And is it not with writers as with raconteurs22? Ought they not to have their ingenuous23 modesty24? May authors tell old stories, and how many times over? When I come to look at a place which I have visited any time these twenty or thirty years, I recall not the place merely, but the sensations I had at first seeing it, and which are quite different to my feelings today. That first day at Calais; the voices of the women crying out at night, as the vessel25 came alongside the pier26; the supper at Quillacq’s and the flavor of the cutlets and wine; the red-calico canopy27 under which I slept; the tiled floor, and the fresh smell of the sheets; the wonderful postilion in his jack-boots and pigtail; — all return with perfect clearness to my mind, and I am seeing them, and not the objects which are actually under my eyes. Here is Calais. Yonder is that commissioner28 I have known this score of years. Here are the women screaming and hustling29 over the baggage; the people at the passport-barrier who take your papers. My good people, I hardly see you. You no more interest me than a dozen orange-women in Covent-Garden, or a shop book-keeper in Oxford30 Street. But you make me think of a time when you were indeed wonderful to behold31 — when the little French soldiers wore white cockades in their shakos — when the diligence was forty hours going to Paris; and the great-booted postilion, as surveyed by youthful eyes from the coupe, with his jurons, his ends of rope for the harness, and his clubbed pigtail, was a wonderful being, and productive of endless amusement. You young folks don’t remember the apple-girls who used to follow the diligence up the hill beyond Boulogne, and the delights of the jolly road? In making continental32 journeys with young folks, an oldster may be very quiet, and, to outward appearance, melancholy33; but really he has gone back to the days of his youth, and he is seventeen or eighteen years of age (as the case may be), and is amusing himself with all his might. He is noting the horses as they come squealing34 out of the post-house yard at midnight; he is enjoying the delicious meals at Beauvais and Amiens, and quaffing35 ad libitum the rich table-d’hote wine; he is hail-fellow with the conductor, and alive to all the incidents of the road. A man can be alive in 1860 and 1830 at the same time, don’t you see? Bodily, I may be in 1860, inert36, silent, torpid37; but in the spirit I am walking about in 1828, let us say; —— in a blue dress-coat and brass38 buttons, a sweet figured silk waistcoat (which I button round a slim waist with perfect ease), looking at beautiful beings with gigot sleeves and tea-tray hats under the golden chestnuts39 of the Tuileries, or round the Place Vendome, where the drapeau blanc is floating from the statueless column. Shall we go and dine at “Bombarda’s,” near the “Hotel Breteuil,” or at the “Cafe Virginie?”— Away! “Bombarda’s” and the “Hotel Breteuil” have been pulled down ever so long. They knocked down the poor old Virginia Coffee-house last year. My spirit goes and dines there. My body, perhaps, is seated with ever so many people in a railway-carriage, and no wonder my companions find me dull and silent. Have you read Mr. Dale Owen’s “Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World?”—(My dear sir, it will make your hair stand quite refreshingly41 on end.) In that work you will read that when gentlemen’s or ladies’ spirits travel off a few score or thousand miles to visit a friend, their bodies lie quiet and in a torpid state in their beds or in their arm-chairs at home. So in this way, I am absent. My soul whisks away thirty years back into the past. I am looking out anxiously for a beard. I am getting past the age of loving Byron’s poems, and pretend that I like Wordsworth and Shelley much better. Nothing I eat or drink (in reason) disagrees with me; and I know whom I think to be the most lovely creature in the world. Ah, dear maid (of that remote but well-remembered period), are you a wife or widow now? — are you dead? — are you thin and withered42 and old? — or are you grown much stouter43, with a false front? and so forth44.
O Eliza, Eliza! — Stay, WAS she Eliza? Well, I protest I have forgotten what your Christian45 name was. You know I only met you for two days, but your sweet face is before me now, and the roses blooming on it are as fresh as in that time of May. Ah, dear Miss X— — my timid youth and ingenuous modesty would never have allowed me, even in my private thoughts, to address you otherwise than by your paternal46 name, but THAT (though I conceal47 it) I remember perfectly48 well, and that your dear and respected father was a brewer49.
CARILLON. — I was awakened50 this morning with the chime which Antwerp cathedral clock plays at half-hours. The tune51 has been haunting me ever since, as tunes52 will. You dress, eat, drink, walk and talk to yourself to their tune: their inaudible jingle53 accompanies you all day: you read the sentences of the paper to their rhythm. I tried uncouthly54 to imitate the tune to the ladies of the family at breakfast, and they say it is “the shadow dance of Dinorah.” It may be so. I dimly remember that my body was once present during the performance of that opera, whilst my eyes were closed, and my intellectual faculties55 dormant56 at the back of the box; howbeit, I have learned that shadow dance from hearing it pealing58 up ever so high in the air, at night, morn, noon.
How pleasant to lie awake and listen to the cheery peal57! whilst the old city is asleep at midnight, or waking up rosy59 at sunrise, or basking60 in noon, or swept by the scudding61 rain which drives in gusts62 over the broad places, and the great shining river; or sparkling in snow which dresses up a hundred thousand masts, peaks, and towers; or wrapped round with thunder-cloud canopies63, before, which the white gables shine whiter; day and night the kind little carillon plays its fantastic melodies overhead. The bells go on ringing. Quot vivos vocant, mortuos plangunt, fulgara frangunt; so on to the past and future tenses, and for how many nights, days, and years! Whilst the French were pitching their fulgara into Chasse’s citadel64, the bells went on ringing quite cheerfully. Whilst the scaffolds were up and guarded by Alva’s soldiery, and regiments65 of penitents67, blue, black, and gray, poured out of churches and convents, droning their dirges68, and marching to the place of the Hotel de Ville, where heretics and rebels were to meet their doom69, the bells up yonder were chanting at their appointed half-hours and quarters, and rang the mauvais quart d’heure for many a poor soul. This bell can see as far away as the towers and dykes70 of Rotterdam. That one can call a greeting to St. Ursula’s at Brussels, and toss a recognition to that one at the town-hall of Oudenarde, and remember how after a great struggle there a hundred and fifty years ago the whole plain was covered with the flying French cavalry71 — Burgundy, and Bern, and the Chevalier of St. George flying like the rest. “What is your clamor about Oudenarde?” says another bell (Bob Major THIS one must be). “Be still, thou querulous old clapper! I can see over to Hougoumont and St. John. And about forty-five years since, I rang all through one Sunday in June, when there was such a battle going on in the corn-fields there, as none of you others ever heard tolled72 of. Yes, from morning service until after vespers, the French and English were all at it, ding-dong.” And then calls of business intervening, the bells have to give up their private jangle, resume their professional duty, and sing their hourly chorus out of Dinorah.
What a prodigious73 distance those bells can be heard! I was awakened this morning to their tune, I say. I have been hearing it constantly ever since. And this house whence I write, Murray says, is two hundred and ten miles from Antwerp. And it is a week off; and there is the bell still jangling its shadow dance out of Dinorah. An audible shadow you understand, and an invisible sound, but quite distinct; and a plague take the tune!
UNDER THE BELLS. — Who has not seen the church under the bells? Those lofty aisles75, those twilight76 chapels77, that cumbersome78 pulpit with its huge carvings79, that wide gray pavement flecked with various light from the jewelled windows, those famous pictures between the voluminous columns over the altars, which twinkle with their ornaments81, their votive little silver hearts, legs, limbs, their little guttering82 tapers83, cups of sham84 roses, and what not? I saw two regiments of little scholars creeping in and forming square, each in its appointed place, under the vast roof; and teachers presently coming to them. A stream of light from the jewelled windows beams slanting85 down upon each little squad86 of children, and the tall background of the church retires into a grayer gloom. Pattering little feet of laggards87 arriving echo through the great nave88. They trot89 in and join their regiments, gathered under the slanting sunbeams. What are they learning? Is it truth? Those two gray ladies with their books in their hands in the midst of these little people have no doubt of the truth of every word they have printed under their eyes. Look, through the windows jewelled all over with saints, the light comes streaming down from the sky, and heaven’s own illuminations paint the book! A sweet, touching90 picture indeed it is, that of the little children assembled in this immense temple, which has endured for ages, and grave teachers bending over them. Yes, the picture is very pretty of the children and their teachers, and their book — but the text? Is it the truth, the only truth, nothing but the truth? If I thought so, I would go and sit down on the form cum parvulis, and learn the precious lesson with all my heart.
BEADLE. — But I submit, an obstacle to conversions91 is the intrusion and impertinence of that Swiss fellow with the baldric — the officer who answers to the beadle of the British Islands, and is pacing about the church with an eye on the congregation. Now the boast of Catholics is that their churches are open to all; but in certain places and churches there are exceptions. At Rome I have been into St. Peter’s at all hours: the doors are always open, the lamps are always burning, the faithful are for ever kneeling at one shrine92 or the other. But at Antwerp not so. In the afternoon you can go to the church, and be civilly treated; but you must pay a franc at the side gate. In the forenoon the doors are open, to be sure, and there is no one to levy93 an entrance fee. I was standing94 ever so still, looking through the great gates of the choir95 at the twinkling lights, and listening to the distant chants of the priests performing the service, when a sweet chorus from the organ-loft broke out behind me overhead, and I turned round. My friend the drum-major ecclesiastic96 was down upon me in a moment. “Do not turn your back to the altar during divine service,” says he, in very intelligible97 English. I take the rebuke98, and turn a soft right-about face, and listen awhile as the service continues. See it I cannot, nor the altar and its ministrants. We are separated from these by a great screen and closed gates of iron, through which the lamps glitter and the chant comes by gusts only. Seeing a score of children trotting99 down a side aisle74, I think I may follow them. I am tired of looking at that hideous100 old pulpit with its grotesque101 monsters and decorations. I slip off to the side aisle; but my friend the drum-major is instantly after me — almost I thought he was going to lay hands on me. “You mustn’t go there,” says he; “you mustn’t disturb the service.” I was moving as quietly as might be, and ten paces off there were twenty children kicking and clattering103 at their ease. I point them out to the Swiss. “They come to pray,” says he. “YOU don’t come to pray, you —” “When I come to pay,” says I, “I am welcome,” and with this withering104 sarcasm105, I walk out of church in a huff. I don’t envy the feelings of that beadle after receiving point blank such a stroke of wit.
LEO BELGICUS. — Perhaps you will say after this I am a prejudiced critic. I see the pictures in the cathedral fuming106 under the rudeness of that beadle, or at the lawful107 hours and prices, pestered108 by a swarm109 of shabby touters, who come behind me chattering110 in bad English, and who would have me see the sights through their mean, greedy eyes. Better see Rubens any where than in a church. At the Academy, for example, where you may study him at your leisure. But at church? — I would as soon ask Alexandre Dumas for a sermon. Either would paint you a martyrdom very fiercely and picturesquely113 — writhing114 muscles, flaming coals, scowling115 captains and executioners, swarming116 groups, and light, shade, color most dexterously117 brilliant or dark; but in Rubens I am admiring the performer rather than the piece. With what astonishing rapidity he travels over his canvas; how tellingly the cool lights and warm shadows are made to contrast and relieve each other; how that blazing, blowsy penitent66 in yellow satin and glittering hair carries down the stream of light across the picture! This is the way to work, my boys, and earn a hundred florins a day. See! I am as sure of my line as a skater of making his figure of eight! and down with a sweep goes a brawny118 arm or a flowing curl of drapery. The figures arrange themselves as if by magic. The paint-pots are exhausted119 in furnishing brown shadows. The pupils look wondering on, as the master careers over the canvas. Isabel or Helena, wife No. 1 or No. 2, are sitting by, buxom120, exuberant121, ready to be painted; and the children are boxing in the corner, waiting till they are wanted to figure as cherubs122 in the picture. Grave burghers and gentlefolks come in on a visit. There are oysters123 and Rhenish always ready on yonder table. Was there ever such a painter? He has been an ambassador, an actual Excellency, and what better man could be chosen? He speaks all the languages. He earns a hundred florins a day. Prodigious! Thirty-six thousand five hundred florins a year. Enormous! He rides out to his castle with a score of gentlemen after him, like the Governor. That is his own portrait as St. George. You know he is an English knight124? Those are his two wives as the two Maries. He chooses the handsomest wives. He rides the handsomest horses. He paints the handsomest pictures. He gets the handsomest prices for them. That slim young Van Dyck, who was his pupil, has genius too, and is painting all the noble ladies in England, and turning the heads of some of them. And Jordaens — what a droll125 dog and clever fellow! Have you seen his fat Silenus? The master himself could not paint better. And his altar-piece at St. Bavon’s? He can paint you anything, that Jordaens can — a drunken jollification of boors126 and doxies, or a martyr111 howling with half his skin off. What a knowledge of anatomy127! But there is nothing like the master — nothing. He can paint you his thirty-six thousand five hundred florins’ worth a year. Have you heard of what he has done for the French Court? Prodigious! I can’t look at Rubens’s pictures without fancying I see that handsome figure swaggering before the canvas. And Hans Hemmelinck at Bruges? Have you never seen that dear old hospital of St. John, on passing the gate of which you enter into the fifteenth century? I see the wounded soldier still lingering in the house, and tended by the kind gray sisters. His little panel on its easel is placed at the light. He covers his board with the most wondrous128, beautiful little figures, in robes as bright as rubies129 and amethysts130. I think he must have a magic glass, in which he catches the reflection of little cherubs with many-colored wings, very little and bright. Angels, in long crisp robes of white, surrounded with halos of gold, come and flutter across the mirror, and he draws them. He hears mass every day. He fasts through Lent. No monk131 is more austere132 and holy than Hans. Which do you love best to behold, the lamb or the lion? the eagle rushing through the storm, and pouncing133 mayhap on carrion134; or the linnet warbling on the spray?
By much the most delightful135 of the Christopher set of Rubens to my mind (and ego136 is introduced on these occasions, so that the opinion may pass only for my own, at the reader’s humble137 service to be received or declined,) is the “Presentation in the Temple:” splendid in color, in sentiment sweet and tender, finely conveying the story. To be sure, all the others tell their tale unmistakably — witness that coarse “Salutation,” that magnificent “Adoration of the Kings” (at the Museum), by the same strong downright hands; that wonderful “Communion of St. Francis,” which, I think, gives the key to the artist’s faire better than any of his performances. I have passed hours before that picture in my time, trying and sometimes fancying I could understand by what masses and contrasts the artist arrived at his effect. In many others of the pictures parts of his method are painfully obvious, and you see how grief and agony are produced by blue lips, and eyes rolling blood shot with dabs138 of vermilion. There is something simple in the practice. Contort the eyebrow140 sufficiently141, and place the eyeball near it — by a few lines you have anger or fierceness depicted142. Give me a mouth with no special expression, and pop a dab139 of carmine143 at each extremity144 — and there are the lips smiling. This is art if you will, but a very naive145 kind of art: and now you know the trick, don’t you see how easy it is?
TU QUOQUE. — Now you know the trick, suppose you take a canvas and see whether YOU can do it? There are brushes, palettes, and gallipots full of paint and varnish146. Have you tried, my dear sir — you who set up to be a connoisseur147? Have you tried? I have — and many a day. And the end of the day’s labor148? O dismal149 conclusion! Is this puerile150 niggling, this feeble scrawl151, this impotent rubbish, all you can produce — you, who but now found Rubens commonplace and vulgar, and were pointing out the tricks of his mystery? Pardon, O great chief, magnificent master and poet! You can DO. We critics, who sneer152 and are wise, can but pry153, and measure, and doubt, and carp. Look at the lion. Did you ever see such a gross, shaggy, mangy, roaring brute154? Look at him eating lumps of raw meat — positively155 bleeding, and raw and tough — till, faugh! it turns one’s stomach to see him — O the coarse wretch156! Yes, but he is a lion. Rubens has lifted his great hand, and the mark he has made has endured for two centuries, and we still continue wondering at him, and admiring him. What a strength in that arm! What splendor157 of will hidden behind that tawny158 beard, and those honest eyes! Sharpen your pen, my good critic, shoot a feather into him; hit him, and make him wince159. Yes, you may hit him fair, and make him bleed, too; but, for all that, he is a lion — a mighty160, conquering, generous, rampageous Leo Belgicus — monarch161 of his wood. And he is not dead yet, and I will not kick at him.
SIR ANTONY. — In that “Pieta” of Van Dyck, in the Museum, have you ever looked at the yellow-robed angel, with the black scarf thrown over her wings and robe? What a charming figure of grief and beauty! What a pretty compassion162 it inspires! It soothes163 and pleases me like a sweet rhythmic164 chant. See how delicately the yellow robe contrasts with the blue sky behind, and the scarf binds165 the two! If Rubens lacked grace, Van Dyck abounded166 in it. What a consummate167 elegance168! What a perfect cavalier! No wonder the fine ladies in England admired Sir Antony. Look at —
Here the clock strikes three, and the three gendarmes169 who keep the Musee cry out, “Allons! Sortons! Il est trois heures! Allez! Sortez!” and they skip out of the gallery as happy as boys running from school. And we must go too, for though many stay behind — many Britons with Murray’s Handbooks in their handsome hands — they have paid a franc for entrance-fee, you see; and we knew nothing about the franc for entrance until those gendarmes with sheathed170 sabres had driven us out of this Paradise.
But it was good to go and drive on the great quays171, and see the ships unlading, and by the citadel, and wonder howabouts and whereabouts it was so strong. We expect a citadel to look like Gibraltar or Ehrenbreitstein at least. But in this one there is nothing to see but a flat plain and some ditches, and some trees, and mounds173 of uninteresting green. And then I remember how there was a boy at school, a little dumpy fellow of no personal appearance whatever, who couldn’t be overcome except by a much bigger champion, and the immensest quantity of thrashing. A perfect citadel of a boy, with a General Chasse sitting in that bomb-proof casemate, his heart, letting blow after blow come thumping174 about his head, and never thinking of giving in.
And we go home, and we dine in the company of Britons, at the comfortable Hotel du Parc, and we have bought a novel apiece for a shilling, and every half-hour the sweet carillon plays the waltz from Dinorah in the air. And we have been happy; and it seems about a month since we left London yesterday; and nobody knows where we are, and we defy care and the postman.
SPOORWEG. — Vast green flats, speckled by spotted175 cows, and bound by a gray frontier of windmills; shining canals stretching through the green; odors like those exhaled176 from the Thames in the dog-days, and a fine pervading177 smell of cheese; little trim houses, with tall roofs, and great windows of many panes178; gazebos, or summer-houses, hanging over pea-green canals; kind-looking, dumpling-faced farmers’ women, with laced caps and golden frontlets and earrings179; about the houses and towns which we pass a great air of comfort and neatness; a queer feeling of wonder that you can’t understand what your fellow-passengers are saying, the tone of whose voices, and a certain comfortable dowdiness180 of dress, are so like our own; — whilst we are remarking on these sights, sounds, smells, the little railway journey from Rotterdam to the Hague comes to an end. I speak to the railway porters and hackney coachmen in English, and they reply in their own language, and it seems somehow as if we understood each other perfectly. The carriage drives to the handsome, comfortable, cheerful hotel. We sit down a score at the table; and there is one foreigner and his wife — I mean every other man and woman at dinner are English. As we are close to the sea, and in the midst of endless canals, we have no fish. We are reminded of dear England by the noble prices which we pay for wines. I confess I lost my temper yesterday at Rotterdam, where I had to pay a florin for a bottle of ale (the water not being drinkable, and country or Bavarian beer not being genteel enough for the hotel); — I confess, I say, that my fine temper was ruffled181, when the bottle of pale ale turned out to be a pint182 bottle; and I meekly183 told the waiter that I had bought beer at Jerusalem at a less price. But then Rotterdam is eighteen hours from London, and the steamer with the passengers and beer comes up to the hotel windows; whilst to Jerusalem they have to carry the ale on camels’ backs from Beyrout or Jaffa, and through hordes184 of marauding Arabs, who evidently don’t care for pale ale, though I am told it is not forbidden in the Koran. Mine would have been very good, but I choked with rage whilst drinking it. A florin for a bottle, and that bottle having the words “imperial pint,” in bold relief, on the surface! It was too much. I intended not to say anything about it; but I MUST speak. A florin a bottle, and that bottle a pint! Oh, for shame! for shame! I can’t cork185 down my indignation; I froth up with fury; I am pale with wrath186, and bitter with scorn.
As we drove through the old city at night, how it swarmed187 and hummed with life! What a special clatter102, crowd, and outcry there was in the Jewish quarter, where myriads188 of young ones were trotting about the fishy189 street! Why don’t they have lamps? We passed by canals seeming so full that a pailful of water more would overflow190 the place. The laquais-de-place calls out the names of the buildings: the town-hall, the cathedral, the arsenal191, the synagogue, the statue of Erasmus. Get along! WE know the statue of Erasmus well enough. We pass over drawbridges by canals where thousands of barges192 are at roost. At roost — at rest! Shall WE have rest in those bedrooms, those ancient lofty bedrooms, in that inn where we have to pay a florin for a pint of pa — psha! at the “New Bath Hotel” on the Boompjes? If this dreary194 edifice195 is the “New Bath,” what must the Old Bath be like? As I feared to go to bed, I sat in the coffee-room as long as I might; but three young men were imparting their private adventures to each other with such freedom and liveliness that I felt I ought not to listen to their artless prattle196. As I put the light out, and felt the bedclothes and darkness overwhelm me, it was with an awful sense of terror — that sort of sensation which I should think going down in a diving-bell would give. Suppose the apparatus197 goes wrong, and they don’t understand your signal to mount? Suppose your matches miss fire when you wake; when you WANT them, when you will have to rise in half an hour, and do battle with the horrid198 enemy who crawls on you in the darkness? I protest I never was more surprised than when I woke and beheld199 the light of dawn. Indian birds and strange trees were visible on the ancient gilt200 hangings of the lofty chamber201, and through the windows the Boompjes and the ships along the quay172. We have all read of deserters being brought out, and made to kneel, with their eyes bandaged, and hearing the word to “Fire” given I declare I underwent all the terrors of execution that night, and wonder how I ever escaped unwounded.
But if ever I go to the “Bath Hotel,” Rotterdam, again, I am a Dutchman. A guilder for a bottle of pale ale, and that bottle a pint! Ah! for shame — for shame!
MINE EASE IN MINE INN. — Do you object to talk about inns? It always seems to me to be very good talk. Walter Scott is full of inns. In “Don Quixote” and “Gil Blas” there is plenty of inn-talk. Sterne, Fielding, and Smollett constantly speak about them; and, in their travels, the last two tot up the bill, and describe the dinner quite honestly; whilst Mr. Sterne becomes sentimental202 over a cab, and weeps generous tears over a donkey.
How I admire and wonder at the information in Murray’s Handbooks — wonder how it is got, and admire the travellers who get it. For instance, you read: Amiens (please select your towns), 60,000 inhabitants. Hotels, &c. —“Lion d’Or,” good and clean. “Le Lion d’Argent,” so so. “Le Lion Noir,” bad, dirty, and dear. Now say, there are three travellers — three inn-inspectors, who are sent forth by Mr. Murray on a great commission, and who stop at every inn in the world. The eldest203 goes to the “Lion d’Or”— capital house, good table-d’hote, excellent wine, moderate charges. The second commissioner tries the “Silver Lion”— tolerable house, bed, dinner, bill and so forth. But fancy Commissioner No. 3 — the poor fag, doubtless, and boots of the party. He has to go to the “Lion Noir.” He knows he is to have a bad dinner — he eats it uncomplainingly. He is to have bad wine. He swallows it, grinding his wretched teeth, and aware that he will he unwell in consequence. He knows he is to have a dirty bed, and what he is to expect there. He pops out the candle. He sinks into those dingy204 sheets. He delivers over his body to the nightly tormentors, he pays an exorbitant205 bill, and he writes down, “Lion Noir, bad, dirty, dear.” Next day the commission sets out for Arras, we will say, and they begin again: “Le Cochon d’Or,” “Le Cochon d’Argent,” “Le Cochon Noir”— and that is poor Boots’s inn, of course. What a life that poor man must lead! What horrors of dinners he has to go through! What a hide he must have! And yet not impervious206; for unless he is bitten, how is he to be able to warn others? No: on second thoughts, you will perceive that he ought to have a very delicate skin. The monsters ought to troop to him eagerly, and bite him instantaneously and freely, so that he may be able to warn all future handbook buyers of their danger. I fancy this man devoting himself to danger, to dirt, to bad dinners, to sour wine, to damp beds, to midnight agonies, to extortionate bills. I admire him, I thank him. Think of this champion, who devotes his body for us — this dauntless gladiator going to do battle alone in the darkness, with no other armor than a light helmet of cotton, and a lorica of calico. I pity and honor him. Go, Spartacus! Go, devoted207 man — to bleed, to groan208, to suffer — and smile in silence as the wild beasts assail209 thee!
How did I come into this talk? I protest it was the word inn set me off — and here is one, the “Hotel de Belle210 Vue,” at the Hague, as comfortable, as handsome, as cheerful as any I ever took mine ease in. And the Bavarian beer, my dear friend, how good and brisk and light it is! Take another glass — it refreshes and does not stupefy — and then we will sally out, and see the town and the park and the pictures.
The prettiest little brick city, the pleasantest little park to ride in, the neatest comfortable people walking about, the canals not unsweet, and busy and picturesque112 with old-world life. Rows upon rows of houses, built with the neatest little bricks, with windows fresh painted, and tall doors polished, and carved to a nicety. What a pleasant spacious211 garden our inn has, all sparkling with autumn flowers and bedizened with statues! At the end is a row of trees, and a summer-house, over the canal, where you might go and smoke a pipe with Mynheer Van Dunck, and quite cheerfully catch the ague. Yesterday, as we passed, they were making hay, and stacking it in a barge193 which was lying by the meadow, handy. Round about Kensington Palace there are houses, roofs, chimneys, and bricks like these. I feel that a Dutchman is a man and a brother. It is very funny to read the newspaper, one can understand it somehow. Sure it is the neatest, gayest little city — scores and hundreds of mansions212 looking like Cheyne Walk, or the ladies’ schools about Chiswick and Hackney.
LE GROS LOT. — To a few lucky men the chance befalls of reaching fame at once, and (if it is of any profit morituro) retaining the admiration213 of the world. Did poor Oliver, when he was at Leyden yonder, ever think that he should paint a little picture which should secure him the applause and pity of all Europe for a century after? He and Sterne drew the twenty thousand prize of fame. The latter had splendid instalments during his lifetime. The ladies pressed round him; the wits admired him, the fashion hailed the successor of Rabelais. Goldsmith’s little gem214 was hardly so valued until later days. Their works still form the wonder and delight of the lovers of English art; and the pictures of the Vicar and Uncle Toby are among the masterpieces of our English school. Here in the Hague Gallery is Paul Potter’s pale, eager face, and yonder is the magnificent work by which the young fellow achieved his fame. How did you, so young, come to paint so well? What hidden power lay in that weakly lad that enabled him to achieve such a wonderful victory? Could little Mozart, when he was five years old, tell you how he came to play those wonderful sonatas215? Potter was gone out of the world before he was thirty, but left this prodigy216 (and I know not how many more specimens217 of his genius and skill) behind him. The details of this admirable picture are as curious as the effect is admirable and complete. The weather being unsettled, and clouds and sunshine in the gusty218 sky, we saw in our little tour numberless Paul Potters — the meadows streaked219 with sunshine and spotted with the cattle, the city twinkling in the distance, the thunderclouds glooming overhead. Napoleon carried off the picture (vide Murray) amongst the spoils of his bow and spear to decorate his triumph of the Louvre. If I were a conquering prince, I would have this picture certainly, and the Raphael “Madonna” from Dresden, and the Titian “Assumption” from Venice, and that matchless Rembrandt of the “Dissection.” The prostrate220 nations would howl with rage as my gendarmes took off the pictures, nicely packed, and addressed to “Mr. the Director of my Imperial Palace of the Louvre, at Paris. This side uppermost.” The Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Italians, &c., should be free to come and visit my capital, and bleat221 with tears before the pictures torn from their native cities. Their ambassadors would meekly remonstrate222, and with faded grins make allusions223 to the feeling of despair occasioned by the absence of the beloved works of art. Bah! I would offer them a pinch of snuff out of my box as I walked along my gallery, with their Excellencies cringing224 after me. Zenobia was a fine woman and a queen, but she had to walk in Aurelian’s triumph. The procede was peu delicat? En usez vous, mon cher monsieur! (The marquis says the “Macaba” is delicious.) What a splendor of color there is in that cloud! What a richness, what a freedom of handling, and what a marvellous precision! I trod upon your Excellency’s corn? — a thousand pardons. His Excellency grins and declares that he rather likes to have his corns trodden on. Were you ever very angry with Soult — about that Murillo which we have bought? The veteran loved that picture because it saved the life of a fellow-creature — the fellow-creature who hid it, and whom the Duke intended to hang unless the picture was forthcoming.
We gave several thousand pounds for it — how many thousand? About its merit is a question of taste which we will not here argue. If you choose to place Murillo in the first class of painters, founding his claim upon these Virgin40 altar-pieces, I am your humble servant. Tom Moore painted altar-pieces as well as Milton, and warbled Sacred Songs and Loves of the Angels after his fashion. I wonder did Watteau ever try historical subjects? And as for Greuze, you know that his heads will fetch 1,000L., 1,500L., 2,000L. — as much as a Sevres “cabaret” of Rose du Barri. If cost price is to be your criterion of worth, what shall we say to that little receipt for 10L. for the copyright of “Paradise Lost,” which used to hang in old Mr. Rogers’s room? When living painters, as frequently happens in our days, see their pictures sold at auctions225 for four or five times the sums which they originally received, are they enraged226 or elated? A hundred years ago the state of the picture-market was different: that dreary old Italian stock was much higher than at present; Rembrandt himself, a close man, was known to be in difficulties. If ghosts are fond of money still, what a wrath his must be at the present value of his works!
The Hague Rembrandt is the greatest and grandest of all his pieces to my mind. Some of the heads are as sweetly and lightly painted as Gainsborough; the faces not ugly, but delicate and high-bred; the exquisite227 gray tones are charming to mark and study; the heads not plastered, but painted with a free, liquid brush: the result, one of the great victories won by this consummate chief, and left for the wonder and delight of succeeding ages.
The humblest volunteer in the ranks of art, who has served a campaign or two ever so ingloriously, has at least this good fortune of understanding, or fancying he is able to understand, how the battle has been fought, and how the engaged general won it. This is the Rhinelander’s most brilliant achievement — victory along the whole line. The “Night-watch” at Amsterdam is magnificent in parts, but on the side to the spectator’s right, smoky and dim. The “Five Masters of the Drapers” is wonderful for depth, strength, brightness, massive power. What words are these to express a picture! to describe a description! I once saw a moon riding in the sky serenely228, attended by her sparkling maids of honor, and a little lady said, with an air of great satisfaction, “I MUST SKETCH229 IT.” Ah, my dear lady, if with an H.B., a Bristol board, and a bit of india-rubber, you can sketch the starry230 firmament231 on high, and the moon in her glory, I make you my compliment! I can’t sketch “The Five Drapers” with any ink or pen at present at command — but can look with all my eyes, and be thankful to have seen such a masterpiece.
They say he was a moody232, ill-conditioned man, the old tenant233 of the mill. What does he think of the “Vander Helst” which hangs opposite his “Night-watch,” and which is one of the great pictures of the world? It is not painted by so great a man as Rembrandt; but there it is — to see it is an event of your life. Having beheld it you have lived in the year 1648, and celebrated234 the treaty of Munster. You have shaken the hands of the Dutch Guardsmen, eaten from their platters, drunk their Rhenish, heard their jokes, as they wagged their jolly beards. The Amsterdam Catalogue discourses235 thus about it:— a model catalogue: it gives you the prices paid, the signatures of the painters, a succinct236 description of the work.
“This masterpiece represents a banquet of the civic237 guard, which took place on the 18th June, 1648, in time great hall of the St. Joris Doele, on the Singel at Amsterdam, to celebrate the conclusion of the Peace at Munster. The thirty-five figures composing the picture are all portraits.
“‘The Captain WITSE’ is placed at the head of the table, and attracts our attention first. He is dressed in black velvet238, his breast covered with a cuirass, on his head a broad-brimmed black hat with white plumes239. He is comfortably seated on a chair of black oak, with a velvet cushion, and holds in his left hand, supported on his knee, a magnificent drinking-horn, surrounded by a St. George destroying the dragon, and ornamented240 with olive-leaves. The captain’s features express cordiality and good-humor; he is grasping the hand of ‘Lieutenant VAN WAVERN’ seated near him, in a habit of dark gray, with lace and buttons of gold, lace-collar and wristbands, his feet crossed, with boots of yellow leather, with large tops, and gold spurs, on his head a black hat and dark-brown plumes. Behind him at the centre of the picture, is the standard-bearer, ‘JACOB BANNING,’ in an easy martial241 attitude, hat in hand, his right hand on his chair, his right leg on his left knee. He holds the flag of blue silk, in which the Virgin is embroidered242, (such a silk! such a flag! such a piece of painting!) emblematic243 of the town of Amsterdam. The banner covers his shoulder, and he looks towards the spectator frankly244 and complacently245.
“The man behind him is probably one of the sergeants247. His head is bare. He wears a cuirass, and yellow gloves, gray stockings, and boots with large tops, and kneecaps of cloth. He has a napkin on his knees, and in his hand a piece of ham, a slice of bread, and a knife. The old man behind is probably ‘WILLIAM THE DRUMMER.’ He has his hat in his right hand, and in his left a gold-footed wineglass, filled with white wine. He wears a red scarf, and a black satin doublet, with little slashes248 of yellow silk. Behind the drummer, two matchlock-men are seated at the end of the table. One in a large black habit, a napkin on his knee, a hausse-col of iron, and a linen249 scarf and collar. He is eating with his knife. The other holds a long glass of white wine. Four musketeers, with different shaped hats, are behind these, one holding a glass, the three others with their guns on their shoulders. Other guests are placed between the personage who is giving the toast and the standard-bearer. One with his hat off, and his hand uplifted, is talking to another. The second is carving80 a fowl250. A third holds a silver plate; and another, in the background, a silver flagon, from which he fills a cup. The corner behind the captain is filled by two seated personages, one of whom is peeling an orange. Two others are standing, armed with halberts, of whom one holds a plumed251 hat. Behind him are other three individuals, one of them holding a pewter pot, on which the name ‘Poock,’ the landlord of the ‘Hotel Doele,’ is engraved252. At the back, a maid-servant is coming in with a pasty, crowned with a turkey. Most of the guests are listening to the captain. From an open window in the distance, the facades253 of two houses are seen, surmounted254 by stone figures of sheep.”
There, now you know all about it: now you can go home and paint just such another. If you do, do pray remember to paint the hands of the figures as they are here depicted; they are as wonderful portraits as the faces. None of your slim Van Dyck elegancies, which have done duty at the cuffs255 of so many doublets; but each man with a hand for himself, as with a face for himself. I blushed for the coarseness of one of the chiefs in this great company, that fellow behind “WILLIAM THE DRUMMER,” splendidly attired256, sitting full in the face of the public; and holding a pork-bone in his hand. Suppose the Saturday Review critic were to come suddenly on this picture? Ah! what a shock it would give that noble nature! Why is that knuckle257 of pork not painted out? at any rate, why is not a little fringe of lace painted round it? or a cut pink paper? or couldn’t a smelling-bottle be painted in instead, with a crest258 and a gold top, or a cambric pocket-handkerchief, in lieu of the horrid pig, with a pink coronet in the corner? or suppose you covered the man’s hand (which is very coarse and strong), and gave him the decency259 of a kid glove? But a piece of pork in a naked hand? O nerves and eau de Cologne, hide it, hide it!
In spite of this lamentable260 coarseness, my noble sergeant246, give me thy hand as nature made it! A great, and famous, and noble handiwork I have seen here. Not the greatest picture in the world — not a work of the highest genius — but a performance so great, various, and admirable, so shrewd of humor, so wise of observation, so honest and complete of expression, that to have seen it has been a delight, and to remember it will be a pleasure for days to come. Well done, Bartholomeus Vander Helst! Brave, meritorious261, victorious262, happy Bartholomew, to whom it has been given to produce a masterpiece!
May I take off my hat and pay a respectful compliment to Jan Steen, Esq.? He is a glorious composer. His humor is as frank as Fielding’s. Look at his own figure sitting in the window-sill yonder, and roaring with laughter! What a twinkle in the eyes! what a mouth it is for a song, or a joke, or a noggin! I think the composition in some of Jan’s pictures amounts to the sublime263, and look at them with the same delight and admiration which I have felt before works of the very highest style. This gallery is admirable — and the city in which the gallery is, is perhaps even more wonderful and curious to behold than the gallery.
The first landing at Calais (or, I suppose, on any foreign shore)— the first sight of an Eastern city — the first view of Venice — and this of Amsterdam, are among the delightful shocks which I have had as a traveller. Amsterdam is as good as Venice, with a superadded humor and grotesqueness264, which gives the sight-seer the most singular zest265 and pleasure. A run through Pekin I could hardly fancy to be more odd, strange, and yet familiar. This rush, and crowd, and prodigious vitality266; this immense swarm of life; these busy waters, crowding barges, swinging drawbridges, piled ancient gables, spacious markets teeming267 with people; that ever-wonderful Jews’ quarter; that dear old world of painting and the past, yet alive, and throbbing268, and palpable — actual, and yet passing before you swiftly and strangely as a dream! Of the many journeys of this Roundabout life, that drive through Amsterdam is to be specially269 and gratefully remembered. You have never seen the palace of Amsterdam, my dear sir? Why, there’s a marble hall in that palace that will frighten you as much as any hall in Vathek, or a nightmare. At one end of that old, cold, glassy, glittering, ghostly, marble hall there stands a throne, on which a white marble king ought to sit with his white legs gleaming down into the white marble below, and his white eyes looking at a great white marble Atlas270, who bears on his icy shoulders a blue globe as big as the full moon. If he were not a genie271, and enchanted272, and with a strength altogether hyperatlantean, he would drop the moon with a shriek273 on to the white marble floor, and it would splitter into perdition. And the palace would rock, and heave, and tumble; and the waters would rise, rise, rise; and the gables sink, sink, sink; and the barges would rise up to the chimneys; and the water-souchee fishes would flap over the Boompjes, where the pigeons and storks274 used to perch275; and the Amster, and the Rotter, and the Saar, and the Op, and all the dams of Holland would burst, and the Zuyder Zee roll over the dykes; and you would wake out of your dream, and find yourself sitting in your arm-chair.
Was it a dream? it seems like one. Have we been to Holland? have we heard the chimes at midnight at Antwerp? Were we really away for a week, or have I been sitting up in the room dozing276, before this stale old desk? Here’s the desk; yes. But, if it has been a dream, how could I have learned to hum that tune out of Dinorah? Ah, is it that tune, or myself that I am humming? If it was a dream, how comes this yellow NOTICE DES TABLEAUX277 DU MUSEE D’AMSTERDAM AVEC FACSIMILE DES MONOGRAMMES before me, and this signature of the gallant278 BARTHOLOMEUS VANDER HELST, FECIT Ao, 1648.
Yes, indeed, it was a delightful little holiday; it lasted a whole week. With the exception of that little pint of amari aliquid at Rotterdam, we were all very happy. We might have gone on being happy for whoever knows how many days more? a week more, ten days more: who knows how long that dear teetotum happiness can be made to spin without toppling over?
But one of the party had desired letters to be sent poste restante, Amsterdam. The post-office is hard by that awful palace where the Atlas is, and which we really saw.
There was only one letter, you see. Only one chance of finding us. There it was. “The post has only this moment come in,” says the smirking279 commissioner. And he hands over the paper, thinking he has done something clever.
Before the letter had been opened, I could read COME BACK, as clearly as if it had been painted on the wall. It was all over. The spell was broken. The sprightly280 little holiday fairy that had frisked and gambolled281 so kindly282 beside us for eight days of sunshine — or rain which was as cheerful as sunshine — gave a parting piteous look, and whisked away and vanished. And yonder scuds283 the postman, and here is the old desk.
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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tellers
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| n.（银行）出纳员( teller的名词复数 )；（投票时的）计票员；讲故事等的人；讲述者 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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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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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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jaws
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raconteurs
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| n.善于讲轶事的人( raconteur的名词复数 ) | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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modesty
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vessel
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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canopy
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commissioner
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hustling
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Oxford
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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melancholy
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squealing
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quaffing
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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refreshingly
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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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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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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uncouthly
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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57
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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58
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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59
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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60
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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61
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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62
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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63
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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64
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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65
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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66
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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67
penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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68
dirges
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| n.挽歌( dirge的名词复数 )；忧伤的歌，哀歌 | |
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69
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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70
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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71
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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72
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
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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74
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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75
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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76
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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77
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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78
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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79
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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80
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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81
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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82
guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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83
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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84
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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85
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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86
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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87
laggards
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| n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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88
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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89
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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90
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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91
conversions
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| 变换( conversion的名词复数 )； （宗教、信仰等）彻底改变； （尤指为居住而）改建的房屋； 橄榄球（触地得分后再把球射中球门的）附加得分 | |
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92
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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93
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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94
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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95
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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96
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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97
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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98
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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99
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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100
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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101
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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102
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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103
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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104
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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105
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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106
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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107
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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108
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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110
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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111
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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112
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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113
picturesquely
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114
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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115
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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116
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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117
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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118
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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119
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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120
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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121
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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122
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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123
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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124
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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125
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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126
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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127
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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128
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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129
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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130
amethysts
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| n.紫蓝色宝石( amethyst的名词复数 )；紫晶；紫水晶；紫色 | |
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131
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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132
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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133
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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134
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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135
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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136
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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137
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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138
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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139
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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140
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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141
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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142
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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143
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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144
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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145
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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146
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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147
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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148
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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149
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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150
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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151
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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152
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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153
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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154
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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155
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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156
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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157
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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158
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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159
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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160
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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161
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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162
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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163
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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164
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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165
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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166
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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168
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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169
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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170
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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171
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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172
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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173
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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174
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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175
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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176
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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177
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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178
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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179
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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180
dowdiness
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181
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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182
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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183
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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184
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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185
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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186
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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187
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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188
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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189
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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190
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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191
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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192
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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193
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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194
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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195
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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196
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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197
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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198
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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199
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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200
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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201
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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202
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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203
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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204
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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205
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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206
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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207
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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208
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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209
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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210
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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211
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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212
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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213
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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214
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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215
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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216
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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217
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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218
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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219
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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220
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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221
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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222
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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223
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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224
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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225
auctions
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| n.拍卖，拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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226
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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227
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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228
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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229
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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230
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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231
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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232
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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233
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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234
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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235
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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236
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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237
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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238
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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239
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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240
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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242
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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243
emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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244
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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245
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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246
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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247
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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248
slashes
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| n.（用刀等）砍( slash的名词复数 )；（长而窄的）伤口；斜杠；撒尿v.挥砍( slash的第三人称单数 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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249
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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250
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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251
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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252
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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253
facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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254
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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255
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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256
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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257
knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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258
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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259
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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260
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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261
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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262
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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263
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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264
grotesqueness
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265
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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266
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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267
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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268
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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269
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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270
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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271
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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272
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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273
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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274
storks
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| n.鹳( stork的名词复数 ) | |
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275
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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276
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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277
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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278
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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279
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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280
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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281
gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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282
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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283
scuds
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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