But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper’d promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Whatever is placed beyond the reach of sense and knowledge, whatever is imperfectly discerned, the fancy pieces out at its leisure; and all but the present moment, but the present spot, passion claims for its own, and brooding over it with wings outspread, stamps it with an image of itself. Passion is lord of infinite space, and distant objects please because they border on its confines and are moulded by its touch. When I was a boy, I lived within sight of a range of lofty hills, whose blue tops blending with the setting sun had often tempted9 my longing10 eyes and wandering feet. At last I put my project in execution, and on a nearer approach, instead of glimmering11 air woven into fantastic shapes, found them huge lumpish heaps of discoloured earth. I learnt from this (in part) to leave ‘Yarrow unvisited,’ and not idly to disturb a dream of good!
Distance of time has much the same effect as distance of place. It is not surprising that fancy colours the prospect of the future as it thinks good, when it even effaces12 the forms of memory. Time takes out the sting of pain; our sorrows after a certain period have been so often steeped in a medium of thought and passion that they ‘unmould their essence’; and all that remains13 of our original impressions is what we would wish them to have been. Not only the untried steep ascent14 before us, but the rude, unsightly masses of our past experience presently resume their power of deception15 over the eye: the golden cloud soon rests upon their heads, and the purple light of fancy clothes their barren sides! Thus we pass on, while both ends of our existence touch upon Heaven! There is (so to speak) ‘a mighty16 stream of tendency’ to good in the human mind, upon which all objects float and are imperceptibly borne along; and though in the voyage of life we meet with strong rebuffs, with rocks and quicksands, yet there is ‘a tide in the affairs of men,’ a heaving and a restless aspiration17 of the soul, by means of which, ‘with sails and tackle torn,’ the wreck18 and scattered19 fragments of our entire being drift into the port and haven20 of our desires! In all that relates to the affections, we put the will for the deed; so that the instant the pressure of unwelcome circumstances is removed, the mind recoils21 from their hold, recovers its elasticity22, and reunites itself to that image of good which is but a reflection and configuration23 of its own nature. Seen in the distance, in the long perspective of waning24 years, the meanest incidents, enlarged and enriched by countless25 recollections, become interesting; the most painful, broken and softened26 by time, soothe27. How any object that unexpectedly brings back to us old scenes and associations startles the mind! What a yearning28 it creates within us; what a longing to leap the intermediate space! How fondly we cling to, and try to revive the impression of all that we then were!
Such tricks hath strong imagination!
In truth we impose upon ourselves, and know not what we wish. It is a cunning artifice29, a quaint30 delusion31, by which, in pretending to be what we were at a particular moment of time, we would fain be all that we have since been, and have our lives to come over again. It is not the little, glimmering, almost annihilated32 speck33 in the distance that rivets34 our attention and ‘hangs upon the beatings of our hearts’: it is the interval35 that separates us from it, and of which it is the trembling boundary, that excites all this coil and mighty pudder in the breast. Into that great gap in our being ‘come thronging36 soft desires’ and infinite regrets. It is the contrast, the change from what we then were, that arms the half-extinguished recollection with its giant strength, and lifts the fabric37 of the affections from its shadowy base. In contemplating38 its utmost verge39, we overlook the map of our existence, and retread, in apprehension40, the journey of life. So it is that in early youth we strain our eager sight after the pursuits of manhood; and, as we are sliding off the stage, strive to gather up the toys and flowers that pleased our thoughtless childhood.
When I was quite a boy my father used to take me to the Montpelier Tea Gardens at Walworth. Do I go there now? No; the place is deserted41, and its borders and its beds o’erturned. Is there, then, nothing that can
Bring back the hour
Of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower?
Oh! yes. I unlock the casket of memory, and draw back the warders of the brain; and there this scene of my infant wanderings still lives unfaded, or with fresher dyes. A new sense comes upon me, as in a dream; a richer perfume, brighter colours start out; my eyes dazzle; my heart heaves with its new load of bliss42, and I am a child again. My sensations are all glossy43, spruce, voluptuous44, and fine: they wear a candied coat, and are in holiday trim. I see the beds of larkspur with purple eyes; tall hollyhocks, red or yellow; the broad sunflowers, caked in gold, with bees buzzing round them; wildernesses45 of pinks, and hot glowing peonies; poppies run to seed; the sugared lily, and faint mignonette, all ranged in order, and as thick as they can grow; the box-tree borders, the gravel-walks, the painted alcove46, the confectionery, the clotted47 cream:— I think I see them now with sparkling looks; or have they vanished while I have been writing this description of them? No matter; they will return again when I least think of them. All that I have observed since, of flowers and plants, and grass-plots, and of suburb delights, seems to me borrowed from ‘that first garden of my innocence’— to be slips and scions48 stolen from that bed of memory. In this manner the darlings of our childhood burnish49 out in the eye of after years, and derive50 their sweetest perfume from the first heartfelt sigh of pleasure breathed upon them,
Like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour!
If I have pleasure in a flower-garden, I have in a kitchen-garden too, and for the same reason. If I see a row of cabbage-plants, or of peas or beans coming up, I immediately think of those which I used so carefully to water of an evening at Wem, when my day’s tasks were done, and of the pain with which I saw them droop51 and hang down their leaves in the morning’s sun. Again, I never see a child’s kite in the air but it seems to pull at my heart. It is to me ‘a thing of life.’ I feel the twinge at my elbow, the flutter and palpitation, with which I used to let go the string of my own, as it rose in the air, and towered among the clouds. My little cargo52 of hopes and fears ascended53 with it; and as it made a part of my own consciousness then, it does so still, and appears ‘like some gay creature of the element,’ my playmate when life was young, and twin-born with my earliest recollections. I could enlarge on this subject of childish amusements, but Mr. Leigh Hunt has treated it so well, in a paper in the Indicator54, on the productions of the toy-shops of the metropolis55, that if I were to insist more on it I should only pass for an imitator of that ingenious and agreeable writer, and for an indifferent one into the bargain.
Sounds, smells, and sometimes tastes, are remembered longer than visible objects, and serve, perhaps, better for links in the chain of association. The reason seems to be this: they are in their nature intermittent56, and comparatively rare; whereas objects of sight are always before us, and, by their continuous succession, drive one another out. The eye is always open; and between any given impression and its recurrence57 a second time, fifty thousand other impressions have, in all likelihood, been stamped upon the sense and on the brain. The other senses are not so active or vigilant58. They are but seldom called into play. The ear, for example, is oftener courted by silence than noise; and the sounds that break that silence sink deeper and more durably59 into the mind. I have a more present and lively recollection of certain scents60, tastes, and sounds, for this reason, than I have of mere61 visible images, because they are more original, and less worn by frequent repetition. Where there is nothing interposed between any two impressions, whatever the distance of time that parts them, they naturally seem to touch; and the renewed impression recalls the former one in full force, without distraction62 or competitor. The taste of barberries, which have hung out in the snow during the severity of a North American winter, I have in my mouth still, after an interval of thirty years; for I have met with no other taste in all that time at all like it. It remains by itself, almost like the impression of a sixth sense. But the colour is mixed up indiscriminately with the colours of many other berries, nor should I be able to distinguish it among them. The smell of a brick-kiln carries the evidence of its own identity with it: neither is it to me (from peculiar63 associations) unpleasant. The colour of brickdust, on the contrary, is more common, and easily confounded with other colours. Raphael did not keep it quite distinct from his flesh colour. I will not say that we have a more perfect recollection of the human voice than of that complex picture the human face, but I think the sudden hearing of a well-known voice has something in it more affecting and striking than the sudden meeting with the face: perhaps, indeed, this may be because we have a more familiar remembrance of the one than the other, and the voice takes us more by surprise on that account. I am by no means certain (generally speaking) that we have the ideas of the other senses so accurate and well made out as those of visible form: what I chiefly mean is, that the feelings belonging to the sensations of our other organs, when accidentally recalled, are kept more separate and pure. Musical sounds, probably, owe a good deal of their interest and romantic effect to the principle here spoken of. Were they constant, they would become indifferent, as we may find with respect to disagreeable noises, which we do not hear after a time. I know no situation more pitiable than that of a blind fiddler who has but one sense left (if we except the sense of snuff-taking78) and who has that stunned65 or deafened66 by his own villainous noises. Shakespear says.
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night!
It has been observed in explanation of this passage, that it is because in the day-time lovers are occupied with one another’s faces, but that at night they can only distinguish the sound of each other’s voices. I know not how this may be; but I have, ere now, heard a voice break so upon the silence,
To angels’ ’twas most like,
and charm the moonlight air with its balmy essence, that the budding leaves trembled to its accents. Would I might have heard it once more whisper peace and hope (as erst when it was mingled67 with the breath of spring), and with its soft pulsations lift winged fancy to heaven. But it has ceased, or turned where I no more shall hear it! — Hence, also, we see what is the charm of the shepherd’s pastoral reed; and why we hear him, as it were, piping to his flock, even in a picture. Our ears are fancy stung! I remember once strolling along the margin68 of a stream, skirted with willows69 and plashy sedges, in one of those low sheltered valleys on Salisbury Plain, where the monks70 of former ages had planted chapels71 and built hermits’ cells. There was a little parish church near, but tall elms and quivering alders72 hid it from my sight, when, all of a sudden, I was startled by the sound of the full organ pealing73 on the ear, accompanied by rustic74 voices and the willing choir75 of village maids and children. It rose, indeed, ‘like an exhalation of rich distilled76 perfumes.’ The dew from a thousand pastures was gathered in its softness; the silence of a thousand years spoke64 in it. It came upon the heart like the calm beauty of death; fancy caught the sound, and faith mounted on it to the skies. It filled the valley like a mist, and still poured out its endless chant, and still it swells77 upon the ear, and wraps me in a golden trance, drowning the noisy tumult78 of the world!
There is a curious and interesting discussion on the comparative distinctness of our visual and other external impressions, in Mr. Fearn’s Essay on Consciousness, with which I shall try to descend79 from this rhapsody to the ground of common sense and plain reasoning again. After observing, a little before, that ‘nothing is more untrue than that sensations of vision do necessarily leave more vivid and durable80 ideas than those of grosser senses,’ he proceeds to give a number of illustrations in support of this position. ‘Notwithstanding,’ he says, ‘the advantages here enumerated81 in favour of sight, I think there is no doubt that a man will come to forget acquaintance, and many other visible objects, noticed in mature age, before he will in the least forget taste and smells, of only moderate interest, encountered either in his childhood or at any time since.
‘In the course of voyaging to various distant regions, it has several times happened that I have eaten once or twice of different things that never came in my way before nor since. Some of these have been pleasant, and some scarce better than insipid82; but I have no reason to think I have forgot, or much altered the ideas left by those single impulses of taste; though here the memory of them certainly has not been preserved by repetition. It is clear I must have seen as well as tasted those things; and I am decided83 that I remember the tastes with more precision than I do the visual sensations.
‘I remember having once, and only once, eat Kangaroo in New Holland; and having once smelled a baker’s shop having a peculiar odour in the city of Bassorah. Now both these gross ideas remain with me quite as vivid as any visual ideas of those places; and this could not be from repetition, but really from interest in the sensation.
‘Twenty-eight years ago, in the island of Jamaica, I partook (perhaps twice) of a certain fruit, of the taste of which I have now a very fresh idea; and I could add other instances of that period.
‘I have had repeated proofs of having lost retention84 of visual objects, at various distances of time, though they had once been familiar. I have not, during thirty years, forgot the delicate, and in itself most trifling85 sensation that the palm of my hand used to convey, when I was a boy, trying the different effects of what boys call light and heavy tops; but I cannot remember within several shades of the brown coat which I left off a week ago. If any man thinks he can do better, let him take an ideal survey of his wardrobe, and then actually refer to it for proof.
‘After retention of such ideas, it certainly would be very difficult to persuade me that feeling, taste, and smell can scarce be said to leave ideas, unless indistinct and obscure ones. . . .
‘Show a Londoner correct models of twenty London churches, and, at the same time, a model of each, which differs, in several considerable features, from the truth, and I venture to say he shall not tell you, in any instance, which is the correct one, except by mere chance.
‘If he is an architect he may be much more correct than any ordinary person: and this obviously is because he has felt an interest in viewing these structures, which an ordinary person does not feel: and here interest is the sole reason of his remembering more correctly than his neighbour.
‘I once heard a person quaintly86 ask another, How many trees there are in St. Paul’s churchyard? The question itself indicates that many cannot answer it; and this is found to be the case with those who have passed the church a hundred times: whilst the cause is, that every individual in the busy stream which glides87 past St. Paul’s is engrossed88 in various other interests.
‘How often does it happen that we enter a well-known apartment, or meet a well-known friend, and receive some vague idea of visible difference, but cannot possibly find out what it is; until at length we come to perceive (or perhaps must be told) that some ornament89 or furniture is removed, altered, or added in the apartment; or that our friend has cut his hair, taken a wig90, or has made any of twenty considerable alterations91 in his appearance. At other times we have no perception of alteration92 whatever, though the like has taken place.
‘It is, however, certain that sight, apposited with interest, can retain tolerably exact copies of sensations, especially if not too complex, such as of the human countenance93 and figure: yet the voice will convince us when the countenance will not; and he is reckoned an excellent painter, and no ordinary genius, who can make a tolerable likeness94 from memory. Nay95, more, it is a conspicuous96 proof of the inaccuracy of visual ideas, that it is an effort of consummate97 art, attained98 by many years’ practice, to take a strict likeness of the human countenance, even when the object is present; and among those cases where the wilful99 cheat of flattery has been avoided, we still find in how very few instances the best painters produce a likeness up to the life, though practice and interest join in the attempt.
‘I imagine an ordinary person would find it very difficult, supposing he had some knowledge of drawing, to afford from memory a tolerable sketch100 of such a familiar object as his curtain, his carpet, or his dressing-gown, if the pattern of either be at all various or irregular; yet he will instantly tell, with precision, either if his snuff or his wine has not the same character it had yesterday, though both these are compounds.
‘Beyond all this I may observe, that a draper who is in the daily habit of such comparisons cannot carry in his mind the particular shade of a colour during a second of time; and has no certainty of tolerably matching two simple colours, except by placing the patterns in contact.’79
I will conclude the subject of this Essay with observing that (as it appears to me) a nearer and more familiar acquaintance with persons has a different and more favourable101 effect than that with places or things. The latter improve (as an almost universal rule) by being removed to a distance: the former, generally at least, gain by being brought nearer and more home to us. Report or imagination seldom raises any individual so high in our estimation as to disappoint us greatly when we are introduced to him: prejudice and malice102 constantly exaggerate defects beyond the reality. Ignorance alone makes monsters or bugbears: our actual acquaintances are all very commonplace people. The thing is, that as a matter of hearsay103 or conjecture104, we make abstractions of particular vices105, and irritate ourselves against some particular quality or action of the person we dislike: whereas individuals are concrete existences, not arbitrary denominations106 or nicknames; and have innumerable other qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, besides the damning feature with which we fill up the portrait or caricature in our previous fancies. We can scarcely hate any one that we know. An acute observer complained, that if there was any one to whom he had a particular spite, and a wish to let him see it, the moment he came to sit down with him his enmity was disarmed107 by some unforeseen circumstance. If it was a Quarterly Reviewer, he was in other respects like any other man. Suppose, again, your adversary108 turns out a very ugly man, or wants an eye, you are baulked in that way: he is not what you expected, the object of your abstract hatred109 and implacable disgust. He may be a very disagreeable person, but he is no longer the same. If you come into a room where a man is, you find, in general, that he has a nose upon his face. ‘There’s sympathy!’ This alone is a diversion to your unqualified contempt. He is stupid, and says nothing, but he seems to have something in him when he laughs. You had conceived of him as a rank Whig or Tory — yet he talks upon other subjects. You knew that he was a virulent110 party-writer; but you find that the man himself is a tame sort of animal enough. He does not bite. That’s something. In short, you can make nothing of it. Even opposite vices balance one another. A man may be pert in company, but he is also dull; so that you cannot, though you try, hate him cordially, merely for the wish to be offensive. He i did not know before — that he is a fool as well; so you forgive him. On the other hand, he may be a profligate111 public character, and may make no secret of it; but he gives you a hearty112 shake by the hand, speaks kindly113 to servants, and supports an aged114 father and mother. Politics apart, he is a very honest fellow. You are told that a person has carbuncles on his face; but you have ocular proofs that he is sallow, and pale as a ghost. This does not much mend the matter; but it blunts the edge of the ridicule115, and turns your indignation against the inventor of the lie; but he is ——— the editor of a Scotch116 magazine; so you are just where you were. I am not very fond of anonymous117 criticism; I want to know who the author can be: but the moment I learn this, I am satisfied. Even ——— would do well to come out of his disguise. It is the mask only that we dread118 and hate: the man may have something human about hi from partial representations, or from guess-work, are simple uncompounded ideas, which answer to nothing in reality: those which we derive from experience are mixed modes, the only true, and, in general, the most favourable ones. Instead of naked deformity, or abstract perfection —
Those faultless monsters which the world ne’er saw —
‘the web of our lives is of mingled yarn119, good and ill together: our virtues120 would be proud, if our faults whipt them not; and our vices would despair, if they were not encouraged by our virtues.’ This was truly and finely said long ago, by one who knew the strong and weak points of human nature; but it is what sects121, and parties, and those philosophers whose pride and boast it is to classify by nicknames, have yet to know the meaning of!
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1
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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9
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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12
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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recoils
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| n.（尤指枪炮的）反冲，后坐力( recoil的名词复数 )v.畏缩( recoil的第三人称单数 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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rivets
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| 铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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42
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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45
wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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46
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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47
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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49
burnish
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| v.磨光；使光滑 | |
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50
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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51
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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52
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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53
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
indicator
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| n.指标；指示物，指示者；指示器 | |
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55
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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56
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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57
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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58
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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59
durably
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| adv.经久地，坚牢地 | |
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60
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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61
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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62
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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64
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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65
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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66
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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67
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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68
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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69
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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70
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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71
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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72
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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73
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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74
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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75
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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76
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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77
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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78
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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79
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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80
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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81
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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84
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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85
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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86
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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87
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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88
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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89
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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91
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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92
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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93
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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94
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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98
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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99
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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100
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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101
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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102
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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103
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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104
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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105
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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106
denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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107
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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108
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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109
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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110
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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111
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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112
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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113
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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114
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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115
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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116
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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117
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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118
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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119
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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120
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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121
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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