LONDON, February 29, 1845.
MY DEAR FRIEND: Old associations cling to the mind with astonishing tenacity20. Daily custom grows up about us like a stone wall, and consolidates21 itself into almost as material an entity22 as mankind’s strongest architecture. It is sometimes a serious question with me whether ideas be not really visible and tangible23, and endowed with all the other qualities of matter. Sitting as I do at this moment in my hired apartment, writing beside the hearth24, over which hangs a print of Queen Victoria, listening to the muffled25 roar of the world’s metropolis26, and with a window at but five paces distant, through which, whenever I please, I can gaze out on actual London — with all this positive certainty as to my whereabouts, what kind of notion, do you think, is just now perplexing my brain? Why — would you believe it? — that all this time I am still an inhabitant of that wearisome little chamber27 — that whitewashed little chamber — that little chamber with its one small window, across which, from some inscrutable reason of taste or convenience, my landlord had placed a row of iron bars — that same little chamber, in short, whither your kindness has so often brought you to visit me! Will no length of time or breadth of space enfranchise28 me from that unlovely abode29? I travel; but it seems to be like the snail30, with my house upon my head. Ah, well! I am verging31, I suppose, on that period of life when present scenes and events make but feeble impressions in comparison with those of yore; so that I must reconcile myself to be more and more the prisoner of Memory, who merely lets me hop33 about a little with her chain around my leg.
My letters of introduction have been of the utmost service, enabling me to make the acquaintance of several distinguished34 characters who, until now, have seemed as remote from the sphere of my personal intercourse35 as the wits of Queen Anne’s time or Ben Jenson’s compotators at the Mermaid36. One of the first of which I availed myself was the letter to Lord Byron. I found his lordship looking much older than I had anticipated, although, considering his former irregularities of life and the various wear and tear of his constitution, not older than a man on the verge37 of sixty reasonably may look. But I had invested his earthly frame, in my imagination, with the poet’s spiritual immortality38. He wears a brown wig40, very luxuriantly curled, and extending down over his forehead. The expression of his eyes is concealed41 by spectacles. His early tendency to obesity42 having increased, Lord Byron is now enormously fat — so fat as to give the impression of a person quite overladen with his own flesh, and without sufficient vigor43 to diffuse44 his personal life through the great mass of corporeal45 substance which weighs upon him so cruelly. You gaze at the mortal heap; and, while it fills your eye with what purports46 to be Byron, you murmur47 within yourself, “For Heaven’s sake, where is he?” Were I disposed to be caustic48, I might consider this mass of earthly matter as the symbol, in a material shape, of those evil habits and carnal vices49 which unspiritualize man’s nature and clog50 up his avenues of communication with the better life. But this would be too harsh; and, besides, Lord Byron’s morals have been improving while his outward man has swollen51 to such unconscionable circumference52. Would that he were leaner; for, though he did me the honor to present his hand, yet it was so puffed53 out with alien substance that I could not feel as if I had touched the hand that wrote Childe Harold.
On my entrance his lordship apologized for not rising to receive me, on the sufficient plea that the gout for several years past had taken up its constant residence in his right foot, which accordingly was swathed in many rolls of flannel54 and deposited upon a cushion. The other foot was hidden in the drapery of his chair. Do you recollect55 whether Byron’s right or left foot was the deformed56 one.
The noble poet’s reconciliation57 with Lady Byron is now, as you are aware, of ten years’ standing58; nor does it exhibit, I am assured, any symptom of breach59 or fracture. They are said to be, if not a happy, at least a contented60, or at all events a quiet couple, descending61 the slope of life with that tolerable degree of mutual62 support which will enable them to come easily and comfortably to the bottom. It is pleasant to reflect how entirely63 the poet has redeemed64 his youthful errors in this particular. Her ladyship’s influence, it rejoices me to add, has been productive of the happiest results upon Lord Byron in a religious point of view. He now combines the most rigid65 tenets of Methodism with the ultra doctrines66 of the Puseyites; the former being perhaps due to the convictions wrought67 upon his mind by his noble consort68, while the latter are the embroidery69 and picturesque70 illumination demanded by his imaginative character. Much of whatever expenditure71 his increasing habits of thrift72 continue to allow him is bestowed73 in the reparation or beautifying of places of worship; and this nobleman, whose name was once considered a synonyme of the foul74 fiend, is now all but canonized as a saint in many pulpits of the metropolis and elsewhere. In politics, Lord Byron is an uncompromising conservative, and loses no opportunity, whether in the House of Lords or in private circles, of denouncing and repudiating75 the mischievous76 and anarchical notions of his earlier day. Nor does he fail to visit similar sins in other people with the sincerest vengeance77 which his somewhat blunted pen is capable of inflicting78. Southey and he are on the most intimate terms. You are aware that, some little time before the death of Moore, Byron caused that brilliant but reprehensible79 man to be evicted80 from his house. Moore took the insult so much to heart that, it is said to have been one great cause of the fit of illness which brought him to the grave. Others pretend that the lyrist died in a very happy state of mind, singing one of his own sacred melodies, and expressing his belief that it would be heard within the gate of paradise, and gain him instant and honorable admittance. I wish he may have found it so.
I failed not, as you may suppose, in the course of conversation with Lord Byron, to pay the weed of homage81 due to a mighty82 poet, by allusions83 to passages in Childe Harold, and Manfred, and Don Juan, which have made so large a portion of the music of my life. My words, whether apt or otherwise, were at least warm with the enthusiasm of one worthy84 to discourse85 of immortal39 poesy. It was evident, however, that they did not go precisely86 to the right spot. I could perceive that there was some mistake or other, and was not a little angry with myself, and ashamed of my abortive87 attempt to throw back, from my own heart to the gifted author’s ear, the echo of those strains that have resounded88 throughout the world. But by and by the secret peeped quietly out. Byron — I have the information from his own lips, so that you need not hesitate to repeat it in literary circles — Byron is preparing a new edition of his complete works, carefully corrected, expurgated, and amended89, in accordance with his present creed90 of taste, morals, politics, and religion. It so happened that the very passages of highest inspiration to which I had alluded91 were among the condemned92 and rejected rubbish which it is his purpose to cast into the gulf93 of oblivion. To whisper you the truth, it appears to me that his passions having burned out, the extinction94 of their vivid and riotous95 flame has deprived Lord Byron of the illumination by which he not merely wrote, but was enabled to feel and comprehend what he had written. Positively96 he no longer understands his own poetry.
This became very apparent on his favoring me so far as to read a few specimens97 of Don Juan in the moralized version. Whatever is licentious98, whatever disrespectful to the sacred mysteries of our faith, whatever morbidly99 melancholic100 or splenetically sportive, whatever assails101 settled constitutions of government or systems of society, whatever could wound the sensibility of any mortal, except a pagan, a republican, or a dissenter102, has been unrelentingly blotted103 out, and its place supplied by unexceptionable verses in his lordship’s later style. You may judge how much of the poem remains104 as hitherto published. The result is not so good as might be wished; in plain terms, it is a very sad affair indeed; for, though the torches kindled105 in Tophet have been extinguished, they leave an abominably106 ill odor, and are succeeded by no glimpses of hallowed fire. It is to be hoped, nevertheless, that this attempt on Lord Byron’s part to atone107 for his youthful errors will at length induce the Dean of Westminster, or whatever churchman is concerned, to allow Thorwaldsen’s statue of the poet its due niche108 in the grand old Abbey. His bones, you know, when brought from Greece, were denied sepulture among those of his tuneful brethren there.
What a vile109 slip of the pen was that! How absurd in me to talk about burying the bones of Byron, who, I have just seen alive, and incased in a big, round bulk of flesh! But, to say the truth, a prodigiously110 fat man always impresses me as a kind of hobgoblin; in the very extravagance of his mortal system I find something akin111 to the immateriality of a ghost. And then that ridiculous old story darted112 into my mind, how that Byron died of fever at Missolonghi, above twenty years ago. More and more I recognize that we dwell in a world of shadows; and, for my part, I hold it hardly worth the trouble to attempt a distinction between shadows in the mind and shadows out of it. If there be any difference, the former are rather the more substantial.
Only think of my good fortune! The venerable Robert Burns — now, if I mistake not, in his eighty-seventh year — happens to be making a visit to London, as if on purpose to afford me an opportunity of grasping him by the hand. For upwards113 of twenty years past he has hardly left his quiet cottage in Ayrshire for a single night, and has only been drawn114 hither now by the irresistible115 persuasions116 of all the distinguished men in England. They wish to celebrate the patriarch’s birthday by a festival. It will be the greatest literary triumph on record. Pray Heaven the little spirit of life within the aged117 bard118’s bosom119 may not be extinguished in the lustre120 of that hour! I have already had the honor of an introduction to him at the British Museum, where he was examining a collection of his own unpublished letters, interspersed122 with songs, which have escaped the notice of all his biographers.
Poh! Nonsense! What am I thinking of? How should Burns have been embalmed123 in biography when he is still a hearty124 old man?
The figure of the bard is tall and in the highest degree reverend, nor the less so that it is much bent125 by the burden of time. His white hair floats like a snowdrift around his face, in which are seen the furrows126 of intellect and passion, like the channels of headlong torrents127 that have foamed128 themselves away. The old gentleman is in excellent preservation129, considering his time of life. He has that crickety sort of liveliness — I mean the cricket’s humor of chirping130 for any cause or none — which is perhaps the most favorable mood that can befall extreme old age. Our pride forbids us to desire it for ourselves, although we perceive it to be a beneficence of nature in the case of others. I was surprised to find it in Burns. It seems as if his ardent131 heart and brilliant imagination had both burned down to the last embers, leaving only a little flickering132 flame in one corner, which keeps dancing upward and laughing all by itself. He is no longer capable of pathos133. At the request of Allan Cunningham, he attempted to sing his own song to Mary in Heaven; but it was evident that the feeling of those verses, so profoundly true and so simply expressed, was entirely beyond the scope of his present sensibilities; and, when a touch of it did partially awaken134 him, the tears immediately gushed135 into his eyes and his voice broke into a tremulous cackle. And yet he but indistinctly knew wherefore he was weeping. Ah, he must not think again of Mary in Heaven until he shake off the dull impediment of time and ascend136 to meet her there.
Burns then began to repeat Tan O’Shanter; but was so tickled137 with its wit and humor — of which, however, I suspect he had but a traditionary sense — that he soon burst into a fit of chirruping laughter, succeeded by a cough, which brought this not very agreeable exhibition to a close. On the whole, I would rather not have witnessed it. It is a satisfactory idea, however, that the last forty years of the peasant poet’s life have been passed in competence138 and perfect comfort. Having been cured of his bardic139 improvidence140 for many a day past, and grown as attentive142 to the main chance as a canny143 Scotsman should be, he is now considered to be quite well off as to pecuniary144 circumstances. This, I suppose, is worth having lived so long for.
I took occasion to inquire of some of the countrymen of Burns in regard to the health of Sir Walter Scott. His condition, I am sorry to say, remains the same as for ten years past; it is that of a hopeless paralytic145, palsied not more in body than in those nobler attributes of which the body is the instrument. And thus he vegetates146 from day to day and from year to year at that splendid fantasy of Abbotsford, which grew out of his brain, and became a symbol of the great romancer’s tastes, feelings, studies, prejudices, and modes of intellect. Whether in verse, prose, or architecture, he could achieve but one thing, although that one in infinite variety. There he reclines, on a couch in his library, and is said to spend whole hours of every day in dictating147 tales to an amanuensis — to an imaginary amanuensis; for it is not deemed worth any one’s trouble now to take down what flows from that once brilliant fancy, every image of which was formerly148 worth gold and capable of being coined. Yet Cunningham, who has lately seen him, assures me that there is now and then a touch of the genius — a striking combination of incident, or a picturesque trait of character, such as no other man alive could have bit off — a glimmer149 from that ruined mind, as if the sun had suddenly flashed on a half-rusted helmet in the gloom of an ancient ball. But the plots of these romances become inextricably confused; the characters melt into one another; and the tale loses itself like the course of a stream flowing through muddy and marshy150 ground.
For my part, I can hardly regret that Sir Walter Scott had lost his consciousness of outward things before his works went out of vogue151. It was good that he should forget his fame rather than that fame should first have forgotten him. Were he still a writer, and as brilliant a one as ever, he could no longer maintain anything like the same position in literature. The world, nowadays, requires a more earnest purpose, a deeper moral, and a closer and homelier truth than he was qualified152 to supply it with. Yet who can be to the present generation even what Scott has been to the past? I had expectations from a young man — one Dickens — who published a few magazine articles, very rich in humor, and not without symptoms of genuine pathos; but the poor fellow died shortly after commencing an odd series of sketches153, entitled, I think, the Pickwick Papers. Not impossibly the world has lost more than it dreams of by the untimely death of this Mr. Dickens.
Whom do you think I met in Pall154 Mall the other day? You would not hit it in ten guesses. Why, no less a man than Napoleon Bonaparte, or all that is now left of him — that is to say, the skin, bones, and corporeal substance, little cocked hat, green coat, white breeches, and small sword, which are still known by his redoubtable155 name. He was attended only by two policemen, who walked quietly behind the phantasm of the old ex-emperor, appearing to have no duty in regard to him except to see that none of the light-fingered gentry156 should possess themselves of thee star of the Legion of Honor. Nobody save myself so much as turned to look after him; nor, it grieves me to confess, could even I contrive157 to muster158 up any tolerable interest, even by all that the warlike spirit, formerly manifested within that now decrepit159 shape, had wrought upon our globe. There is no surer method of annihilating160 the magic influence of a great renown161 than by exhibiting the possessor of it in the decline, the overthrow162, the utter degradation163 of his powers — buried beneath his own mortality — and lacking even the qualities of sense that enable the most ordinary men to bear themselves decently in the eye of the world. This is the state to which disease, aggravated164 by long endurance of a tropical climate, and assisted by old age — for he is now above seventy — has reduced Bonaparte. The British government has acted shrewdly in retransporting him from St. Helena to England. They should now restore him to Paris, and there let him once again review the relics165 of his armies. His eye is dull and rheumy; his nether166 lip hung down upon his chin. While I was observing him there chanced to be a little extra bustle167 in the street; and he, the brother of Caesar and Hannibal — the great captain who had veiled the world in battle-smoke and tracked it round with bloody168 footsteps — was seized with a nervous trembling, and claimed the protection of the two policemen by a cracked and dolorous169 cry. The fellows winked170 at one another, laughed aside, and, patting Napoleon on the back, took each an arm and led him away.
Death and fury! Ha, villain171, how came you hither? Avaunt! or I fling my inkstand at your head. Tush, tusk172; it is all a mistake. Pray, my dear friend, pardon this little outbreak. The fact is, the mention of those two policemen, and their custody173 of Bonaparte, had called up the idea of that odious174 wretch175 — you remember him well — who was pleased to take such gratuitous176 and impertinent care of my person before I quitted New England. Forthwith up rose before my mind’s eye that same little whitewashed room, with the iron-grated window — strange that it should have been iron-grated! — where, in too easy compliance178 with the absurd wishes of my relatives, I have wasted several good years of my life. Positively it seemed to me that I was still sitting there, and that the keeper — not that he ever was my keeper neither, but only a kind of intrusive179 devil of a body-servant — had just peeped in at the door. The rascal180! I owe him an old grudge181, and will find a time to pay it yet. Fie! fie! The mere32 thought of him has exceedingly discomposed me. Even now that hateful chamber — the iron-grated window, which blasted the blessed sunshine as it fell through the dusty panes182 and made it poison to my soul-looks more distinct to my view than does this my comfortable apartment in the heart of London. The reality — that which I know to be such — hangs like remnants of tattered183 scenery over the intolerably prominent illusion. Let us think of it no more.
You will be anxious to hear of Shelley. I need not say, what is known to all the world, that this celebrated184 poet has for many years past been reconciled to the Church of England. In his more recent works he has applied185 his fine powers to the vindication186 of the Christian187 faith, with an especial view to that particular development. Latterly, as you may not have heard, he has taken orders, and been inducted to a small country living in the gift of the Lord Chancellor188. Just now, luckily for me, he has come to the metropolis to superintend the publication of a volume of discourses189 treating of the poetico-philosophical proofs of Christianity on the basis of the Thirty-nine Articles. On my first introduction I felt no little embarrassment191 as to the manner of combining what I had to say to the author of Queen Mali, the Revolt of Islam, and Prometheus Unbound with such acknowledgments as might be acceptable to a Christian minister and zealous192 upholder of the Established Church. But Shelley soon placed me at my ease. Standing where he now does, and reviewing all his successive productions from a higher point, he assures me that there is a harmony, an order, a regular procession, which enables him to lay his hand upon any one of the earlier poems and say, “This is my work,” with precisely the same complacency of conscience wherewithal he contemplates193 the volume of discourses above mentioned. They are like the successive steps of a staircase, the lowest of which, in the depth of chaos195, is as essential to the support of the whole as the highest and final one resting upon the threshold of the heavens. I felt half inclined to ask him what would have been his fate had he perished on the lower steps of his staircase, instead of building his way aloft into the celestial196 brightness.
How all this may be I neither pretend to understand nor greatly care, so long as Shelley has really climbed, as it seems he has, from a lower region to a loftier one. Without touching197 upon their religious merits, I consider the productions of his maturity198 superior, as poems, to those of his youth. They are warmer with human love, which has served as an interpreter between his mind and the multitude. The author has learned to dip his pen oftener into his heart, and has thereby199 avoided the faults into which a too exclusive use of fancy and intellect are wont200 to betray him. Formerly his page was often little other than a concrete arrangement of crystallizations, or even of icicles, as cold as they were brilliant. Now you take it to your heart, and are conscious of a heart-warmth responsive to your own. In his private character Shelley can hardly have grown more gentle, kind, and affectionate than his friends always represented him to be up to that disastrous201 night when he was drowned in the Mediterranean202. Nonsense, again — sheer nonsense! What, am I babbling203 about? I was thinking of that old figment of his being lost in the Bay of Spezzia, and washed ashore204 near Via Reggio, and burned to ashes on a funeral pyre, with wine, and spices, and frankincense; while Byron stood on the beach and beheld206 a flame of marvellous beauty rise heavenward from the dead poet’s heart, and that his fire-purified relics were finally buried near his child in Roman earth. If all this happened three-and-twenty years ago, how could I have met the drowned and burned and buried man here in London only yesterday?
Before quitting the subject, I may mention that Dr. Reginald Heber, heretofore Bishop207 of Calcutta, but recently translated to a see in England, called on Shelley while I was with him. They appeared to be on terms of very cordial intimacy208, and are said to have a joint209 poem in contemplation. What a strange, incongruous dream is the life of man!
Coleridge has at last finished his poem of Christabel. It will be issued entire by old John Murray in the course of the present publishing season. The poet, I hear, is visited with a troublesome affection of the tongue, which has put a period, or some lesser210 stop, to the life-long discourse that has hitherto been flowing from his lips. He will not survive it above a month, unless his accumulation of ideas be sluiced211 off in some other way. Wordsworth died only a week or two ago. Heaven rest his soul, and grant that he may not have completed The Excursion! Methinks I am sick of everything he wrote, except his Laodamia. It is very sad, this inconstancy of the mind to the poets whom it once worshipped. Southey is as hale as ever, and writes with his usual diligence. Old Gifford is still alive, in the extremity212 of age, and with most pitiable decay of what little sharp and narrow intellect the Devil had gifted him withal. One hates to allow such a man the privilege of growing old and infirm. It takes away our speculative213 license214 of kicking him.
Keats? No; I have not seen him except across a crowded street, with coaches, drays, horsemen, cabs, omnibuses, foot-passengers, and divers215 other sensual obstructions216 intervening betwixt his small and slender figure and my eager glance. I would fain have met him on the sea-shore, or beneath a natural arch of forest trees, or the Gothic arch of an old cathedral, or among Grecian ruins, or at a glimmering217 fireside on the verge of evening, or at the twilight218 entrance of a cave, into the dreamy depths of which he would have led me by the hand; anywhere, in short, save at Temple Bar, where his presence was blotted out by the porter-swollen bulks of these gross Englishmen. I stood and watched him fading away, fading away along the pavement, and could hardly tell whether he were an actual man or a thought that had slipped out of my mind and clothed itself in human form and habiliments merely to beguile219 me. At one moment he put his handkerchief to his lips, and withdrew it, I am almost certain, stained with blood. You never saw anything so fragile as his person. The truth is, Keats has all his life felt the effects of that terrible bleeding at the lungs caused by the article on his Endymion in the Quarterly Review, and which so nearly brought him to the grave. Ever since he has glided220 about the world like a ghost, sighing a melancholy221 tone in the ear of here and there a friend, but never sending forth177 his voice to greet the multitude. I can hardly think him a great poet. The burden of a mighty genius would never have been imposed upon shoulders so physically222 frail223 and a spirit so infirmly sensitive. Great poets should have iron sinews.
Yet Keats, though for so many years he has given nothing to the world, is understood to have devoted224 himself to the composition of an epic225 poem. Some passages of it have been communicated to the inner circle of his admirers, and impressed them as the loftiest strains that have been audible on earth since Milton’s days. If I can obtain copies of these specimens, I will ask you to present them to James Russell Lowell, who seems to be one of the poet’s most fervent226 and worthiest227 worshippers. The information took me by surprise. I had supposed that all Keats’s poetic190 incense205, without being embodied228 in human language, floated up to heaven and mingled229 with the songs of the immortal choristers, who perhaps were conscious of an unknown voice among them, and thought their melody the sweeter for it. But it is not so; he has positively written a poem on the subject of Paradise Regained230, though in another sense than that which presented itself to the mind of Milton. In compliance, it may be imagined, with the dogma of those who pretend that all epic possibilities in the past history of the world are exhausted231, Keats has thrown his poem forward into an indefinitely remote futurity. He pictures mankind amid the closing circumstances of the time-long warfare232 between good and evil. Our race is on the eve of its final triumph. Man is within the last stride of perfection; Woman, redeemed from the thraldom233 against which our sibyl uplifts so powerful and so sad a remonstrance234, stands equal by his side or communes for herself with angels; the Earth, sympathizing with her children’s happier state, has clothed herself in such luxuriant and loving beauty as no eye ever witnessed since our first parents saw the sun rise over dewy Eden. Nor then indeed; for this is the fulfilment of what was then but a golden promise. But the picture has its shadows. There remains to mankind another peril235 — a last encounter with the evil principle. Should the battle go against us, we sink back into the slime and misery236 of ages. If we triumph — But it demands a poet’s eye to contemplate194 the splendor237 of such a consummation and not to be dazzled.
To this great work Keats is said to have brought so deep and tender a spirit of humanity that the poem has all the sweet and warm interest of a village tale no less than the grandeur238 which befits so high a theme. Such, at least, is the perhaps partial representation of his friends; for I have not read or heard even a single line of the performance in question. Keats, I am told, withholds239 it from the press, under an idea that the age has not enough of spiritual insight to receive it worthily240. I do not like this distrust; it makes me distrust the poet. The universe is waiting to respond to the highest word that the best child of time and immortality can utter. If it refuse to listen, it is because he mumbles241 and stammers242, or discourses things unseasonable and foreign to the purpose.
I visited the House of Lords the other day to hear Canning, who, you know, is now a peer, with I forget what title. He disappointed me. Time blunts both point and edge, and does great mischief243 to men of his order of intellect. Then I stepped into the lower House and listened to a few words from Cobbett, who looked as earthy as a real clodhopper, or rather as if he had lain a dozen years beneath the clods. The men whom I meet nowadays often impress me thus; probably because my spirits are not very good, and lead me to think much about graves, with the long grass upon them, and weather-worn epitaphs, and dry bones of people who made noise enough in their day, but now can only clatter244, clatter, clatter, when the sexton’s spade disturbs them. Were it only possible to find out who are alive and who dead, it would contribute infinitely245 to my peace of mind. Every day of my life somebody comes and stares me in the face whom I had quietly blotted out of the tablet of living men, and trusted nevermore to be pestered246 with the sight or sound of him. For instance, going to Drury Lane Theatre a few evenings since, up rose before me, in the ghost of Hamlet’s father, the bodily presence of the elder Kean, who did die, or ought to have died, in some drunken fit or other, so long ago that his fame is scarcely traditionary now. His powers are quite gone; he was rather the ghost of himself than the ghost of the Danish king.
In the stage-box sat several elderly and decrepit people, and among them a stately ruin of a woman on a very large scale, with a profile — for I did not see her front face — that stamped itself into my brain as a seal impresses hot wax. By the tragic247 gesture with which she took a pinch of snuff, I was sure it must be Mrs. Siddons. Her brother, John Kemble, sat behind — a broken-down figure, but still with a kingly majesty248 about him. In lieu of all former achievements, Nature enables him to look the part of Lear far better than in the meridian249 of his genius. Charles Matthews was likewise there; but a paralytic affection has distorted his once mobile countenance250 into a most disagreeable one-sidedness, from which he could no more wrench251 it into proper form than he could rearrange the face of the great globe itself. It looks as if, for the joke’s sake, the poor man had twisted his features into an expression at once the most ludicrous and horrible that he could contrive, and at that very moment, as a judgment252 for making himself so hideous253, an avenging254 Providence141 had seen fit to petrify255 him. Since it is out of his own power, I would gladly assist him to change countenance, for his ugly visage haunts me both at noontide and night-time. Some other players of the past generation were present, but none that greatly interested me. It behooves256 actors, more than all other men of publicity257, to vanish from the scene betimes. Being at best but painted shadows flickering on the wall and empty sounds that echo anther’s thought, it is a sad disenchantment when the colors begin to fade and the voice to croak258 with age.
What is there new in the literary way on your side of the water? Nothing of the kind has come under any inspection259, except a volume of poems published above a year ago by Dr. Channing. I did not before know that this eminent260 writer is a poet; nor does the volume alluded to exhibit any of the characteristics of the author’s mind as displayed in his prose works; although some of the poems have a richness that is not merely of the surface, but glows still the brighter the deeper and more faithfully you look into then. They seem carelessly wrought, however, like those rings and ornaments261 of the very purest gold, but of rude, native manufacture, which are found among the gold-dust from Africa. I doubt whether the American public will accept them; it looks less to the assay262 of metal than to the neat and cunning manufacture. How slowly our literature grows up! Most of our writers of promise have come to untimely ends. There was that wild fellow, John Neal, who almost turned my boyish brain with his romances; he surely has long been dead, else he never could keep himself so quiet. Bryant has gone to his last sleep, with the Thanatopsis gleaming over him like a sculptured marble sepulchre by moonlight. Halleck, who used to write queer verses in the newspapers and published a Don Juanic poem called Fanny, is defunct263 as a poet, though averred264 to be exemplifying the metempsychosis as a man of business. Somewhat later there was Whittier, a fiery265 Quaker youth, to whom the muse121 had perversely266 assigned a battle-trumpet, and who got himself lynched, ten years agone, in South Carolina. I remember, too, a lad just from college, Longfellow by name, who scattered267 some delicate verses to the winds, and went to Germany, and perished, I think, of intense application, at the University of Gottingen. Willis — what a pity! — was lost, if I recollect rightly, in 1833, on his voyage to Europe, whither he was going to give us sketches of the world’s sunny face. If these had lived, they might, one or all of them, have grown to be famous men.
And yet there is no telling: it may be as well that they have died. I was myself a young man of promise. O shattered brain, O broken spirit, where is the fulfilment of that promise? The sad truth is, that, when fate would gently disappoint the world, it takes away the hopefulest mortals in their youth; when it would laugh the world’s hopes to scorn, it lets them live. Let me die upon this apothegm, for I shall never make a truer one.
What a strange substance is the human brain! Or rather — for there is no need of generalizing the remark — what an odd brain is mine! Would you believe it? Daily and nightly there come scraps268 of poetry humming in my intellectual ear — some as airy as birdnotes, and some as delicately neat as parlor-music, and a few as grand as organ-peals — that seem just such verses as those departed poets would have written had not an inexorable destiny snatched them from their inkstands. They visit me in spirit, perhaps desiring to engage my services as the amanuensis of their posthumous269 productions, and thus secure the endless renown that they have forfeited270 by going hence too early. But I have my own business to attend to; and besides, a medical gentleman, who interests himself in some little ailments271 of mine, advises me not to make too free use of pen and ink. There are clerks enough out of employment who would be glad of such a job.
Good by! Are you alive or dead? and what are you about? Still scribbling272 for the Democratic? And do those infernal compositors and proof-readers misprint your unfortunate productions as vilely273 as ever? It is too bad. Let every man manufacture his own nonsense, say I. Expect me home soon, and — to whisper you a secret — in company with the poet Campbell, who purposes to visit Wyoming and enjoy the shadow of the laurels274 that he planted there. Campbell is now an old man. He calls himself well, better than ever in his life, but looks strangely pale, and so shadow-like that one might almost poke275 a finger through his densest276 material. I tell him, by way of joke, that he is as dim and forlorn as Memory, though as unsubstantial as Hope.
Your true friend, P.
P. S. — Pray present my most respectful regards to our venerable and revered277 friend Mr. Brockden Brown.
It gratifies me to learn that a complete edition of his works, in a double-columned octavo volume, is shortly to issue from the press at Philadelphia. Tell him that no American writer enjoys a more classic reputation on this side of the water. Is old Joel Barlow yet alive? Unconscionable man! Why, he must have nearly fulfilled his century. And does he meditate278 an epic on the war between Mexico and Texas with machinery279 contrived280 on the principle of the steam-engine, as being the nearest to celestial agency that our epoch281 can boast? How can he expect ever to rise again, if, while just sinking into his grave, he persists in burdening himself with such a ponderosity282 of leaden verses?
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1
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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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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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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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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consolidates
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| 巩固 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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28
enfranchise
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| v.给予选举权，解放 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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42
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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43
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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44
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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45
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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purports
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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48
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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49
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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50
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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51
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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52
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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53
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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54
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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55
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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56
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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57
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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58
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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59
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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60
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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61
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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62
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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63
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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64
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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65
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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66
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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67
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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68
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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69
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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70
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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71
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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72
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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73
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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75
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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76
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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77
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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78
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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80
evicted
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| v.（依法从房屋里或土地上）驱逐，赶出( evict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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82
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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83
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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84
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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85
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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86
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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87
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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88
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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89
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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90
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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91
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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94
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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95
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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96
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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97
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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98
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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99
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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100
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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101
assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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102
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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103
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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104
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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105
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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106
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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108
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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109
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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110
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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112
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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113
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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114
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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115
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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116
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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117
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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118
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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119
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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120
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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121
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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122
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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123
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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124
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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125
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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126
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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127
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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128
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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129
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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130
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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131
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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132
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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133
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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134
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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135
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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136
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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137
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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138
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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139
bardic
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| adj.吟游诗人的 | |
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140
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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141
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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142
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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143
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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144
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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145
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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146
vegetates
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的第三人称单数 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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147
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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148
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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149
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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150
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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151
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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152
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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153
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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154
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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155
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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156
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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157
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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158
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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159
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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160
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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161
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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162
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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163
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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164
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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165
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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166
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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167
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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168
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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169
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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170
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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171
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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172
tusk
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| n.獠牙，长牙，象牙 | |
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173
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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174
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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175
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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176
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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177
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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178
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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179
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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180
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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181
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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182
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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183
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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184
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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185
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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186
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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187
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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188
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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189
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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190
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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191
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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192
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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193
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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194
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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195
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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196
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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197
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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198
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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199
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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200
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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201
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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202
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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203
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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204
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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205
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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206
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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207
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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208
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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209
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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210
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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211
sluiced
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| v.冲洗( sluice的过去式和过去分词 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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212
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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213
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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214
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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215
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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216
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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217
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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218
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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219
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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220
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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221
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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222
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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223
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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224
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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225
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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226
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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227
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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228
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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229
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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230
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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231
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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232
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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233
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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234
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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235
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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236
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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237
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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238
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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239
withholds
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| v.扣留( withhold的第三人称单数 )；拒绝给予；抑制（某事物）；制止 | |
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240
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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241
mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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242
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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243
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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244
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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245
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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246
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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248
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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249
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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250
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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251
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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252
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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253
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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254
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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255
petrify
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| vt.使发呆；使…变成化石 | |
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256
behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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257
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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258
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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259
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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261
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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assay
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| n.试验，测定 | |
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263
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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264
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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265
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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266
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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267
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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268
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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270
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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272
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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273
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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274
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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275
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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276
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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277
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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279
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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280
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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281
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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282
ponderosity
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| n.沉重，笨重；有质性；可称性 | |
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