British art either finds her peculiar1 nourishment2 in melancholy3, and loves to fix her abode4 in desert places; or it may be her purse is but slenderly furnished, and she is forced to put up with accommodations rejected by more prosperous callings. Some of the most dismal5 quarters of the town are colonised by her disciples6 and professors. In walking through streets which may have been gay and polite when ladies’ chairmen jostled each other on the pavement, and linkboys with their torches lighted the beaux over the mud, who has not remarked the artist’s invasion of those regions once devoted7 to fashion and gaiety? Centre windows of drawing-rooms are enlarged so as to reach up into bedrooms — bedrooms where Lady Betty has had her hair powdered, and where the painter’s north-light now takes possession of the place which her toilet-table occupied a hundred years ago. There are degrees in decadence8: after the Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats from Soho or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come and occupy the vacant houses, which still have a respectable look, the windows being cleaned, and the knockers and plates kept bright, and the doctor’s carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the countess’s, which has whisked away her ladyship to other regions. A boarding-house mayhap succeeds the physician, who has followed after his sick folks into the new country; and then Dick Tinto comes with his dingy9 brass10 plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets up his sitters’ throne. I love his honest moustache, and jaunty11 velvet12 jacket; his queer figure, his queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should he not suffer his ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should he deny himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian13 which costs him eighteenpence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and breaks out into costume as spontaneously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip. And as Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak, bristling14 beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly15 simple creature, got up at a very cheap rate, his life is so consistent with his dress; he gives his genius a darkling swagger, and a romantic envelope, which, being removed, you find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping16 soul; not a moody17 poet avoiding mankind for the better company of his own great thoughts, but a jolly little chap who has an aptitude18 for painting brocade gowns, a bit of armour19 (with figures inside them), or trees and cattle, or gondolas20 and buildings, or what not; an instinct for the picturesque21, which exhibits itself in his works, and outwardly on his person; beyond this, a gentle creature loving his friends, his cups, feasts, merrymakings, and all good things. The kindest folks alive I have found among those scowling22 whiskeradoes. They open oysters23 with their yataghans, toast muffins on their rapiers, and fill their Venice glasses with half-and-half. If they have money in their lean purses, be sure they have a friend to share it. What innocent gaiety, what jovial24 suppers on threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after; what pathos25, merriment, humour does not a man enjoy who frequents their company! Mr. Clive Newcome, who has long since shaved his beard, who has become a family man, and has seen the world in a thousand different phases, avers26 that his life as an art-student at home and abroad was the pleasantest part of his whole existence. It may not be more amusing in the telling than the chronicle of a feast, or the accurate report of two lovers’ conversation; but the biographer, having brought his hero to the period of his life, is bound to relate it, before passing to other occurrences which are to be narrated27 in their turn.
We may be sure the boy had many conversations with his affectionate guardian28 as to the profession which he should follow. As regarded mathematical and classical learning, the elder Newcome was forced to admit, that out of every hundred boys, there were fifty as clever as his own, and at least fifty more industrious29; the army in time of peace Colonel Newcome thought a bad trade for a young fellow so fond of ease and pleasure as his son: his delight in the pencil was manifest to all. Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the masters? Whilst his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, did he not draw Grindley instinctively30 under his very nose? A painter Clive was determined31 to be, and nothing else; and Clive, being then some sixteen years of age, began to study the art, en regle, under the eminent32 Mr. Gandish, of Soho.
It was that well-known portrait-painter, Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., who recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the two gentlemen met at dinner at Lady Anne Newcome’s table. Mr. Smee happened to examine some of Clive’s drawings, which the young fellow had executed for his cousins. Clive found no better amusement than in making pictures for them, and would cheerfully pass evening after evening in that diversion. He had made a thousand sketches33 of Ethel before a year was over; a year, every day of which seemed to increase the attractions of the fair young creature, develop her nymph-like form, and give her figure fresh graces. He also of course drew Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Anne and the Blenheim spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his earrings35, the majestic36 John bringing in the coal-scuttle, and all persons or objects in that establishment with which he was familiar. “What a genius the lad has,” the complimentary37 Mr. Smee averred38; “what a force and individuality there is in all his drawings! Look at his horses! capital, by Jove, capital! and Alfred on his pony39, and Miss Ethel in her Spanish bat, with her hair flowing in the wind! I must take this sketch34, I positively40 must now, and show it to Landseer.” And the courtly artist daintily enveloped41 the drawing in a sheet of paper, put it away in his hat, and vowed42 subsequently that the great painter had been delighted with the young man’s performance. Smee was not only charmed with Clive’s skill as an artist, but thought his head would be an admirable one to paint. Such a rich complexion43, such fine turns in his hair! such eyes! to see real blue eyes was so rare nowadays! And the Colonel too, if the Colonel would but give him a few sittings, the grey uniform of the Bengal Cavalry44, the silver lace, the little bit of red ribbon just to warm up the picture! it was seldom, Mr. Smee declared, that an artist could get such an opportunity for colour. With our hideous45 vermilion uniforms there was no chance of doing anything; Rubens himself could scarcely manage scarlet46. Look at the horseman in Cuyp’s famous picture at the Louvre: the red was a positive blot47 upon the whole picture. There was nothing like French grey and silver! All which did not prevent Mr. Smee from painting Sir Brian in a flaring48 deputy-lieutenant’s uniform, and entreating49 all military men whom he met to sit to him in scarlet. Clive Newcome the Academician succeeded in painting, of course for mere50 friendship’s sake, and because he liked the subject, though he could not refuse the cheque which Colonel Newcome sent him for the frame and picture; but no cajoleries could induce the old campaigner to sit to any artist save one. He said he should be ashamed to pay fifty guineas for the likeness51 of his homely52 face; he jocularly proposed to James Binnie to have his head put on the canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically caught at the idea; but honest James winked53 his droll54 eyes, saying his was a beauty that did not want any paint; and when Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fitzroy Square, where this conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the Academician was no better than an old humbug55, in which surmise56 he was probably not altogether incorrect. Certain young men who frequented the kind Colonel’s house were also somewhat of this opinion; and made endless jokes at the painter’s expense. Smee plastered his sitters with adulation as methodically as he covered his canvas. He waylaid57 gentlemen at dinner; he inveigled58 unsuspecting folks into his studio, and had their heads off their shoulders before they were aware. One day, on our way from the Temple, through Howland Street, to the Colonel’s house, we beheld59 Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, in full uniform, rushing from Smee’s door to his brougham. The coachman was absent refreshing60 himself at a neighbouring tap: the little street-boys cheered and hurrayed Sir Thomas, as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he sate61 in his chariot. He blushed purple when he beheld us. No artist would have dared to imitate those purple tones: he was one of the numerous victims of Mr. Smee.
One day, then, day to be noted62 with a white stone, Colonel Newcome, with his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., walked from the Colonel’s house to Gandish’s, which was not far removed thence; and young Clive, who was a perfect mimic63, described to his friends, and illustrated64, as was his wont65, by diagrams, the interview which he had with that professor. “By Jove, you must see Gandish, pa!” cries Clive: “Gandish is worth the whole world. Come and be an art-student. You’ll find such jolly fellows there! Gandish calls it hart-student, and says, ‘Hars est celare Hartem’— by Jove he does! He treated us to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and a bottle of wine, you know.”
“The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: you know he only puts them on on parade days; and turned out for the occasion spick and span. He ought to be a general officer. He looks like a field-marshal — don’t he? You should have seen him bowing to Mrs. Gandish and the Miss Gandishes, dressed all in their best, round the cake-tray! He takes his glass of wine, and sweeps them all round with a bow. ‘I hope, young ladies,’ says he, ‘you don’t often go to the students’ room. I’m afraid the young gentlemen would leave off looking at the statues if you came in.’ And so they would: for you never saw such guys; but the dear old boy fancies every woman is a beauty.
“‘Mr. Smee, you are looking at my picture of ‘Boadishia?’’ says Gandish. Wouldn’t he have caught it for his quantities at Grey Friars, that’s all.
“‘Yes — ah — yes,’ says Mr. Smee, putting his hand over his eyes, and standing66 before it, looking steady, you know, as if he was going to see whereabouts he should hit Boadishia.
“‘It was painted when you were a young man, four years before you were an associate, Smee. Had some success in its time, and there’s good pints67 about that picture,’ Gandish goes on. ‘But I never could get my price for it; and here it hangs in my own room. Igh art won’t do in this country, Colonel — it’s a melancholy fact.’
“‘High art! I should think it is high art!’ whispers old Smee; ‘fourteen feet high, at least!” And then out loud he says ‘The picture has very fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening of that arm, capital! That red drapery carried off into the right of the picture very skilfully68 managed!’
“‘It’s not like portrait-painting, Smee — Igh art,’ says Gandish. ‘The models of the hancient Britons in that pictur alone cost me thirty pound — when I was a struggling man, and had just married my Betsey here. You reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman elmet, cuirass, and javeling of the period — all studied from the hantique, sir, the glorious hantique.’
“‘All but Boadicea,’ says father. ‘She remains69 always young.’ And he began to speak the lines out of Cowper, he did — waving his stick like an old trump70 — and famous they are,” cries the lad:
“When the British warrior71 queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods”—
“Jolly verses! Haven’t I translated them into alcaics?” says Clive, with a merry laugh, and resumes his history.
“‘Oh, I must have those verses in my album,’ cries one of the young ladies. ‘Did you compose them, Colonel Newcome?’ But Gandish, you see, is never thinking about any works but his own, and goes on, ‘Study of my eldest72 daughter, exhibited 1816.’
“‘No, pa, not ‘16,’ cries Miss Gandish. She don’t look like a chicken, I can tell you.
“‘Admired,’ Gandish goes on, never heeding73 her — ‘I can show you what the papers said of it at the time — Morning Chronicle and Examiner — spoke74 most ighly of it. My son as an infant Ercules, stranglin the serpent over the piano. Fust conception of my picture of ‘Non Hangli said Hangeli.’’
“‘For which I can guess who were the angels that sat,’ says father. Upon my word, that old governor! He is a little too strong. But Mr. Gandish listened no more to him than to Mr. Smee, and went on, buttering himself all over, as I have read the Hottentots do. ‘Myself at thirty-three years of age!’ says he, pointing to a portrait of a gentleman in leather breeches and mahogany boots; ‘I could have been a portrait-painter, Mr. Smee.’
“‘Indeed it was lucky for some of us you devoted yourself to high art, Gandish,’ Mr. Smee says, and sips75 the wine and puts it down again, making a face. It was not first-rate tipple76, you see.
“‘Two girls,’ continues that indomitable Mr. Gandish. ‘Hidea for ‘Babes in the Wood.’ ‘View of Paestum,’ taken on the spot by myself, when travelling with the late lamented77 Earl of Kew. ‘Beauty, Valour, Commerce, and Liberty, condoling78 with Britannia on the death of Admiral Viscount Nelson,’— allegorical piece drawn79 at a very early age after Trafalgar. Mr. Fuseli saw that piece, sir, when I was a student of the Academy, and said to me, ‘Young man, stick to the antique. There’s nothing like it.’ Those were ‘is very words. If you do me the favour to walk into the Hatrium, you’ll remark my great pictures also from English istry. An English historical painter, sir, should be employed chiefly in English istry. That’s what I would have done. Why ain’t there temples for us, where the people might read their history at a glance, and without knowing how to read? Why is my ‘Alfred’ ‘anging up in this ‘all? Because there is no patronage80 for a man who devotes himself to Igh art. You know the anecdote81, Colonel? King Alfred flying from the Danes, took refuge in a neaterd’s ‘ut. The rustic’s wife told him to bake a cake, and the fugitive82 sovering set down to his ignoble83 task, and forgetting it in the cares of state, let the cake burn, on which the woman struck him. The moment chose is when she is lifting her ‘and to deliver the blow. The king receives it with majesty84 mingled85 with meekness86. In the background the door of the ‘ut is open, letting in the royal officers to announce the Danes are defeated. The daylight breaks in at the aperture87, signifying the dawning of ‘Ope. That story, sir, which I found in my researches in istry, has since become so popular, sir, that hundreds of artists have painted it, hundreds! I who discovered the legend, have my picture — here!’
“‘Now, Colonel,’ says the showman, ‘let me — let me lead you through the statue gallery. ‘Apollo,’ you see. The ‘Venus Hanadyomene,’ the glorious Venus of the Louvre, which I saw in 1814, Colonel, in its glory — the ‘Laocoon’— my friend Gibson’s ‘Nymth,’ you see, is the only figure I admit among the antiques. Now up this stair to the students’ room, where I trust my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour assiduously. Ars longa est, Mr. Newcome. Vita ——’”
“I trembled,” Clive said, “lest my father should introduce a certain favourite quotation88, beginning ‘ingenuas didicisse’— but he refrained, and we went into the room, where a score of students were assembled, who all looked away from their drawing-boards as we entered.
“‘Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,’ says the Professor, ‘and here that of your young friend — what did you say was his name?’ I told him Rigby, for my dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. too, you know. ‘Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and custos of the room in the absence of my son. Mr. Chivers, Mr. Newcome; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome, a new pupil. My son, Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, gentlemen, assiduity. Ars longa. Vita brevis, et linea recta brevissima est. This way, Colonel, down these steps, across the courtyard, to my own studio. There, gentlemen,’— and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says ‘There!’”
“And what was the masterpiece behind it?” we ask of Clive, after we have done laughing at his imitation.
“Hand round the hat, J. J.!” cries Clive. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, pay your money. Now walk in, for the performance is ‘just a-going to begin.’” Nor would the rogue89 ever tell us what Gandish’s curtained picture was.
Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excellent master, and regarding all artists save one perhaps a good critic. Clive and his friend J. J. came soon after and commenced their studies under him. The one took his humble90 seat at the drawing-board, a poor mean-looking lad, with worn clothes, downcast features, and a figure almost deformed91; the other adorned92 by good health, good looks, and the best of tailors; ushered93 into the studio with his father and Mr. Smee as his aides-de-camp on his entry; and previously94 announced there with all the eloquence95 of honest Gandish. “I bet he’s ‘ad cake and wine,” says one youthful student, of an epicurean and satirical turn. “I bet he might have it every day if he liked.” In fact Gandish was always handing him sweetmeats of compliments and cordials of approbation96. He had coat-sleeves with silk linings97 — he had studs in his shirt. How different was the texture98 and colour of that garment, to the sleeves Bob Grimes displayed when he took his coat off to put on his working jacket! Horses used actually to come for him to Gandish’s door (which was situated99 in a certain lofty street in Soho). The Miss G.‘s would smile at him from the parlour window as he mounted and rode splendidly off; and those opposition100 beauties, the Miss Levisons, daughters of the professor of dancing over the way, seldom failed to greet the young gentleman with an admiring ogle101 from their great black eyes. Master Clive was pronounced an ‘out-and-outer,’ a ‘swell and no mistake,’ and complimented with scarce one dissentient voice by the simple academy at Gandish’s. Besides, he drew very well. There could be no doubt about that. Caricatures of the students of course were passing constantly among them, and in revenge for one which a huge red-haired Scotch102 student, Mr. Sandy M’Collop, had made of John James, Clive perpetrated a picture of Sandy which set the whole room in a roar; and when the Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against the assembled company, averring103 that they were a parcel of sneaks104, a set of lick-spittles, and using epithets105 still more vulgar, Clive slipped off his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M’Collop into the back-yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had acquired at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, which prevented the young artist from seeing for some days after the head of the ‘Laocoon’ which he was copying. The Scotchman’s superior weight and age might have given the combat a different conclusion, had it endured long after Clive’s brilliant opening attack with his right and left; but Professor Gandish came out of his painting-room at the sound of battle, and could scarcely credit his own eyes when he saw those of poor M’Collop so darkened. To do the Scotchman justice, he bore Clive no rancour. They became friends there, and afterwards at Rome, whither they subsequently went to pursue their studies. The fame of Mr. M’Collop as an artist has long since been established. His pictures of ‘Lord Lovat in Prison,’ and ‘Hogarth painting him,’ of the ‘Blowing up of the Kirk of Field’ (painted for M’Collop of M’Collop), of the ‘Torture of the Covenanters,’ the ‘Murder of the Regent,’ the ‘Murder of Rizzio,’ and other historical pieces, all of course from Scotch history, have established his reputation in South as well as in North Britain. No one would suppose from the gloomy character of his works that Sandy M’Collop is one of the most jovial souls alive. Within six months after their little difference, Clive and he were the greatest of friends, and it was by the former’s suggestion that Mr. James Binnie gave Sandy his first commission, who selected the cheerful subject of ‘The Young Duke of Rothsay starving in Prison.’
During this period, Mr. Clive assumed the toga virilis, and beheld with inexpressible satisfaction the first growth of those mustachios which have since given him such a marked appearance.
Being at Gandish’s, and so near the dancing academy, what must he do but take lessons in the terpsichorean106 art too? — making himself as popular with the dancing folks as with the drawing folks, and the jolly king of his company everywhere. He gave entertainments to his fellow-students in the upper chambers107 in Fitzroy Square, which were devoted to his use, inviting108 his father and Mr. Binnie to those parties now and then. And songs were sung, and pipes were smoked, and many a pleasant supper eaten. There was no stint109: but no excess. No young man was ever seen to quit those apartments the worse, as it is called, for liquor. Fred Bayham’s uncle the Bishop110 could not be more decorous than F. B. as he left the Colonel’s house, for the Colonel made that one of the conditions of his son’s hospitality, that nothing like intoxication111 should ensue from it. The good gentleman did not frequent the parties of the juniors. He saw that his presence rather silenced the young men; and left them to themselves, confiding112 in Clive’s parole, and went away to play his honest rubber of whist at the Club. And many a time he heard the young fellows’ steps tramping by his bedchamber door, as he lay wakeful within, happy to think his son was happy.
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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devoted
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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velvet
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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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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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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scowling
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oysters
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jovial
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pathos
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avers
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narrated
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guardian
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industrious
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instinctively
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determined
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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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sketches
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sketch
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earrings
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majestic
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complimentary
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averred
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pony
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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44
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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45
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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46
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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47
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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48
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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49
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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50
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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52
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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53
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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54
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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55
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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56
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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57
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
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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60
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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61
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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62
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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63
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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66
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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67
pints
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| n.品脱( pint的名词复数 )；一品脱啤酒 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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69
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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70
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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71
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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72
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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73
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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74
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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75
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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82
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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83
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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84
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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85
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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86
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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87
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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88
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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89
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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90
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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91
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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92
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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93
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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95
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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96
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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97
linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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98
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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99
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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100
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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101
ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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102
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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103
averring
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| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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104
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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105
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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106
terpsichorean
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| adj.舞蹈的；n.舞蹈家 | |
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107
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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108
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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109
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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110
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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111
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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112
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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