alone — he by whose translation to paradise the dwelling25 was left vacant — had penned nearly three thousand discourses26, besides the better, if not the greater, number that gushed27 living from his lips. How often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue, attuning28 his meditations29 to the sighs and gentle murmurs30 and deep and solemn peals32 of the wind among the lofty tops of the trees! In that variety of natural utterances33 he could find something accordant with every passage of his sermon, were it of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs36 over my head seemed shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling37 leaves. I took shame to myself for having been so long a writer of idle stories, and ventured to hope that wisdom would descend38 upon me with the falling leaves of the avenue, and that I should light upon an intellectual treasure in the Old Manse well worth those hoards39 of long-hidden gold which people seek for in moss-grown houses. Profound treatises40 of morality; a layman’s unprofessional, and therefore unprejudiced, views of religion; histories (such as Bancroft might have written had he taken up his abode here, as he once purposed) bright with picture, gleaming over a depth of philosophic43 thought — these were the works that might fitly have flowed from such a retirement. In the humblest event, I resolved at least to achieve a novel that should evolve some deep lesson, and should possess physical substance enough to stand alone.
In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext45 for not fulfilling it, there was in the rear of the house the most delightful46 little nook of a study that ever afforded its snug47 seclusion to a scholar. It was here that Emerson wrote Nature; for he was then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used to watch the Assyrian dawn and Paphian sunset and moonrise from the summit of our eastern hill. When I first saw the room, its walls were blackened with the smoke of unnumbered years, and made still blacker by the grim prints of Puritan ministers that hung around. These worthies48 looked strangely like bad angels, or at least like men who had wrestled49 so continually and so sternly with the Devil that somewhat of his sooty fierceness had been imparted to their own visages. They had all vanished now; a cheerful coat of paint and golden-tinted paper-hangings lighted up the small apartment; while the shadow of a willow51-tree that swept against the overhanging eaves atempered the cheery western sunshine. In place of the grim prints there was the sweet and lovely head of one of Raphael’s Madonnas, and two pleasant little pictures of the Lake of Como. The only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers, always fresh, and a bronze one containing graceful52 ferns. My books (few, and by no means choice; for they were chiefly such waifs as chance had thrown in my way) stood in order about the room, seldom to be disturbed.
The study had three windows, set with little, old-fashioned panes53 of glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the western side looked, or rather peeped, between the willow branches, down into the orchard54, with glimpses of the river through the trees. The third, facing northward55, commanded a broader view of the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters gleam forth56 into the light of history. It was at this window that the clergyman who then dwelt in the Manse stood watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between two nations; he saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther side of the river, and the glittering line of the British on the hither bank. He awaited, in an agony of suspense57, the rattle58 of the musketry. It came; and there needed but a gentle wind to sweep the battle-smoke around this quiet house.
Perhaps the reader, whom I cannot help considering as my guest in the Old Manse, and entitled to all courtesy in the way of sight-showing — perhaps he will choose to take a nearer view of the memorable spot. We stand now on the river’s brink59. It may well be called the Concord60 — the river of peace and quietness; for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish61 stream that ever loitered imperceptibly towards its eternity62 — the sea. Positively63 I had lived three weeks beside it before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious64 aspect, except when a northwestern breeze is vexing65 its surface on a sunshiny day. From the incurable66 indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable67 of becoming the slave of human ingenuity68, as is the fate of so many a wild, free mountain torrent69. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary70 spindle or affording even water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor71 of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly72 shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening73 sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers74 between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows77, or the roots of elms and ash-trees and clumps79 of maples81. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin82; and the fragrant83 white pond-lily abounds84, generally selecting a position just so far from the river’s brink that it cannot be grasped save at the hazard of plunging85 in.
It is a marvel86 whence this perfect flower derives87 its loveliness and perfume, springing as it does from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk88 the slimy eel7, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse89. It is the very same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its obscene life and noisome90 odor. Thus we see, too, in the world that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supply good and beautiful results — the fragrance91 of celestial92 flowers — to the daily life of others.
The reader must not, from any testimony93 of mine, contract a dislike towards our slumberous95 stream. In the light of a calm and golden sunset it becomes lovely beyond expression; the more lovely for the quietude that so well accords with the hour, when even the wind, after blustering96 all day long, usually hushes97 itself to rest. Each tree and rock and every blade of grass is distinctly imaged, and, however unsightly in reality, assumes ideal beauty in the reflection. The minutest things of earth and the broad aspect of the firmament99 are pictured equally without effort and with the same felicity of success. All the sky glows downward at our feet; the rich clouds float through the unruffled bosom100 of the stream like heavenly thoughts through a peaceful heart. We will not, then, malign101 our river as gross and impure102 while it can glorify103 itself with so adequate a picture of the heaven that broods above it; or, if we remember its tawny104 hue105 and the muddiness of its bed, let it be a symbol that the earthiest human soul has an infinite spiritual capacity and may contain the better world within its depths. But, indeed, the same lesson might be drawn106 out of any mud-puddle in the streets of a city; and, being taught us everywhere, it must be true.
Come, we have pursued a somewhat devious107 track in our walk to the battle-ground. Here we are, at the point where the river was crossed by the old bridge, the possession of which was the immediate108 object of the contest. On the hither side grow two or three elms, throwing a wide circumference109 of shade, but which must have been planted at some period within the threescore years and ten that have passed since the battle-day. On the farther shore, overhung by a clump78 of elder-bushes, we discern the stone abutment of the bridge. Looking down into the river, I once discovered some heavy fragments of the timbers, all green with half a century’s growth of water-moss; for during that length of time the tramp of horses and human footsteps have ceased along this ancient highway. The stream has here about the breadth of twenty strokes of a swimmer’s arm — a space not too wide when the bullets were whistling across. Old people who dwell hereabouts will point out, the very spots on the western bank where our countrymen fell down and died; and on this side of the river an obelisk110 of granite111 has grown up from the soil that was fertilized112 with British blood. The monument, not more than twenty feet in height, is such as it befitted the inhabitants of a village to erect113 in illustration of a matter of local interest rather than what was suitable to commemorate114 an epoch of national history. Still, by the fathers of the village this famous deed was done; and their descendants might rightfully claim the privilege of building a memorial.
A humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than the granite obelisk, may be seen close under the stone wall which separates the battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. It is the grave — marked by a small, mossgrown fragment of stone at the head and another at the foot — the grave of two British soldiers who were slain115 in the skirmish, and have ever since slept peacefully where Zechariah Brown and Thomas Davis buried them. Soon was their warfare116 ended; a weary night-march from Boston, a rattling117 volley of musketry across the river, and then these many years of rest. In the long procession of slain invaders118 who passed into eternity from the battle-fields of the Revolution, these two nameless soldiers led the way.
Lowell, the poet, as we were once standing119 over this grave, told me a tradition in reference to one of the inhabitants below. The story has something deeply impressive, though its circumstances cannot altogether be reconciled with probability. A youth in the service of the clergyman happened to be chopping wood, that April morning, at the back door of the Manse; and when the noise of battle rang from side to side of the bridge, he hastened across the intervening field to see what might be going forward. It is rather strange, by the way, that this lad should have been so diligently120 at work when the whole population of town and country were startled out of their customary business by the advance of the British troops. Be that as it might, the tradition, says that the lad now left his task and hurried to the battle-field with the axe121 still in his hand. The British had by this time retreated; the Americans were in pursuit; and the late scene of strife122 was thus deserted123 by both parties. Two soldiers lay on the ground — one was a corpse124; but, as the young New–Englander drew nigh, the other Briton raised himself painfully upon his hands and knees and gave a ghastly stare into his face. The boy — it must have been a nervous impulse, without purpose, without thought, and betokening125 a sensitive and impressible nature rather than a hardened one — the boy uplifted his axe and dealt the wounded soldier a fierce and fatal blow upon the head.
I could wish that the grave might be opened; for I would fain know whether either of the skeleton soldiers has the mark of an axe in his skull126. The story comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes, as an intellectual and moral exercise, I have sought to follow that poor youth through his subsequent career and observe how his soul was tortured by the blood-stain, contracted as it had been before the long custom of war had robbed human life of its sanctity and while it still seemed murderous to slay127 a brother man. This one circumstance has borne more fruit for me than all that history tells us of the fight.
Many strangers come in the summer-time to view the battle-ground. For my own part, I have never found my imagination much excited by this or any other scene of historic celebrity128; nor would the placid129 margin of the river have lost any of its charm for me, had men never fought and died there. There is a wilder interest in the tract94 of land-perhaps a hundred yards in breadth — which extends between the battle-field and the northern face of our Old Manse, with its contiguous avenue and orchard. Here, in some unknown age, before the white man came, stood an Indian village, convenient to the river, whence its inhabitants must have drawn so large a part of their substance. The site is identified by the spear and arrow-heads, the chisels130, and other implements131 of war, labor132, and the chase, which the plough turns up from the soil. You see a splinter of stone, half hidden beneath a sod; it looks like nothing worthy of note; but, if you have faith enough to pick it up, behold134 a relic135! Thoreau, who has a strange faculty136 of finding what the Indians have left behind them, first set me on the search; and I afterwards enriched myself with some very perfect specimens137, so rudely wrought138 that it seemed almost as if chance had fashioned them. Their great charm consists in this rudeness and in the individuality of each article, so different from the productions of civilized139 machinery140, which shapes everything on one pattern. There is exquisite141 delight, too, in picking up for one’s self an arrow-head that was dropped centuries ago and has never been handled since, and which we thus receive directly from the hand of the red hunter, who purposed to shoot it at his game or at an enemy. Such an incident builds up again the Indian village and its encircling forest, and recalls to life the painted chiefs and warriors142, the squaws at their household toil143, and the children sporting among the wigwams, while the little wind-rocked pappose swings from the branch of a tree. It can hardly be told whether it is a joy or a pain, after such a momentary145 vision, to gaze around in the broad daylight of reality and see stone fences, white houses, potato-fields, and men doggedly146 hoeing in their shirt-sleeves and homespun pantaloons. But this is nonsense. The Old Manse is better than a thousand wigwams.
The Old Manse! We had almost forgotten it, but will return thither147 through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for planting trees from which he could have no prospect148 of gathering149 fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive150 for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors — an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend151 by disposing of the superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn and picking up here and there a windfall, while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes152 the number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart. The trees possess a domestic character; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man as well as by contributing to his wants. There, is so much individuality of character, too, among apple trees, that it gives them all additional claim to be the objects of human interest. One is harsh and crabbed153 in its manifestations154; another gives us fruit as mild as charity. One is churlish and illiberal155, evidently grudging156 the few apples that it bears; another exhausts itself in free-hearted benevolence157. The variety of grotesque158 shapes into which apple, trees contort themselves has its effect on those who get acquainted with them: they stretch out their crooked159 branches, and take such hold of the imagination, that we remember them as humorists and odd fellows. And what is more melancholy160 than the old apple-trees that linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is now only a ruined chimney rising out of a grassy161 and weed-grown cellar? They offer their fruit to every wayfarer162 — apples that are bitter sweet with the moral of Time’s vicissitude163.
I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world as that of finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman’s wealth of fruits. Throughout the summer there were cherries and currants; and then came Autumn, with his immense burden of apples, dropping them continually from his over-laden164 shoulders as he trudged165 along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump166 of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere167 necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented168 me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite generosity169 and exhaustless bounty170 on the part of our Mother Nature was well worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection only by the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously and hold forth the ever-ready meal; but likewise almost as well by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges171 into such a solitude173 as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not plant, and which therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closest resemblance to those that grew in Eden. It has been an apothegm these five thousand years, that toil sweetens the bread it earns. For my part (speaking from hard experience, acquired while belaboring175 the rugged176 furrows177 of Brook178 Farm), I relish179 best the free gifts of Providence180.
Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite181 to cultivate a moderately sized garden imparts such zest182 to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would know something of the bliss183 of paternity, should plant a seed — be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower or worthless weed — should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy184 to maturity185 altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely186 the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny187 with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently188 to trace a line of delicate green. Later in the season the humming-birds were attracted by the blossoms of a peculiar189 variety of bean; and they were a joy to me, those little spiritual visitants, for deigning190 to sip191 airy food out of my nectar-cups. Multitudes of bees used to bury themselves in the yellow blossoms of the summer-squashes. This, too, was a deep satisfaction; although, when they had laden themselves with sweets, they flew away to some unknown hive, which would give back nothing in requital192 of what my garden had contributed. But I was glad thus to fling a benefaction upon the passing breeze with the certainty that somebody must profit by it and that there would be a little more honey in the world to allay193 the sourness and bitterness which mankind is always complaining of. Yes, indeed; my life was the sweeter for that honey.
Speaking of summer-squashes, I must say a word of their beautiful and varied194 forms. They presented an endless diversity of urns133 and vases, shallow or deep, scalloped or plain, moulded in patterns which a sculptor195 would do well to copy, since Art has never invented anything more graceful. A hundred squashes in the garden were worth, in my eyes at least, of being rendered indestructible in marble. If ever Providence (but I know it never will) should assign me a superfluity of gold, part of it shall be expended196 for a service of plate, or most delicate porcelain197, to be wrought into the shapes of summer-squashes gathered from vines which I will plant with my own hands. As dishes for containing vegetables, they would be peculiarly appropriate.
But not merely the squeamish love of the beautiful was gratified by my toil in the kitchen-garden. There was a hearty198 enjoyment199, likewise, in observing the growth of the crook-necked winter-squashes from the first little bulb, with the withered200 blossom adhering to it, until they lay strewn upon the soil, big, round fellows, hiding their heads beneath the leaves, but turning up their great yellow rotundities to the noontide sun. Gazing at them, I felt that by my agency something worth living for had been done. A new substance was born into the world. They were real and tangible201 existences, which the mind could seize hold of and rejoice in. A cabbage, too — especially the early Dutch cabbage, which swells202 to a monstrous204 circumference, until its ambitious heart often bursts asunder205 — is a matter to be proud of when we can claim a share with the earth and sky in producing it. But, after all, the hugest pleasure is reserved until these vegetable children of ours are smoking on the table, and we, like Saturn206, make a meal of them.
What with the river, the battle-field, the orchard, and the garden, the reader begins to despair of finding his way back into the Old Manse. But, in agreeable weather, it is the truest hospitality to keep him out of doors. I never grew quite acquainted with my habitation till a long spell of sulky rain had confined me beneath its roof. There could not be a more sombre aspect of external nature than as then seen from the windows of my study. The great willow-tree had caught and retained among its leaves a whole cataract207 of water, to be shaken down at intervals208 by the frequent gusts210 of wind. All day long, and for a week together, the rain was drip-drip-dripping and splash-splash-splashing from the eaves and bubbling and foaming211 into the tubs beneath the spouts212. The old, unpainted shingles213 of the house and outbuildings were black with moisture; and the mosses214 of ancient growth upon the walls looked green and fresh, as if they were the newest things and afterthought of Time. The usually mirrored surface of the river was blurred215 by an infinity216 of raindrops; the whole landscape had a completely water-soaked appearance, conveying the impression that the earth was wet through like a sponge; while the summit of a wooded hill, about a mile distant, was enveloped in a dense217 mist, where the demon218 of the tempest seemed to have his abiding-place and to be plotting still direr inclemencies.
Nature has no kindness, no hospitality, during a rain. In the fiercest beat of sunny days she retains a secret mercy, and welcomes the wayfarer to shady nooks of the woods whither the sun cannot penetrate219; but she provides no shelter against her storms. It makes us shiver to think of those deep, umbrageous220 recesses221, those overshadowing banks, where we found such enjoyment during the sultry afternoons. Not a twig223 of foliage224 there but would dash a little shower into our faces. Looking reproachfully towards the impenetrable sky — if sky there be above that dismal225 uniformity of cloud — we are apt to murmur31 against the whole system of the universe, since it involves the extinction226 of so many summer days in so short a life by the hissing227 and spluttering rain. In such spells of weather — and it is to be supposed such weather came — Eve’s bower228 in paradise must have been but a cheerless and aguish kind of shelter, nowise comparable to the old parsonage, which had resources of its own to beguile229 the week’s imprisonment230. The idea of sleeping on a couch of wet roses!
Happy the man who in a rainy day can betake himself to a huge garret, stored, like that of the Manse, with lumber76 that each generation has left behind it from a period before the Revolution. Our garret was an arched hall, dimly illuminated232 through small and dusty windows; it was but a twilight233 at the best; and there were nooks, or rather caverns234, of deep obscurity, the secrets of which I never learned, being too reverent34 of their dust and cobwebs. The beams and rafters, roughly hewn and with strips of bark still on them, and the rude masonry235 of the chimneys, made the garret look wild and uncivilized, an aspect unlike what was seen elsewhere in the quiet and decorous old house. But on one side there was a little whitewashed236 apartment, which bore the traditionary title of the Saint’s Chamber24, because holy men in their youth had slept, and studied, and prayed there. With its elevated retirement, its one window, its small fireplace, and its closet convenient for an oratory237, it was the very spot where a young man might inspire himself with solemn enthusiasm and cherish saintly dreams. The occupants, at various epochs, had left brief records and ejaculations inscribed238 upon the walls. There, too, hung a tattered239 and shrivelled roll of canvas, which on inspection240 proved to be the forcibly wrought picture of a clergyman, in wig144, band, and gown, holding a Bible in his hand. As I turned his face towards the light, he eyed me with an air of authority such as men of his profession seldom assume in our days. The original had been pastor241 of the parish more than a century ago, a friend of Whitefield, and almost his equal in fervid242 eloquence243. I bowed before the effigy244 of the dignified245 divine, and felt as if I had now met face to face with the ghost by whom, as there was reason to apprehend246, the Manse was haunted.
Houses of any antiquity247 in New England are so invariably possessed248 with spirits that the matter seems hardly worth alluding249 to. Our ghost used to heave deep sighs in a particular corner of the parlor250, and sometimes rustled251 paper, as if he were turning over a sermon in the long upper entry — where nevertheless he was invisible, in spite of the bright moonshine that fell through the eastern window. Not improbably he wished me to edit and publish a selection from a chest full of manuscript discourses that stood in the garret. Once, while Hillard and other friends sat talking with us in the twilight, there came a rustling noise as of a minister’s silk gown, sweeping253 through the very midst of the company, so closely as almost to brush against the chairs. Still there was nothing visible. A yet stranger business was that of a ghostly servant-maid, who used to be heard in the kitchen at deepest midnight, grinding coffee, cooking, ironing — performing, in short, all kinds of domestic labor — although no traces of anything accomplished254 could be detected the next morning. Some neglected duty of her servitude, some ill-starched ministerial band, disturbed the poor damsel in her grave and kept her at work without any wages.
But to return from this digression. A part of my predecessor’s library was stored in the garret — no unfit receptacle indeed for such dreary255 trash as comprised the greater number of volumes. The old books would have been worth nothing at an auction256. In this venerable garret, however, they possessed an interest, quite apart from their literary value, as heirlooms, many of which had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated257 hands from the days of the mighty258 Puritan divines. Autographs of famous names were to be seen in faded ink on some of their fly-leaves; and there were marginal observations or interpolated pages closely covered with manuscript in illegible259 shorthand, perhaps concealing260 matter of profound truth and wisdom. The world will never be the better for it. A few of the books were Latin folios, written by Catholic authors; others demolished261 Papistry, as with a sledge-hammer, in plain English. A dissertation262 on the Book of Job — which only Job himself could have had patience to read — filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. Then there was a vast folio body of divinity — too corpulent a body, it might be feared, to comprehend the spiritual element of religion. Volumes of this form dated back two hundred years or more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment263. Others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times — diminutive264, but as black as their bulkier brethren, and abundantly interfused with Greek and Latin quotations265. These little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been unfortunately blighted266 at an early stage of their growth.
The rain pattered upon the roof and the sky gloomed through the dusty garret-windows while I burrowed267 among these venerable books in search of any living thought which should burn like a coal of fire or glow like an inextinguishable gem268 beneath the dead trumpery269 that had long hidden it. But I found no such treasure; all was dead alike; and I could not but muse270 deeply and wonderingly upon the humiliating fact that the works of man’s intellect decay like those of his hands. Thought grows mouldy. What was good and nourishing food for the spirits of one generation affords no sustenance271 for the next. Books of religion, however, cannot be considered a fair test of the enduring and vivacious properties of human thought, because such books so seldom really touch upon their ostensible272 subject, and have, therefore, so little business to be written at all. So long as an unlettered soul can attain273 to saving grace there would seem to be no deadly error in holding theological libraries to be accumulations of, for the most part, stupendous impertinence.
Many of the books had accrued274 in the latter years of the last clergyman’s lifetime. These threatened to be of even less interest than the elder works a century hence to any curious inquirer who should then rummage275 then as I was doing now. Volumes of the Liberal Preacher and Christian276 Examiner, occasional sermons, controversial pamphlets, tracts277, and other productions of a like fugitive278 nature, took the place of the thick and heavy volumes of past time. In a physical point of view, there was much the same difference as between a feather and a lump of lead; but, intellectually regarded, the specific gravity of old and new was about upon a par4. Both also were alike frigid279. The elder books nevertheless seemed to have been earnestly written, and might be conceived to have possessed warmth at some former period; although, with the lapse280 of time, the heated masses had cooled down even to the freezing-point. The frigidity281 of the modern productions, on the other hand, was characteristic and inherent, and evidently had little to do with the writer’s qualities of mind and heart. In fine, of this whole dusty heap of literature I tossed aside all the sacred part, and felt myself none the less a Christian for eschewing282 it. There appeared no hope of either mounting to the better world on a Gothic staircase of ancient folios or of flying thither on the wings of a modern tract.
Nothing, strange to say, retained any sap except what had been written for the passing day and year, without the remotest pretension283 or idea of permanence. There were a few old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced to my mental eye the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-glass among the books with the images of a vanished century in them. I turned my eyes towards the tattered picture above mentioned, and asked of the austere284 divine wherefore it was that he and his brethren, after the most painful rummaging285 and groping into their minds, had been able to produce nothing half so real as these newspaper scribblers and almanac-makers had thrown off in the effervescence of a moment. The portrait responded not; so I sought an answer for myself. It is the age itself that writes newspapers and almanacs, which therefore have a distinct purpose and meaning at the time, and a kind of intelligible287 truth for all times; whereas most other works — being written by men who, in the very act, set themselves apart from their age — are likely to possess little significance when new, and none at all when old. Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent, yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or perchance of a hundred centuries.
Lightly as I have spoken of these old books, there yet lingers with me a superstitious288 reverence289 for literature of all kinds. A bound volume has a charm in my eyes similar to what scraps290 of manuscript possess for the good Mussulman. He imagines that those wind-wafted records are perhaps hallowed by some sacred verse; and I, that every new book or antique one may contain the “open sesame,”— the spell to disclose treasures hidden in some unsuspected cave of Truth. Thus it was not without sadness that I turned away from the library of the Old Manse.
Blessed was the sunshine when it came again at the close of another stormy day, beaming from the edge of the western horizon; while the massive firmament of clouds threw down all the gloom it could, but served only to kindle291 the golden light into a more brilliant glow by the strongly contrasted shadows. Heaven smiled at the earth, so long unseen, from beneath its heavy eyelid292. To-morrow for the hill-tops and the woodpaths.
Or it might be that Ellery Charming came up the avenue to join me in a fishing excursion on the river. Strange and happy times were those when we cast aside all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes and delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the Indians or any less conventional race during one bright semicircle of the sun. Rowing our boat against the current, between wide meadows, we turned aside into the Assabeth. A more lovely stream than this, for a mile above its junction293 with the Concord, has never flowed on earth, nowhere, indeed, except to lave the interior regions of a poet’s imagination. It is sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere there might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple294 across the shaded water. The current lingers along so gently that the mere force of the boatman’s will seems sufficient to propel his craft against it. It comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and deepest heart of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; while the stream whispers back again from its sedgy borders, as if river and wood were hushing one another to sleep. Yes; the river sleeps along its course and dreams of the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of broken sunlight, imparting specks295 of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast with the quiet depth of the prevailing296 tint50. Of all this scene, the slumbering297 river has a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after all, was the most real — the picture, or the original? — the objects palpable to our grosser senses, or their apotheosis298 in the stream beneath? Surely the disembodied images stand in closer relation to the soul. But both the original and the reflection had here an ideal charm; and, had it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied that this river had strayed forth out of the rich scenery of my companion’s inner world; only the vegetation along its banks should then have had an Oriental character.
Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, yet the tranquil299 woods seem hardly satisfied to allow it passage. The trees are rooted on the very verge300 of the water, and dip their pendent branches into it. At one spot there is a lofty bank, on the slope of which grow some hemlocks302, declining across the stream with outstretched arms, as if resolute303 to take the plunge172. In other places the banks are almost on a level with the water; so that the quiet congregation of trees set their feet in the flood, and are Fringed with foliage down to the surface. Cardinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames and illuminate231 the dark nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily grows abundantly along the margin — that delicious flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its virgin305 bosom to the first sunlight and perfects its being through the magic of that genial306 kiss. He has beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower — a sight not to be hoped for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper focus with the outward organ. Grapevines here and there twine307 themselves around shrub304 and tree and hang their clusters over the water within reach of the boatman’s hand. Oftentimes they unite two trees of alien race in an inextricable twine, marrying the hemlock301 and the maple80 against their will and enriching them with a purple offspring of which neither is the parent. One of these ambitious parasites308 has climbed into the upper branches of a tall white-pine, and is still ascending309 from bough35 to bough, unsatisfied till it shall crown the tree’s airy summit with a wreath of its broad foliage and a cluster of its grapes.
The winding310 course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind us and revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided311 from depth to depth, and breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher flew from the withered branch close at hand to another at a distance, uttering a shrill312 cry of anger or alarm. Ducks that had been floating there since the preceding eve were startled at our approach and skimmed along the glassy river, breaking its dark surface with a bright streak313. The pickerel leaped from among the lilypads. The turtle, sunning itself upon a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into the water with a plunge. The painted Indian who paddled his canoe along the Assabeth three hundred years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom than we did. Nor could the same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more simplicity314. We drew up our skiff at some point where the overarching shade formed a natural bower, and there kindled315 a fire with the pine cones316 and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully317 around. Soon the smoke ascended318 among the trees, impregnated with a savory319 incense320, not heavy, dull, and surfeiting321, like the steam of cookery within doors, but sprightly322 and piquant323. The smell of our feast was akin174 to the woodland odors with which it mingled17: there was no sacrilege committed by our intrusion there: the sacred solitude was hospitable324, and granted us free leave to cook and eat in the recess222 that was at once our kitchen and banqueting-hall. It is strange what humble44 offices may be performed in a beautiful scene without destroying its poetry. Our fire, red gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied with culinary rites286 and spreading out our meal on a mossgrown log, all seemed in unison325 with the river gliding326 by and the foliage rustling over us. And, what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety327 of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness328 and the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered329 in the marshy330 places might have come trooping to share our table-talk and have added their shrill laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the extremest nonsense or the profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor331.
So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up gushed our talk like the babble332 of a fountain. The evanescent spray was Ellery’s; and his, too, the lumps of golden thought that lay glimmering in the fountain’s bed and brightened both our faces by the reflection. Could he have drawn out that virgin gold, and stamped it with the mint-mark that alone gives currency, the world might have had the profit, and he the fame. My mind was the richer merely by the knowledge that it was there. But the chief profit of those wild days, to him and me, lay not in any definite idea, not in any angular or rounded truth, which we dug out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in the freedom which we thereby333 won from all custom and conventionalism and fettering334 influences of man on man. We were so free today that it was impossible to be slaves again tomorrow. When we crossed the threshold of the house or trod the thronged335 pavements of a city, still the leaves of the trees that overhang the Assabeth were whispering to us, “Be free! be free!” Therefore along that shady river-bank there are spots, marked with a heap of ashes and half-consumed brands, only less sacred in my remembrance than the hearth336 of a household fire.
And yet how sweet, as we floated homeward adown the golden river at sunset — how sweet was it to return within the system of human society, not as to a dungeon337 and a chain, but as to a stately edifice, whence we could go forth at will into state — her simplicity! How gently, too, did the sight of the Old Manse, best seen from the river, overshadowed with its willow and all environed about with the foliage of its orchard and avenue — how gently did its gray, homely338 aspect rebuke339 the speculative340 extravagances of the day! It had grown sacred in connection with the artificial life against which we inveighed341; it had been a home for many years, in spite of all; it was my home too; and, with these thoughts, it seemed to me that all the artifice342 and conventionalism of life was but an impalpable thinness upon its surface, and that the depth below was none the worse for it. Once, as we turned our boat to the bank, there was a cloud, in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a hound, couched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gazing at this symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the institutions that had grown out of the heart of mankind.
If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities, houses, and whatever moral or material enormities in addition to these the perverted343 ingenuity of our race has contrived344, let it be in the early autumn. Then Nature will love him better than at any other season, and will take him to her bosom with a more motherly tenderness. I could scarcely endure the roof of the old house above me in those first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the prophecy of autumn comes! Earlier in some years than in others; sometimes even in the first weeks of July. There is no other feeling like what is caused by this faint, doubtful, yet real perception — if it be not rather a foreboding — of the year’s decay, so blessedly sweet and sad in the same breath.
Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah, but there is a half-acknowledged melancholy like to this when we stand in the perfected vigor345 of our life and feel that Time has now given us all his flowers, and that the next work of his never-idle fingers must be to steal them one by one away.
I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a token of autumn’s approach as any other — that song which may be called an audible stillness; for though very loud and heard afar, yet the mind does not take note of it as a sound, so completely is its individual existence merged346 among the accompanying characteristics of the season. Alas347 for the pleasant summertime! In August the grass is still verdant348 on the hills and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth in richer abundance along the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago; and yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There is a coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon. Not a breeze can stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pensive349 glory is seen in the far, golden gleams, among the shadows of the trees. The flowers — even the brightest of them, and they are the most gorgeous of the year — have this gentle sadness wedded350 to their pomp, and typify the character of the delicious time each within itself. The brilliant cardinal-flower has never seemed gay to me.
Still later in the season Nature’s tenderness waxes stronger. It is impossible not to be fond of our mother now; for she is so fond of us! At other periods she does not make this impression on me, or only at rare intervals; but in those genial days of autumn, when she has perfected her harvests and accomplished every needful thing that was given her to do, then she overflows351 with a blessed superfluity of love. She has leisure to caress352 her children now. It is good to be alive and at such times. Thank Heaven for breath — yes, for mere breath — when it is made up of a heavenly breeze like this! It comes with a real kiss upon our cheeks; it would linger fondly around us if it might; but, since it must be gone, it embraces us with its whole kindly353 heart and passes onward354 to embrace likewise the next thing that it meets. A blessing355 is flung abroad and scattered356 far and wide over the earth, to be gathered up by all who choose. I recline upon the still unwithered grass and whisper to myself, “O perfect day! O beautiful world! O beneficent God!” And it is the promise of a blessed eternity; for our Creator would never have made such lovely days and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all thought, unless we were meant to be immortal357. This sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. It beams through the gates of paradise and shows us glimpses far inward.
By and by, in a little time, the outward world puts on a drear austerity. On some October morning there is a heavy hoarfrost on the grass and along the tops of the fences; and at sunrise the leaves fall from the trees of our avenue, without a breath of wind, quietly descending358 by their own weight. All summer long they have murmured like the noise of waters; they have roared loudly while the branches were wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music both glad and solemn; they have attuned359 my thoughts by their quiet sound as I paced to and fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs. Now they can only rustle252 under my feet. Henceforth the gray parsonage begins to assume a larger importance, and draws to its fireside — for the abomination of the air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather — draws closer and closer to its fireside the vagrant impulses that had gone wandering about through the summer.
When summer was dead and buried the Old Manse became as lonely as a hermitage. Not that ever — in my time at least — it had been thronged with company; but, at no rare intervals, we welcomed some friend out of the dusty glare and tumult360 of the world, and rejoiced to share with him the transparent361 obscurity that was floating over us. In one respect our precincts were like the Enchanted362 Ground through which the pilgrim travelled on his way to the Celestial City. The guests, each and all, felt a slumberous influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs, or took a more deliberate siesta363 on the sofa, or were seen stretched among the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through the boughs. They could not have paid a more acceptable compliment to my abode nor to my own qualities as a host. I held it as a proof that they left their cares behind them as they passed between the stone gate-posts at the entrance of our avenue, and that the so powerful opiate was the abundance of peace and quiet within and all around us. Others could give them pleasure and amusement or instruction — these could be picked up anywhere; but it was for me to give them rest — rest in a life of trouble. What better could be done for those weary and world-worn spirits? — for him whose career of perpetual action was impeded364 and harassed365 by the rarest of his powers and the richest of his acquirements? — for another who had thrown his ardent366 heart from earliest youth into the strife of politics, and now, perchance, began to suspect that one lifetime is too brief for the accomplishment367 of any lofty aim? — for her oil whose feminine nature had been imposed the heavy gift of intellectual power, such as a strong man might have staggered under, and with it the necessity to act upon the world? — in a word, not to multiply instances, what better could be done for anybody who came within our magic circle than to throw the spell of a tranquil spirit over him? And when it had wrought its full effect, then we dismissed him, with but misty368 reminiscences, as if he had been dreaming of us.
Were I to adopt a pet idea as so many people do, and fondle it in my embraces to the exclusion369 of all others, it would be, that the great want which mankind labors370 under at this present period is sleep. The world should recline its vast head on the first convenient pillow and take an age-long nap. It has gone distracted through a morbid371 activity, and, while preternaturally wide awake, is nevertheless tormented by visions that seem real to it now, but would assume their true aspect and character were all things once set right by an interval209 of sound repose372. This is the only method of getting rid of old delusions373 and avoiding new ones; of regenerating374 our race, so that it might in due time awake as an infant out of dewy slumber75; of restoring to us the simple perception of what is right and the single-hearted desire to achieve it, both of which have long been lost in consequence of this weary activity of brain and torpor or passion of the heart that now afflict375 the universe. Stimulants376, the only mode of treatment hitherto attempted, cannot quell377 the disease; they do but heighten the delirium378.
Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author; for, though tinctured with its modicum379 of truth, it is the result and expression of what he knew, while he was writing, to be but a distorted survey of the state and prospects380 of mankind. There were circumstances around me which made it difficult to view the world precisely as it exists; for, severe and sober as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a little way beyond its threshold before meeting with stranger moral shapes of men than might have been encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand miles.
These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the widespreading influence of a great original thinker, who had his earthly abode at the opposite extremity381 of our village. His mind acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with wonderful magnetism382, and drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face. Young visionaries — to whom just so much of insight had been imparted as to make life all a labyrinth383 around them — came to seek the clew that should guide them out of their self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed theorists — whose systems, at first air, had finally imprisoned384 them in an iron framework — travelled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their own thraldom385. People that had lighted on a new thought or a thought that they fancied new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary386, to ascertain387 its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled, earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon388 burning on a hill-top, and, climbing the difficult ascent389, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects unseen before — mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of a creation among the chaos390; but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and owls391 and the whole host of night birds, which flapped their dusky wings against the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls392 of angelic feather. Such delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is kindled.
For myself, there bad been epochs of my life when I, too, might have asked of this prophet the master word that should solve me the riddle393 of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no question to be put, and therefore admired Emerson as a poet, of deep beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the woodpaths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual gleam diffused394 about his presence like the garment of a shining one; and be, so quiet, so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if expecting to receive more than he could impart. And, in truth, the heart of many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptions395 which he could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without inhaling396 more or less the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought, which, in the brains of some people, wrought a singular giddiness — new truth being as heady as new wine. Never was a poor little country village infested397 with such a variety of queer, strangely dressed, oddly behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to be important agents of the world’s destiny, yet were simply bores of a very intense water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered breath and thus become imbued398 with a false originality399. This triteness400 of novelty is enough to make any man of common-sense blaspheme at all ideas of less than a century’s standing, and pray that the world may be petrified401 and rendered immovable in precisely the worst moral and physical state that it ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefited by such schemes of such philosophers.
And now I begin to feel — and perhaps should have sooner felt — that we have talked enough of the Old Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be, will vilify402 the poor author as an egotist for babbling403 through so many pages about a mossgrown country parsonage, and his life within its walls, and on the river, and in the woods, and the influences that wrought upon him from all these sources. My conscience, however, does not reproach me with betraying anything too sacredly individual to be revealed by a human spirit to its brother or sister spirit. How narrow-how shallow and scanty404 too — is the stream of thought that has been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim emotions, ideas, and associations which swell203 around me from that portion of my existence! How little have I told! and of that little, how almost nothing is even tinctured with any quality that makes it exclusively my own! Has the reader gone wandering, hand in hand with me, through the inner passages of my being? and have we groped together into all its chambers and examined their treasures or their rubbish? Not so. We have been standing on the greensward, but just within the cavern’s mouth, where the common sunshine is free to penetrate, and where every footstep is therefore free to come. I have appealed to no sentiment or sensibilities save such as are diffused among us all. So far as I am a man of really individual attributes I veil my face; nor am I, nor have I ever been, one of those supremely405 hospitable people who serve up their own hearts, delicately fried, with brain sauce, as a tidbit for their beloved public.
Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered reminiscences of a single summer. In fairyland there is no measurement of time; and, in a spot so sheltered from the turmoil406 of life’s ocean, three years hastened away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy sunshine chases the cloud-shadows across the depths of a still valley. Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner of the old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next, appeared, making a tremendous racket among the outbuildings, strewing407 the green grass with pine shavings and chips of chestnut408 joists, and vexing the whole antiquity of the place with their discordant409 renovations. Soon, moreover, they divested410 our abode of the veil of woodbine which had crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the aged98 mosses were cleared unsparingly away; and there were horrible whispers about brushing up the external walls with a coat of paint — a purpose as little to my taste as might be that of rouging411 the venerable cheeks of one’s grandmother. But the hand that renovates412 is always more sacrilegious than that which destroys. In fine, we gathered up our household goods, drank a farewell cup of tea in our pleasant little breakfast-room — delicately fragrant tea, an unpurchasable luxury, one of the many angel gifts that had fallen like dew upon us — and passed forth between the tall stone gate-posts as uncertain as the wandering Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by the hand, and — an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no irreverence413 in smiling at — has led me, as the newspapers announce while I am writing, from the Old Manse into a custom-house. As a story-teller, I have often contrived strange vicissitudes414 for my imaginary personages, but none like this.
The treasure of intellectual gold which I hoped to find in our secluded415 dwelling had never come to light. No profound treatise41 of ethics416, no philosophic history, no novel even, that could stand unsupported on its edges. All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were these, few tales and essays, which had blossomed out like flowers in the calm summer of my heart and mind. Save editing (an easy task) the journal of my friend of many years, the African Cruiser, I had done nothing else. With these idle weeds and withering417 blossoms I have intermixed some that were produced long ago — old, faded things, reminding me of flowers pressed between the leaves of a book — and now offer the bouquet418, such as it is, to any whom it may please. These fitful sketches419, with so little of external life about them, yet claiming no profundity420 of purpose — so reserved, even while they sometimes seem so frank — often but half in earnest, and never, even when most so, expressing satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess42 to image — such trifles, I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation. Nevertheless, the public — if my limited number of readers, whom I venture to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a public — will receive them the more kindly, as the last offering, the last collection of this nature which it is my purpose ever to put forth. Unless I could do better, I have done enough in this kind. For myself the book will always retain one charm — as reminding me of the river, with its delightful solitudes421, and of the avenue, the garden, and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, with the little study on its western side, and the sunshine glimmering through the willow branches while I wrote.
Let the reader, if he will do me so much honor, imagine himself my guest, and that, having seen whatever may be worthy of notice within and about the Old Manse, he has finally been ushered422 into my study. There, after seating him in an antique elbow-chair, an heirloom of the house, I take forth a roll of manuscript and entreat423 his attention to the following tales — an act of personal inhospitality, however, which I never was guilty of, nor ever will be, even to my worst enemy.
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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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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par
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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eel
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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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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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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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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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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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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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pervade
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hover
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profaned
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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chamber
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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26
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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27
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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28
attuning
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| v.使协调( attune的现在分词 )；调音 | |
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29
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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30
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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31
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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32
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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34
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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35
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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36
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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37
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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38
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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39
hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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41
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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42
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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43
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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44
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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45
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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48
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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49
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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50
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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51
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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52
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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53
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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54
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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55
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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56
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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57
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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58
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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59
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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60
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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61
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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62
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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63
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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64
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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65
vexing
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|
| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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66
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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67
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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68
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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69
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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70
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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71
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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72
pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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73
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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74
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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75
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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76
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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77
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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78
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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79
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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80
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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81
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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82
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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83
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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84
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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86
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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87
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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88
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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89
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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90
noisome
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|
| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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91
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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92
celestial
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|
| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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93
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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94
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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95
slumberous
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| a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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96
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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97
hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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98
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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99
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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100
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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101
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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102
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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103
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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104
tawny
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|
| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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105
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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106
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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107
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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108
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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109
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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110
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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111
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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112
Fertilized
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| v.施肥( fertilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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114
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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115
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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116
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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117
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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118
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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119
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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120
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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121
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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122
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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123
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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124
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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125
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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126
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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127
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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128
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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129
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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130
chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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131
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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132
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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133
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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134
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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135
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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136
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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137
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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138
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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139
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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140
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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141
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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142
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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143
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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144
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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145
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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146
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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147
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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148
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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149
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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150
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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151
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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152
computes
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| v.计算，估算( compute的第三人称单数 ) | |
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153
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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155
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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156
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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157
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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158
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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159
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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160
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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161
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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162
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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163
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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164
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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165
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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166
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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167
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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168
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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169
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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170
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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171
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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172
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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173
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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174
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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175
belaboring
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| v.毒打一顿( belabor的现在分词 )；责骂；就…作过度的说明；向…唠叨 | |
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176
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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177
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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178
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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179
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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180
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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181
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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182
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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183
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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184
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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185
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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186
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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187
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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188
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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189
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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190
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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191
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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192
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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193
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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194
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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195
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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196
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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197
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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198
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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199
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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200
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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201
tangible
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|
| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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202
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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203
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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204
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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205
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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206
Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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207
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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208
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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209
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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210
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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211
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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212
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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213
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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214
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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215
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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216
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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217
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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218
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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219
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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220
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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221
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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222
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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223
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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224
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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225
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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226
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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227
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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228
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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229
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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230
imprisonment
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|
| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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231
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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232
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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233
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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234
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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235
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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236
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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237
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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238
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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239
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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240
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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241
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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242
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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243
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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244
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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245
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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246
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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247
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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248
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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249
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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250
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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251
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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253
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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254
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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255
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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256
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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257
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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258
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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259
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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260
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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261
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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262
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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263
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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264
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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265
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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266
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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267
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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268
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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269
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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270
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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271
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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272
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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273
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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274
accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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275
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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276
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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277
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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278
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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279
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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280
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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281
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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282
eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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283
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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284
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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285
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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286
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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287
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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288
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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289
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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290
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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291
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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292
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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293
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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294
ripple
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|
| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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295
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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296
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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297
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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298
apotheosis
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|
| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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299
tranquil
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|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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300
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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301
hemlock
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|
| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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302
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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303
resolute
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|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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304
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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305
virgin
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|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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306
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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307
twine
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|
| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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308
parasites
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|
| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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309
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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310
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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311
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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312
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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313
streak
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|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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314
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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315
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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316
cones
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|
| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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317
plentifully
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|
| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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318
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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319
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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320
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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321
surfeiting
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的现在分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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322
sprightly
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|
| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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323
piquant
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|
| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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324
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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325
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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326
gliding
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|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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327
propriety
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|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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328
wilderness
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|
| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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329
glimmered
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|
| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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330
marshy
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|
| adj.沼泽的 | |
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331
auditor
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|
| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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332
babble
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|
| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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333
thereby
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|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
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334
fettering
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|
| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的现在分词 ) | |
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335
thronged
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|
| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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336
hearth
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|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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337
dungeon
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|
| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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338
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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339
rebuke
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|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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340
speculative
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|
| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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341
inveighed
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|
| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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342
artifice
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|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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343
perverted
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|
| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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344
contrived
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|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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345
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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346
merged
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|
| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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347
alas
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|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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348
verdant
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|
| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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349
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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350
wedded
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|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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351
overflows
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|
| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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352
caress
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|
| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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353
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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354
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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355
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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356
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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357
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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358
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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359
attuned
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|
| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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360
tumult
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|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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361
transparent
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|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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362
enchanted
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|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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363
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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364
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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365
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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366
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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367
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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368
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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369
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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370
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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371
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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372
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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373
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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374
regenerating
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|
| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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375
afflict
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|
| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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376
stimulants
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|
| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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377
quell
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|
| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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378
delirium
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|
| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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379
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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380
prospects
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|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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381
extremity
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|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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382
magnetism
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|
| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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383
labyrinth
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|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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384
imprisoned
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|
| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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385
thraldom
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|
| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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386
lapidary
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|
| n.宝石匠；adj.宝石的；简洁优雅的 | |
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387
ascertain
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|
| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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388
beacon
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|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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389
ascent
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|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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390
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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391
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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392
fowls
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|
| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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393
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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394
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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395
inscriptions
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|
| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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396
inhaling
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|
| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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397
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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398
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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399
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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400
triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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401
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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402
vilify
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| v.诽谤，中伤 | |
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403
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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404
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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405
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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406
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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407
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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408
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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409
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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410
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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411
rouging
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的现在分词 ) | |
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412
renovates
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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413
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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414
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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415
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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416
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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417
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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418
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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419
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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420
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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421
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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422
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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423
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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