Now, suppose Paterfamilias on his journey with his wife and children in the sociable8, and he passes an ordinary brick house on the road with an ordinary little garden in the front, we will say, and quite an ordinary knocker to the door, and as many sashed windows as you please, quite common and square, and tiles, windows, chimney-pots, quite like others; or suppose, in driving over such and such a common, he sees an ordinary tree, and an ordinary donkey browsing9 under it, if you like — wife and daughter look at these objects without the slightest particle of curiosity or interest. What is a brass10 knocker to them but a lion’s head, or what not? and a thorn-tree with pool beside it, but a pool in which a thorn and a jackass are reflected?
But you remember how once upon a time your heart used to beat, as you beat on that brass knocker, and whose eyes looked from the window above. You remember how by that thorn-tree and pool, where the geese were performing a prodigious11 evening concert, there might be seen, at a certain hour, somebody in a certain cloak and bonnet12, who happened to be coming from a village yonder, and whose image has flickered13 in that pool. In that pool, near the thorn? Yes, in that goose-pool, never mind how long ago, when there were reflected the images of the geese — and two geese more. Here, at least, an oldster may have the advantage of his young fellow-travellers, and so Putney Heath or the New Road may be invested with a halo of brightness invisible to them, because it only beams out of his own soul.
I have been reading the “Memorials of Hood14” by his children,11 and wonder whether the book will have the same interest for others and for younger people, as for persons of my own age and calling. Books of travel to any country become interesting to us who have been there. Men revisit the old school, though hateful to them, with ever so much kindliness15 and sentimental16 affection. There was the tree under which the bully17 licked you: here the ground where you had to fag out on holidays, and so forth18. In a word, my dear sir, YOU are the most interesting subject to yourself, of any that can occupy your worship’s thoughts. I have no doubt, a Crimean soldier, reading a history of that siege, and how Jones and the gallant19 99th were ordered to charge or what not, thinks, “Ah, yes, we of the 100th were placed so and so, I perfectly20 remember.” So with this memorial of poor Hood, it may have, no doubt, a greater interest for me than for others, for I was fighting, so to speak, in a different part of the field, and engaged, a young subaltern, in the Battle of Life, in which Hood fell, young still, and covered with glory. “The Bridge of Sighs” was his Corunna, his Heights of Abraham — sickly, weak, wounded, he fell in the full blaze and fame of that great victory.
11 Memorials of Thomas Hood. Moxon, 1860. 2 vols.
What manner of man was the genius who penned that famous song? What like was Wolfe, who climbed and conquered on those famous Heights of Abraham? We all want to know details regarding men who have achieved famous feats22, whether of war, or wit, or eloquence23, or endurance, or knowledge. His one or two happy and heroic actions take a man’s name and memory out of a crowd of names and memories. Henceforth he stands eminent24. We scan him: we want to know all about him; we walk round and examine him, are curious, perhaps, and think are we not as strong and tall and capable as yonder champion; were we not bred as well, and could we not endure the winter’s cold as well as he? Or we look up with all our eyes of admiration25; will find no fault in our hero: declare his beauty and proportions perfect; his critics envious26 detractors, and so forth. Yesterday, before he performed his feat21, he was nobody. Who cared about his birthplace, his parentage, or the color of his hair? To-day, by some single achievement, or by a series of great actions to which his genius accustoms27 us, he is famous, and antiquarians are busy finding out under what schoolmaster’s ferule he was educated, where his grandmother was vaccinated28, and so forth. If half a dozen washing-bills of Goldsmith’s were to be found tomorrow, would they not inspire a general interest, and be printed in a hundred papers? I lighted upon Oliver, not very long since, in an old Town and Country Magazine, at the Pantheon masquerade “in an old English habit.” Straightway my imagination ran out to meet him, to look at him, to follow him about. I forgot the names of scores of fine gentlemen of the past age, who were mentioned besides. We want to see this man who has amused and charmed us; who has been our friend, and given us hours of pleasant companionship and kindly29 thought. I protest when I came, in the midst of those names of people of fashion, and beaux, and demireps, upon those names “Sir J. R-yn-lds, in a domino; Mr. Cr-d-ck and Dr. G-ldsm-th, in two old English dresses,” I had, so to speak, my heart in my mouth. What, YOU here, my dear Sir Joshua? Ah, what an honor and privilege it is to see you! This is Mr. Goldsmith? And very much, sir, the ruff and the slashed30 doublet become you! O Doctor! what a pleasure I had and have in reading the Animated31 Nature. How DID you learn the secret of writing the decasyllable line, and whence that sweet wailing32 note of tenderness that accompanies your song? Was Beau Tibbs a real man, and will you do me the honor of allowing me to sit at your table at supper? Don’t you think you know how he would have talked? Would you not have liked to hear him prattle33 over the champagne34?
Now, Hood is passed away — passed off the earth as much as Goldsmith or Horace. The times in which he lived, and in which very many of us lived and were young, are changing or changed. I saw Hood once as a young man, at a dinner which seems almost as ghostly now as that masquerade at the Pantheon (1772), of which we were speaking anon. It was at a dinner of the Literary Fund, in that vast apartment which is hung round with the portraits of very large Royal Freemasons, now unsubstantial ghosts. There at the end of the room was Hood. Some publishers, I think, were our companions. I quite remember his pale face; he was thin and deaf, and very silent; he scarcely opened his lips during the dinner, and he made one pun. Some gentleman missed his snuff-box, and Hood said — (the Freemasons’ Tavern35 was kept, you must remember, by Mr. CUFF36 in those days, not by its present proprietors). Well, the box being lost, and asked for, and CUFF (remember that name) being the name of the landlord, Hood opened his silent jaws37 and said * * * Shall I tell you what he said? It was not a very good pun, which the great punster then made. Choose your favorite pun out of “Whims and Oddities,” and fancy that was the joke which he contributed to the hilarity38 of our little table.
Where those asterisks39 are drawn40 on the page, you must know, a pause occurred, during which I was engaged with “Hood’s Own,” having been referred to the book by this life of the author which I have just been reading. I am not going to dissert on Hood’s humor; I am not a fair judge. Have I not said elsewhere that there are one or two wonderfully old gentlemen still alive who used to give me tips when I was a boy? I can’t be a fair critic about them. I always think of that sovereign, that rapture41 of raspberry-tarts, which made my young days happy. Those old sovereign-contributors may tell stories ever so old, and I shall laugh; they may commit murder, and I shall believe it was justifiable42 homicide. There is my friend Baggs, who goes about abusing me, and of course our dear mutual43 friends tell me. Abuse away, mon bon! You were so kind to me when I wanted kindness, that you may take the change out of that gold now, and say I am a cannibal and negro, if you will. Ha, Baggs! Dost thou wince44 as thou readest this line? Does guilty conscience throbbing45 at thy breast tell thee of whom the fable47 is narrated48? Puff49 out thy wrath50, and, when it has ceased to blow, my Baggs shall be to me as the Baggs of old — the generous, the gentle, the friendly.
No, on second thoughts, I am determined51 I will not repeat that joke which I heard Hood make. He says he wrote these jokes with such ease that he sent manuscripts to the publishers faster than they could acknowledge the receipt thereof. I won’t say that they were all good jokes, or that to read a great book full of them is a work at present altogether jocular. Writing to a friend respecting some memoir52 of him which had been published, Hood says, “You will judge how well the author knows me, when he says my mind is rather serious than comic.” At the time when he wrote these words, he evidently undervalued his own serious power, and thought that in punning and broad-grinning lay his chief strength. Is not there something touching53 in that simplicity54 and humility55 of faith? “To make laugh is my calling,” says he; “I must jump, I must grin, I must tumble, I must turn language head over heels, and leap through grammar;” and he goes to his work humbly56 and courageously57, and what he has to do that does he with all his might, through sickness, through sorrow, through exile, poverty, fever, depression — there he is, always ready to his work, and with a jewel of genius in his pocket! Why, when he laid down his puns and pranks58, put the motley off, and spoke59 out of his heart, all England and America listened with tears and wonder! Other men have delusions60 of conceit61, and fancy themselves greater than they are, and that the world slights them. Have we not heard how Liston always thought he ought to play Hamlet? Here is a man with a power to touch the heart almost unequalled, and he passes days and years in writing, “Young Ben he was a nice young man,” and so forth. To say truth, I have been reading in a book of “Hood’s Own” until I am perfectly angry. “You great man, you good man, you true genius and poet,” I cry out, as I turn page after page. “Do, do, make no more of these jokes, but be yourself, and take your station.”
When Hood was on his death-bed, Sir Robert Peel, who only knew of his illness, not of his imminent62 danger, wrote to him a noble and touching letter, announcing that a pension was conferred on him:
“I am more than repaid,” writes Peel, “by the personal satisfaction which I have had in doing that for which you return me warm and characteristic acknowledgments.
“You perhaps think that you are known to one with such multifarious occupations as myself, merely by general reputation as an author; but I assure you that there can be little, which you have written and acknowledged, which I have not read; and that there are few who can appreciate and admire more than myself, the good sense and good feeling which have taught you to infuse so much fun and merriment into writings correcting folly63 and exposing absurdities64, and yet never trespassing65 beyond those limits within which wit and facetiousness66 are not very often confined. You may write on with the consciousness of independence, as free and unfettered, as if no communication had ever passed between us. I am not conferring a private obligation upon you, but am fulfilling the intentions of the legislature, which has placed at the disposal of the Crown a certain sum (miserable, indeed, in amount) to be applied67 to the recognition of public claims on the bounty68 of the Crown. If you will review the names of those whose claims have been admitted on account of their literary or scientific eminence69, you will find an ample confirmation70 of the truth of my statement.
“One return, indeed, I shall ask of you — that you will give me the opportunity of making your personal acquaintance.”
And Hood, writing to a friend, enclosing a copy of Peel’s letter, says, “Sir R. Peel came from Burleigh on Tuesday night, and went down to Brighton on Saturday. If he had written by post, I should not have it till today. So he sent his servant with the enclosed on SATURDAY NIGHT; another mark of considerate attention.” He is frightfully unwell, he continues: his wife says he looks QUITE GREEN; but ill as he is, poor fellow, “his well is not dry. He has pumped out a sheet of Christmas fun, is drawing some cuts, and shall write a sheet more of his novel.”
Oh, sad, marvellous picture of courage, of honesty, of patient endurance, of duty struggling against pain! How noble Peel’s figure is standing72 by that sick-bed! how generous his words, how dignified73 and sincere his compassion74! And the poor dying man, with a heart full of natural gratitude75 towards his noble benefactor76, must turn to him and say —“If it be well to be remembered by a Minister, it is better still not to be forgotten by him in a ‘hurly Burleigh!’” Can you laugh? Is not the joke horribly pathetic from the poor dying lips? As dying Robin77 Hood must fire a last shot with his bow — as one reads of Catholics on their death-beds putting on a Capuchin dress to go out of the world — here is poor Hood at his last hour putting on his ghastly motley, and uttering one joke more.
He dies, however, in dearest love and peace with his children, wife, friends; to the former especially his whole life had been devoted78, and every day showed his fidelity79, simplicity, and affection. In going through the record of his most pure, modest, honorable life, and living along with him, you come to trust him thoroughly80, and feel that here is a most loyal, affectionate, and upright soul, with whom you have been brought into communion. Can we say as much of the lives of all men of letters? Here is one at least without guile81, without pretension82, without scheming, of a pure life, to his family and little modest circle of friends tenderly devoted.
And what a hard work, and what a slender reward! In the little domestic details with which the book abounds83, what a simple life is shown to us! The most simple little pleasures and amusements delight and occupy him. You have revels84 on shrimps85; the good wife making the pie; details about the maid, and criticisms on her conduct; wonderful tricks played with the plum-pudding — all the pleasures centring round the little humble86 home. One of the first men of his time, he is appointed editor of a Magazine at a salary of 300L. per annum, signs himself exultingly87 “Ed. N. M. M.,” and the family rejoice over the income as over a fortune. He goes to a Greenwich dinner — what a feast and a rejoicing afterwards! —
“Well, we drank ‘the Boz’ with a delectable88 clatter89, which drew from him a good warm-hearted speech. . . . He looked very well, and had a younger brother along with him. . . . Then we had songs. Barham chanted a Robin Hood ballad90, and Cruikshank sang a burlesque91 ballad of Lord H——; and somebody, unknown to me, gave a capital imitation of a French showman. Then we toasted Mrs. Boz, and the Chairman, and Vice92, and the Traditional Priest sang the ‘Deep deep sea,’ in his deep deep voice; and then we drank to Procter, who wrote the said song; also Sir J. Wilson’s good health, and Cruikshank’s, and Ainsworth’s: and a Manchester friend of the latter sang a Manchester ditty, so full of trading stuff, that it really seemed to have been not composed, but manufactured. Jerdan, as Jerdanish as usual on such occasions — you know how paradoxically he is QUITE AT HOME in DINING OUT. As to myself, I had to make my SECOND MAIDEN93 SPEECH, for Mr. Monckton Milnes proposed my health in terms my modesty94 might allow me to repeat to YOU, but my memory won’t. However, I ascribed the toast to my notoriously bad health, and assured them that their wishes had already improved it — that I felt a brisker circulation — a more genial95 warmth about the heart, and explained that a certain trembling of my hand was not from palsy, or my old ague, but an inclination96 in my hand to shake itself with every one present. Whereupon I had to go through the friendly ceremony with as many of the company as were within reach, besides a few more who came express from the other end of the table. VERY gratifying, wasn’t it? Though I cannot go quite so far as Jane, who wants me to have that hand chopped off, bottled, and preserved in spirits. She was sitting up for me, very anxiously, as usual when I go out, because I am so domestic and steady, and was down at the door before I could ring at the gate, to which Boz kindly sent me in his own carriage. Poor girl! what WOULD she do if she had a wild husband instead of a tame one?”
And the poor anxious wife is sitting up, and fondles the hand which has been shaken by so many illustrious men! The little feast dates back only eighteen years, and yet somehow it seems as distant as a dinner at Mr. Thrale’s, or a meeting at Will’s.
Poor little gleam of sunshine! very little good cheer enlivens that sad simple life. We have the triumph of the Magazine: then a new Magazine projected and produced: then illness and the last scene, and the kind Peel by the dying man’s bedside speaking noble words of respect and sympathy, and soothing97 the last throbs98 of the tender honest heart.
I like, I say, Hood’s life even better than his books, and I wish, with all my heart, Monsieur et cher confrere, the same could be said for both of us, when the inkstream of our life hath ceased to run. Yes: if I drop first, dear Baggs, I trust you may find reason to modify some of the unfavorable views of my character, which you are freely imparting to our mutual friends. What ought to be the literary man’s point of honor now-a-days? Suppose, friendly reader, you are one of the craft, what legacy99 would you like to leave to your children? First of all (and by heaven’s gracious help) you would pray and strive to give them such an endowment of love, as should last certainly for all their lives, and perhaps be transmitted to their children. You would (by the same aid and blessing) keep your honor pure, and transmit a name unstained to those who have a right to bear it. You would — though this faculty100 of giving is one of the easiest of the literary man’s qualities — you would, out of your earnings101, small or great, be able to help a poor brother in need, to dress his wounds, and, if it were but twopence, to give him succor102. Is the money which the noble Macaulay gave to the poor lost to his family? God forbid. To the loving hearts of his kindred is it not rather the most precious part of their inheritance? It was invested in love and righteous doing, and it bears interest in heaven. You will, if letters be your vocation103, find saving harder than giving and spending. To save be your endeavor, too, against the night’s coming when no man may work; when the arm is weary with the long day’s labor104; when the brain perhaps grows dark; when the old, who can labor no more, want warmth and rest, and the young ones call for supper.
I copied the little galley105-slave who is made to figure in the initial letter of this paper, from a quaint71 old silver spoon which we purchased in a curiosity-shop at the Hague.12 It is one of the gift spoons so common in Holland, and which have multiplied so astonishingly of late years at our dealers’ in old silverware. Along the stem of the spoon are written the words: “Anno 1609, Bin46 ick aldus ghekledt gheghaen”—“In the year 1609 I went thus clad.” The good Dutchman was released from his Algerine captivity106 (I imagine his figure looks like that of a slave amongst the Moors107), and in his thank-offering to some godchild at home, he thus piously108 records his escape.
12 This refers to an illustrated109 edition of the work.
Was not poor Cervantes also a captive amongst the Moors? Did not Fielding, and Goldsmith, and Smollett, too, die at the chain as well as poor Hood? Think of Fielding going on board his wretched ship in the Thames, with scarce a hand to bid him farewell; of brave Tobias Smollett, and his life, how hard, and how poorly rewarded; of Goldsmith, and the physician whispering, “Have you something on your mind?” and the wild dying eyes answering, “Yes.” Notice how Boswell speaks of Goldsmith, and the splendid contempt with which he regards him. Read Hawkins on Fielding, and the scorn with which Dandy Walpole and Bishop111 Hurd speak of him. Galley-slaves doomed112 to tug113 the oar110 and wear the chain, whilst my lords and dandies take their pleasure, and hear fine music and disport114 with fine ladies in the cabin!
But stay. Was there any cause for this scorn? Had some of these great men weaknesses which gave inferiors advantage over them? Men of letters cannot lay their hands on their hearts, and say, “No, the fault was fortune’s, and the indifferent world’s, not Goldsmith’s nor Fielding’s.” There was no reason why Oliver should always be thriftless; why Fielding and Steele should sponge upon their friends; why Sterne should make love to his neighbors’ wives. Swift, for a long time, was as poor as any wag that ever laughed: but he owed no penny to his neighbors: Addison, when he wore his most threadbare coat, could hold his head up, and maintain his dignity: and, I dare vouch115, neither of those gentlemen, when they were ever so poor, asked any man alive to pity their condition, and have a regard to the weaknesses incidental to the literary profession. Galley-slave, forsooth! If you are sent to prison for some error for which the law awards that sort of laborious116 seclusion117, so much the more shame for you. If you are chained to the oar a prisoner of war, like Cervantes, you have the pain, but not the shame, and the friendly compassion of mankind to reward you. Galley-slaves, indeed! What man has not his oar to pull? There is that wonderful old stroke-oar in the Queen’s galley. How many years has he pulled? Day and night, in rough water or smooth, with what invincible118 vigor119 and surprising gayety he plies120 his arms. There is in the same Galere Capitaine, that well-known, trim figure, the bow-oar; how he tugs121, and with what a will! How both of them have been abused in their time! Take the Lawyer’s galley, and that dauntless octogenarian in command; when has HE ever complained or repined about his slavery? There is the Priest’s galley — black and lawn sails — do any mariners122 out of Thames work harder? When lawyer, and statesman, and divine, and writer are snug123 in bed, there is a ring at the poor Doctor’s bell. Forth he must go, in rheumatism124 or snow; a galley-slave bearing his galley-pots to quench125 the flames of fever, to succor mothers and young children in their hour of peril126, and, as gently and soothingly127 as may be, to carry the hopeless patient over to the silent shore. And have we not just read of the actions of the Queen’s galleys128 and their brave crews in the Chinese waters? Men not more worthy129 of human renown130 and honor today in their victory, than last year in their glorious hour of disaster. So with stout131 hearts may we ply132 the oar, messmates all, till the voyage is over, and the Harbor of Rest is found.
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquence
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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accustoms
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| v.（使）习惯于( accustom的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vaccinated
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| [医]已接种的，种痘的，接种过疫菌的 | |
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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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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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asterisks
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| n.星号，星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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42
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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43
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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44
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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45
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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46
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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47
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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48
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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50
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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53
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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54
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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55
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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56
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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57
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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58
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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59
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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60
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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61
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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62
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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63
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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65
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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66
facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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67
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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68
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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69
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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70
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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71
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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72
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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73
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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74
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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75
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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76
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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77
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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78
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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79
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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80
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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81
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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82
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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83
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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85
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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86
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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87
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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88
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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89
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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90
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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91
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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93
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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96
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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97
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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98
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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99
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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100
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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101
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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102
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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103
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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104
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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105
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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106
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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107
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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109
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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110
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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111
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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112
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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113
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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114
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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115
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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116
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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117
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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118
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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119
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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120
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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121
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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123
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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124
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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125
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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126
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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127
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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128
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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129
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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130
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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132
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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