The fields his study, nature was his book.
I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate2 like the country. I am not for criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis3 with them. I like more elbow-room and fewer encumbrances4. I like solitude5, when I give myself up to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for
A friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper solitude is sweet.
The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do, just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind much more to get rid of others. It is because I want a little breathing-space to muse6 on indifferent matters, where Contemplation
May plume7 her feathers and let grow her wings,
That in the various bustle8 of resort
Were all too ruffled9, and sometimes impair’d,
that I absent myself from the town for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a postchaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with, and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce10 with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding11 road before me, and a three hours’ march to dinner — and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone1 heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the point of yonder rolling cloud I plunge12 into my past being, and revel13 there, as the sun-burnt Indian plunges14 headlong into the wave that wafts15 him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like ‘sunken wrack16 and sumless treasuries,’ burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts at wit or dull common-places, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect eloquence17. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses18, argument, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had rather be without them. ‘Leave, oh, leave me to my repose19!’ I have just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is with me ‘very stuff o’ the conscience.’ Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if I wore to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to yonder craggy point, and from thence onward20 to the far-distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said that you may, when the moody21 fit comes on, walk or ride on by yourself, and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a breach22 of manners, a neglect of others, and you are thinking all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. ‘Out upon such half-faced fellowship,’ say I. I like to be either entirely23 to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable24 or solitary25. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett’s, that ‘he thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine with our meals, and that an Englishman ought to do only one thing at a time.’ So I cannot talk and think, or indulge in melancholy26 musing27 and lively conversation by fits and starts. ‘Let me have a companion of my way,’ says Sterne, ‘were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen28 as the sun declines.’ It is beautifully said; but, in my opinion, this continual comparing of notes interferes29 with the involuntary impression of things upon the mind, and hurts the sentiment. If you only hint what you feel in a kind of dumb show, it is insipid30: if you have to explain it, it is making a toil31 of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the benefit of others. I am for this synthetical32 method on a journey in preference to the analytical33. I am content to lay in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them entangled34 in the briars and thorns of controversy35. For once, I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless you are alone, or in such company as I do not covet36. I have no objection to argue a point with any one for twenty miles of measured road, but not for pleasure. If you remark the scent37 of a bean-field crossing the road, perhaps your fellow-traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant object, perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of a cloud, which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an uneasy craving38 after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill-humour. Now I never quarrel with myself, and take all my own conclusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them against objections. It is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you — these may recall a number of objects, and lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can escape from the throng40 to do so. To give way to our feelings before company seems extravagance or affectation; and, on the other hand, to have to unravel41 this mystery of our being at every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it (otherwise the end is not answered), is a task to which few are competent. We must ‘give it an understanding, but no tongue.’ My old friend Coleridge, however, could do both. He could go on in the most delightful43 explanatory way over hill and dale a summer’s day, and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. ‘He talked far above singing.’ If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words, I might perhaps wish to have some one with me to admire the swelling44 theme; or I could be more content, were it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of All–Foxden.58 They had ‘that fine madness in them which our first poets had’; and if they could have been caught by some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains as the following:—
Here be woods as green
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet
As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled streams, with flow’rs as many
As the young spring gives, and as choice as any;
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,
Arbours o’ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells;
Choose where thou wilt45, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove46,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she convey’d him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding47 the mountain with her brother’s light,
To kiss her sweetest.59
Had I words and images at command like these, I would attempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbering48 on golden ridges49 in the evening clouds: but at the sight of nature my fancy, poor as it is, droops50 and closes up its leaves, like flowers at sunset. I can make nothing out on the spot: I must have time to collect myself.
In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects51: it should be reserved for Table-talk. Lamb is for this reason, I take it, the worst company in the world out of doors; because he is the best within. I grant there is one subject on which it is pleasant to talk on a journey, and that is, what one shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night. The open air improves this sort of conversation or friendly altercation53, by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile of the road heightens the flavour of the viands54 we expect at the end of it. How fine it is to enter some old town, walled and turreted55, just at approach of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with the lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then, after inquiring for the best entertainment that the place affords, to ‘take one’s ease at one’s inn’! These eventful moments in our lives’ history are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt happiness to be frittered and dribbled56 away in imperfect sympathy. I would have them all to myself, and drain them to the last drop: they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards. What a delicate speculation57 it is, after drinking whole goblets58 of tea —
The cups that cheer, but not inebriate —
and letting the fumes59 ascend60 into the brain, to sit considering what we shall have for supper — eggs and a rasher, a rabbit smothered61 in onions, or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho in such a situation once fixed62 on cow-heel; and his choice, though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged63. Then, in the intervals64 of pictured scenery and Shandean contemplation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen (getting ready for the gentleman in the parlour). Procul, O procul este profani! These hours are sacred to silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not waste them in idle talk; or if I must have the integrity of fancy broken in upon, I would rather it were by a stranger than a friend. A stranger takes his hue65 and character from the time and place; he is a part of the furniture and costume of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympathise with him, and he breaks no squares. (How I love to see the camps of the gypsies, and to sigh my soul into that sort of life. If I express this feeling to another, he may qualify and spoil it with some objection.) I associate nothing with my travelling companion but present objects and passing events. In his ignorance of me and my affairs, I in a manner forget myself. But a friend reminds one of other things, rips up old grievances66, and destroys the abstraction of the scene. He comes in ungraciously between us and our imaginary character. Something is dropped in the course of conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pursuits; or from having some one with you that knows the less sublime67 portions of your history, it seems that other people do. You are no longer a citizen of the world; but your ‘unhoused free condition is put into circumspection68 and confine.’ The incognito69 of an inn is one of its striking privileges —‘lord of one’s self, uncumbered with a name.’ Oh! it is great to shake off the trammels of the world and of public opinion — to lose our importunate70, tormenting71, everlasting72 personal identity in the elements of nature, and become the creature of the moment, clear of all ties — to hold to the universe only by a dish of sweetbreads, and to owe nothing but the score of the evening — and no longer seeking for applause and meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title than the Gentleman in the parlour! One may take one’s choice of all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty74 as to one’s real pretensions75, and become indefinitely respectable and negatively right-worshipful. We baffle prejudice and disappoint conjecture76; and from being so to others, begin to be objects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no more those hackneyed common-places that we appear in the world; an inn restores us to the level of nature, and quits scores with society! I have certainly spent some enviable hours at inns — sometimes when I have been left entirely to myself, and have tried to solve some metaphysical problem, as once at Witham Common, where I found out the proof that likeness77 is not a case of the association of ideas — at other times, when there have been pictures in the room, as at St. Neot’s (I think it was), where I first met with Gribelin’s engravings of the Cartoons, into which I entered at once, and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where there happened to be hanging some of Westall’s drawings, which I compared triumphantly78 (for a theory that I had, not for the admired artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me over the Severn, standing42 up in a boat between me and the twilight79 — at other times I might mention luxuriating in books, with a peculiar80 interest in this way, as I remember sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, which I picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched81 in the rain all day; and at the same place I got through two volumes of Madame D’Arblay’s Camilla. It was on the 10th of April 1798 that I sat down to a volume of the New Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from the heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had brought with me as a bon bouche to crown the evening with. It was my birthday, and I had for the first time come from a place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot. The road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk and Wrexham; and on passing a certain point you come all at once upon the valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills rising in majestic82 state on either side, with ‘green upland swells83 that echo to the bleat84 of flocks’ below, and the river Dee babbling85 over its stony86 bed in the midst of them. The valley at this time ‘glittered green with sunny showers,’ and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the chiding87 stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along the high road that overlooks the delicious prospect52, repeating the lines which I have just quoted from Mr. Coleridge’s poems! But besides the prospect which opened beneath my feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a heavenly vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could make them, these four words, LIBERTY, GENIUS, LOVE, VIRTUE88; which have since faded into the light of common day, or mock my idle gaze.
The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.
Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted89 spot; but I would return to it alone. What other self could I find to share that influx90 of thoughts, of regret, and delight, the fragments of which I could hardly conjure91 up to myself, so much have they been broken and defaced. I could stand on some tall rock, and overlook the precipice92 of years that separates me from what I then was. I was at that time going shortly to visit the poet whom I have above named. Where is he now? Not only I myself have changed; the world, which was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible93. Yet will I turn to thee in thought, O sylvan94 Dee, in joy, in youth and gladness as thou then wert; and thou shalt always be to me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of life freely!
There is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. With change of place we change our ideas; nay95, our opinions and feelings. We can by an effort indeed transport ourselves to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the mind revives again; but we forget those that we have just left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a time. The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface96 every other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our point of view. The landscape bares its bosom97 to the enraptured98 eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as if we could form no other image of beauty or grandeur99. We pass on, and think no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our sight also blots100 it from our memory like a dream. In travelling through a wild barren country I can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. It appears to me that all the world must be barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget the town, and in town we despise the country. ‘Beyond Hyde Park,’ says Sir Topling Flutter, ‘all is a desert.’ All that part of the map that we do not see before us is blank. The world in our conceit101 of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined to county, kingdom to kingdom, land to seas, making an image voluminous and vast; the mind can form no larger idea of space than the eye can take in at a single glance. The rest is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. For instance, what is the true signification of that immense mass of territory and population known by the name of China to us? An inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of no more account than a China orange! Things near us are seen of the size of life: things at a distance are diminished to the size of the understanding. We measure the universe by ourselves, and even comprehend the texture102 of our being only piecemeal103. In this way, however, we remember an infinity104 of things and places. The mind is like a mechanical instrument that plays a great variety of tunes105, but it must play them in succession. One idea recalls another, but it at the same time excludes all others. In trying to renew old recollections, we cannot as it were unfold the whole web of our existence; we must pick out the single threads. So in coming to a place where we have formerly106 lived, and with which we have intimate associations, every one must have found that the feeling grows more vivid the nearer we approach the spot, from the mere39 anticipation107 of the actual impression: we remember circumstances, feelings, persons, faces, names that we had not thought of for years; but for the time all the rest of the world is forgotten! — To return to the question I have quitted above:
I have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, for the former reason reversed. They are intelligible108 matters, and will bear talking about. The sentiment here is not tacit, but communicable and overt109. Salisbury Plain is barren of criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, picturesque110, and philosophical111. In setting out on a party of pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go to: in taking a solitary ramble112, the question is what we shall meet with by the way. ‘The mind is its own place’; nor are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. I can myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford113 with no mean eclat114 — showed them that seat of the Muses115 at a distance,
With glistering spires116 and pinnacles117 adorn’d —
descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy118 quadrangles and stone walls of halls and colleges — was at home in the Bodleian; and at Blenheim quite superseded119 the powdered Cicerone that attended us, and that pointed120 in vain with his wand to commonplace beauties in matchless pictures. As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country without a companion. I should want at intervals to hear the sound of my own language. There is an involuntary antipathy121 in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners and notions that requires the assistance of social sympathy to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an appetite. A person would almost feel stifled122 to find himself in the deserts of Arabia without friends and countrymen: there must be allowed to be something in the view of Athens or old Rome that claims the utterance123 of speech; and I own that the Pyramids are too mighty124 for any single contemplation. In such situations, so opposite to all one’s ordinary train of ideas, one seems a species by one’sself, a limb torn off from society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship and support. Yet I did not feel this want or craving very pressing once, when I first set my foot on the laughing shores of France. Calais was peopled with novelty and delight. The confused, busy murmur125 of the place was like oil and wine poured into my ears; nor did the mariners’ hymn126, which was sung from the top of an old crazy vessel127 in the harbour, as the sun went down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only breathed the air of general humanity. I walked over ‘the vine-covered hills and gay regions of France,’ erect128 and satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones: I was at no loss for language, for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, freedom, all are fled: nothing remains129 but the Bourbons and the French people! — There is undoubtedly130 a sensation in travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else; but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting73. It is too remote from our habitual131 associations to be a common topic of discourse132 or reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is an animated133 but a momentary134 hallucination. It demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we must ‘jump’ all our present comforts and connections. Our romantic and itinerant135 character is not to be domesticated136. Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful, and in one sense instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright existence, and never to join kindly137 on to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country. We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So the poet somewhat quaintly138 sings:
Out of my country and myself I go.
Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall them; but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards at home!
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1
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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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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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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antitheses
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| n.对照，对立的，对比法；对立( antithesis的名词复数 )；对立面；对照；对偶 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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synthetical
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| adj.综合的，合成的 | |
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analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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41
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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42
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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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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44
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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45
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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46
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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47
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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48
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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49
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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50
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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51
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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52
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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53
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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54
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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55
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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56
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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57
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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58
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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59
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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60
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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61
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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62
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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63
disparaged
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| v.轻视( disparage的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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64
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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65
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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66
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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67
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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68
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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69
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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70
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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71
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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72
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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73
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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74
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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75
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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76
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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77
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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78
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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79
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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82
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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83
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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84
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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85
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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86
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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87
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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88
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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89
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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90
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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91
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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92
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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93
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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94
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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95
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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96
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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98
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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100
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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101
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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102
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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103
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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104
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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105
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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106
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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107
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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108
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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109
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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110
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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111
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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112
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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113
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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114
eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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115
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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116
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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117
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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118
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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119
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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120
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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121
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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122
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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123
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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124
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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125
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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126
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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127
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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128
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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129
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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130
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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131
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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132
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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133
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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134
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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135
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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136
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
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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138
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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