In 1854 the repeal3 of the Missouri compromise in favour of “squatter sovereignty” recalled him to political life, and he became the champion of Free-soil principles in his State, against the chief sponsor of the opposing doctrine4, the “little giant of Illinois,” Judge Stephen Douglas. His reply to Douglas in October of that year was read and applauded by his party throughout America.
Hitherto he had been a Whig, and during Clay’s lifetime, his devoted5 follower6, but the repeal of the compromise was followed in 1856 by the formation of a new party, and Lincoln and Whitman both became “black republicans”. “Barnburners,” Abolitionists and “Anti-Nebraska” men—those that is to say who opposed the application of the doctrine of “squatter sovereignty” to Nebraska and Kansas—had united to form a new Free-soil party. They nominated J. C. Frémont, the gallant8 Californian “Path-finder” for the Presidency9; but, owing to the presence of a third candidate put forward[Pg 135] by the Know-nothing Whigs—whose only policy seems to have been a “patriotic” hatred10 of all Catholics and foreigners—the Democratic nominee11 was elected for the last time in a generation. After his four years were out, a succession of Republican Presidents occupied the White House for twenty-four years.
James Buchanan, who defeated Frémont—becoming like Lincoln, his successor, a minority President—seems to have been an honourable12 and well-intentioned Pennsylvanian, but he was a man whose character was quite insufficient13 for his new office. As an injudicious, short-sighted diplomatist, he had already, when minister at St. James’s in the days of President Pierce, commended his intrigues14 for the annexation15 of Cuba.
Earlier in 1856 Chief Justice Taney, of the Supreme16 Court, had delivered his notorious decision in the Dred Scott case; laying it down that Congress could not forbid a citizen to carry his property into the public domain—that is to say, it could not prohibit slavery in the territories—and that, in the political sense of the word, a negro was not a “man,” but only property. This decision and the bloody17 scenes enacted18 in Kansas, where settlers from the North and South were met to struggle for the constitution which should make the new State either slave or free, greatly exasperated19 public opinion, and called forth20, among others, the protests of Abraham Lincoln.
In 1858, while Whitman was studying oratory21, Lincoln was stumping22 Illinois, in those ever-memorable23 debates which laid bare all the plots and purposes of the Southern politicians. When the votes in that contest were counted, Lincoln held an actual majority; but Douglas was returned as Senator by a majority of the electoral votes. Though thus defeated, Lincoln was no longer hidden in a Western obscurity. He was a man with a future; and America had half-unconsciously recognised him.
Towards the close of 1859, the fire which had been kindled25 in Kansas flashed out suddenly in Virginia.[Pg 136] America was startled by the news of John Brown’s raid, and the capture of the arsenal27 at Harper’s Ferry.
Brown was among the most remarkable28 personalities29 of the time; and while some saw in him a religious fanatic30 of the Roundhead type, who compelled his enemies to pray at the muzzle31 of his musket32, and who for the Abolition7 cause would shatter the union; others counted him a martyr33 for the cause of freedom. Emerson had been one of his most earnest backers when first he went to Kansas; and now his deed fired the enthusiasm of New England. Thoreau wrote: “No man in America has ever stood up so persistently34 and effectively for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for a man, and the equal of any Government”; and when he was hung, it was Thoreau who vehemently35 declared that John Brown seemed to him to be the only man in America who had not died.[240] His high spirit quickened the conscience of the North, and two years later its sons marched into Virginia singing the song of his apotheosis36.
Whitman was present at the trial of certain of Brown’s abettors in the State House at Boston;[241] one of a group prepared to effect their rescue in the event of a miscarriage37 of justice. Lincoln, on the other hand, was of those who, in spite of their intense hatred of slavery, wholly disapproved38 the Raid. For him, John Brown was a maddened enthusiast39, a mere40 assassin like Orsini.[242] His attempt to raise the slaves of Virginia in revolt against the whites was abhorrent41 to the Republican statesman whose knowledge of the South showed him the horrors of a negro rising. Regarding slavery as the irreconcilable42 and only dangerous foe43 of the Republic, Lincoln held that the Federal Government must restrain it within its actual bounds; and that the sentiment in favour of gradual emancipation44 advocated by Jefferson, the father of the Democratic party, should be encouraged in the States of the South. But it was the States themselves that held and must hold the fatal[Pg 137] right of choice; it was for them, not for America, to liberate45 their slaves.
While the figure of Lincoln was thus becoming more and more visible to the nation, Whitman was fulfilling his own destiny in New York. He was born to be a leader of men; but a poet, a path-finder, a pioneer, not a politician or president. Whatever his noble ambition might urge, or his quick imagination prompt, he kept his feet to the path of his proper destiny.
He had a prodigiously46 wide circle of friends, gathered from every walk of life: journalists and literary men of all kinds; actors and actresses; doctors and an occasional minister of religion; political and public characters; the stage-drivers and the hands on the river-boats; farmers from the country; pilots and captains of the port; labourers, mechanics and artisans of every trade; loungers too, and many a member of that class which society has failed to assimilate and which it hunts from prison to asylum47 and poor-house; and he had acquaintances among another class of outcasts whose numbers were already an open menace to the life of the Western metropolis49, the girls who sell themselves upon the streets.[243]
Many anecdotes50 are told of him during these years: how for instance he would steer51 the ferry-boats, till once he brought his vessel52 into imminent53 peril54, and never thereafter would consent to handle the wheel; or how, during the illness of a comrade, he held his post, driving his stage in the winter weather while he lay in the wards24 of the hospital; or again, how he took Emerson to a favourite rendezvous55 of firemen and teamsters, his good friends, and to the astonishment56 of the kindly57 sage58, proved himself manifestly one of them.
A doctor at the old New York Hospital,[244] a dark stone building surmounted59 by a cupola, and looking out over a grassy60 square through iron gates upon Pearl Street,[Pg 138] often met him in the wards, where he came to visit one or other of his driver friends, and enjoyed the restful influence of his presence there or in the little house-doctor’s room. In those days, when Broadway was crammed61 with vehicles and with stages of all colours, much as is the Strand62 to-day, the proverbial American daring and recklessness gave ample opportunity for accidents. As to the drivers, they were generally country-bred farmers’ sons, fine fellows, wide-awake and thoroughly64 conversant65 with all that passed in the city from the earliest grey of dawn till midnight: and Whitman found some of his closest comrades in their ranks.
Sometimes a member of the hospital staff would go over with him to Pfaff’s German restaurant or Rathskeller on Broadway; a large dingy66 basement to which one descended67 from the street. Here, half under the pavement, were the tables, bar and oyster68 stall, whereat the Bohemians of New York were wont69 to gather, and in a yellow fog of tobacco-smoke denounce all things Bostonian. John Swinton, a friend of Alcott and of Whitman, belonged to the group,[245] and among those who drank Herr Pfaff’s lager-beer, and demolished70 his schwartz brod, Swiss cheese, and Frankfurter wurst, were many of the brilliant little band which at this time was making the New York Saturday Press a challenge to everything academic and respectable.
It was here that a young Bostonian, paying his first visit to the city in 1860,[246] found Whitman installed at the head of a long table, already a hero in that revolutionary young world. The Press was his champion, and his voice was not to be silenced. Mr. Howells, for it was he, had been amused and amazed at the ferociously71 profane72 Bohemianism of the worthy73 editor, who had lived in Paris, and now worshipped it in the person of Victor Hugo as much as he detested74 Longfellow and Boston.
Mr. Howells was astonished and deeply impressed by[Pg 139] the extraordinary charm, gentleness and benignity75 of the man whom the Press was extolling76 as arch-anarch and rebel. Whitman’s eyes and voice made a frank and irresistible77 proffer78 of friendship, and he gave you his hand as though it were yours to keep. An atmosphere of unmistakable purity emanated79 from him in the midst of that thickness of smoke, that reek80 of beer and oysters81 and German cooking. He was clean as the sea is clean. He passed along the ordinary levels of life as one who lives among the mountains, and finds his home on Helicon or Olympus.
Ada Clare[247] (Mrs. Julia Macelhinney), by all accounts a charming and brilliant woman, was queen of this rebel circle, and especially a friend of Whitman’s. News of her tragic82 death from hydrophobia, caused by the bite of her pet dog, came as a terrible shock to all who had known her. He had other women friends, notably84 Mrs. “Abby” Price, of Brooklyn, and her two daughters.[248] The mother was an incurable85 lover of her kind, whose hospitality to the outcast survived all the frauds practised upon it.
The haunted faces of the needy86 were becoming only too familiar both in New York and Brooklyn. The winter of 1857-58 had been a black one:[249] banks had broken, and work had come to a standstill; and there had been in consequence the direst need among the ever-increasing class of men who were wholly dependent upon their weekly earnings87. The rise of this class in a new country marks the advent88 of the social problem in its more acute form: and from this date on there was a rapid development of the usual palliative agencies, missions, rescue-homes and what-not. The permanent problem of poverty had made its appearance in America.
It need hardly be added that at the same time there were many evidences of the growing wealth of another class of the citizens, those whose profits were derived89 from land-values and the employment of wage-labour. The brown-stone characteristic of the modern city was now[Pg 140] replacing the wood and brick which had hitherto lined Broadway,[250] as private houses gave way to shops and offices, hotels and theatres. Residences were built farther and farther up-town; and the Quarantine Station on Staten Island, which stood in the way of a similar expansion in that desirable quarter, was burnt out by aspiring90 citizens. And meanwhile the pressure of life in the East-side rookeries was growing more and more tyrannous.
The foundering91 of a slave-ship off Montauk Point was one of the more striking reminders92 of the menace of vested interests to all that the fathers of the Republic had held dear.[251] For even the slave trade was now being revived, and the hands of Northern merchants were anything but clean from the gold of conspiracy93. Sympathy for the “institution” and its corollaries was strong in New York, and was not unrepresented at Pfaff’s. It must have been about the close of 1861,[252] or a little later, that one of the Bohemians proposed a toast to the success of the Southern arms. Whitman retorted with indignant and passionate94 words: an altercation95 ensued across the table, with some show of ill-mannered violence by the Southern enthusiast; and Whitman left his old haunt, never to return till the great storm of the war had become a far-away echo.
Picture of Walt at forty.
WHITMAN AT FORTY
There are two portraits which belong to the Pfaffian days. In either he might be the stage-driver of Broadway, and his dress presents a striking contrast with the stiff gentility of the orthodox costume, the silk hat and broadcloth, of the correct citizen. He is a great nonchalant fellow, with rough clothes fit for manual toil96; a coat whose collar, by the way, has a rebellious97 upward turn; a waistcoat, all unbuttoned save at a point about half-way down, exposing the loose-collared shirt surrounded by a big knotted tie. The trousers are of the same striped stuff as the vest; one hand is thrust into a pocket, the other holds his broad brim.
In the photograph, which alone is of full length, the[Pg 141] face is strong and kindly, as Mr. Howells saw it; but in the painting, which dates from 1859,[253] and is valuable as showing the florid colouring of the man at this time—the growth of hair and beard, though touched with grey, very vigorous and still dark, the eyebrows98 almost black, the face handsome, red and full as of an old-time sea-captain—the aspect is heavy and even a little sinister99. Probably this is a clumsy rendering100 of that lethargic101 and brooding condition which the occupation of sitting for a portrait would be likely to induce; and in this it is curiously102 unlike that of the photograph.
The pose in the latter is unstudied and a little awkward; one cannot help feeling that the man ought to loaf a little less. The head is magnificent, but the knees are loose. There was something in Whitman’s character which this full-length portrait indicates better than any other; something indefinite and complacent103, which matched with his deliberate and swaggery gait. It is a quality which exasperates104 the formalists, and all the people who feel positively105 indecent in anything but a starched106 shirt.
Whitman wore the garb107 and fell naturally into the attitudes of the manual worker. When he was not at work he was relaxed, and stood at ease in a way that no one could mistake. And when he went out to enjoy himself he never donned a tail-coat and patent shoes. Something in this very capacity for relaxation108 and looseness at the knees made him more companionable to the average man, as it made him more exasperating109 to the superior person. The gentility of the clerical mannikin of the office was utterly110 abominable111 to him; so much one can read in the portrait, and in the fact that he persisted in calling himself Walt, the name which was familiar to the men on the ferry and the road.[254]
Early in 1860 Whitman made arrangements with a firm of young and enterprising Boston publishers for[Pg 142] the issue of a third edition of his book. It had now been out of print for nearly three years, and new material had all that time been accumulating, amounting to about two-thirds of what had already been published.
He went over to Boston and installed himself in a little room at the printing office, where he spent his days carefully correcting and revising the proofs. A friend who found him there speaks of his very quiet manners.[255] He rarely laughed, and never loudly. He seemed to be provokingly indifferent to the impression he was creating, and made no effort to talk brilliantly. He was indeed quite bare of the small change of conversation, and gave no impression of self-consciousness. At the time of this interview he was accompanied by a sickly listless lad whom he had found at the boarding-house where he stayed. Whitman had compassion113 on him and carried him along, in order that he might communicate something of his own superabundant vitality114 to him.
During his stay in Boston, Walt frequently attended the services then conducted at the Seamen’s Bethel by Father Taylor.[256] As a rule, he avoided churches of every sort, feeling acutely the ineffectiveness of what is grimly called “Divine Service,” feeling also that worship was for the soul in its solitude115.[257] Not that he was ignorant of that social passion which finds its altar in communion of spirit, or was blind to the deepest mysteries of fellowship. To these, as we shall see, he was particularly sensitive. But the formalities of a church must have seemed foolish and irksome to one for whom all fellowship was a kind of worship, and all desire was a prayer. In the preaching of Father Taylor there was nothing formal or ineffective. In it Walt felt anew the passionate sense of reality which had thrilled him as a child in the preaching of old Elias Hicks.
Father Taylor was now nearly seventy;[258] a southerner by birth, he had been a sailor, and became upon conver[Pg 143]sion a “shouting Methodist”. The earnestness of his first devotion remained with him to the last; and his prayers were especially marked by the power which flowed from him continually. Behind the high pulpit in the quaint48 heavily-timbered, wood-scented chapel116 was painted a ship in distress117, in vivid illustration of his words which were ever returning to the sea. All his ways were eloquent118, unconventional, picturesque119 and homely120 like his face, so that he won the hearts of all conditions of men, and became one of the idols121 of Boston.
The old man’s power of fascination122 seemed almost terrible to his hearers; one young sailor opined that he must be the actual Holy Ghost. Walt himself was always moved to tears by the marvellous intimacy123 of his passionate pleading in prayer.[259] He spoke124 straight to the Soul, and not at all, as do common preachers, to the intelligence or the superficial emotions; and the Soul of his hearers answered, with the awful promptitude of an unknown living presence within. His passion of love was at once tender and remorseless; Whitman compares him with a surgeon operating upon a beloved patient.
In this man, before whom all the elocution of the platform was mere trickery, Walt recognised the one “essentially perfect orator” whom he had ever heard, the only one who fulfilled the demands of his own ideal. And be it remembered, Theodore Parker was in his power in those days, while Father Taylor was an evangelical of the old school. It is, after all, not mysticism but orthodoxy which is exclusive; and though he was wholly a heretic, Whitman was able fully112 to love and appreciate those who were farthest removed from his own point of view.
Upon this visit Emerson and Whitman saw much of one another. They were both men in middle life—Emerson had passed his fiftieth year—and each entertained for the other a feeling of warm and affectionate[Pg 144] regard. Whitman felt toward the older man almost as to an elder brother,[260] and the sweet and wise and kindly spirit of Emerson frequently sought out the younger in brotherly solicitude125 for his welfare.
Their intimacy had sprung from Emerson’s letter, and it was always Emerson who pressed it. Something in the mental atmosphere in which the Concord126 philosopher moved was very repellant to Whitman: he positively disliked “a literary circle,” and blamed it for all the real or imagined shortcomings of his friend. He himself would not go to Concord from his horror of any sort of lionizing.
So when Emerson wanted to talk, they would walk together on the Common;[261] as on one memorable, bright, keen February day, when under the bare branches of the American elms, they paced to and fro discoursing127 earnestly.
Emerson’s name had been somewhat too conspicuously128 displayed on the back of the second edition, of which he had been caused to appear almost as a sponsor; and some of the lines thus introduced had put his Puritan friends completely out of countenance129, while giving his many enemies an admirable opportunity to blaspheme. The frank celebration of acts to which modern society only alludes130 by indirection, revealed to the observant eye of orthodoxy that cloven hoof131 of immorality132 which it always suspects concealed133 about the person of the philosophic134 heretic. And we can well imagine the consternation135 of the blameless householder of Boston as, in the bosom136 of his astonished family, he read aloud the pages commended to him by the words of the master.
It was thus upon Emerson, who did not quite approve the offending poems, that much of the storm of indignation wreaked137 itself; and whatever Emerson himself might think of the situation, his family was indignant. One can almost hear them arguing that a man has heresies138 enough of his own to close the ears of men to[Pg 145] his message, without gratuitous139 implication in heresies which are not his; if he value his charge, let him keep clear of other men’s eccentricities140; he really has no right to allow himself to be represented as the sponsor for such sentiments as Whitman printed in the Body Electric.[262]
But whatever his friends might counsel, Emerson spoke from his own heart and wisdom that February day. He was pleading not for himself, but for the truth as he saw it, and for his offending friend. It was not because the book was being published as it were in his own diocese, his own beloved Boston; but because the new edition would be the first to be issued by a responsible house, and destined141, probably, to enjoy a wide and permanent circulation, remaining for years the final utterance142 of Whitman upon these matters, that Emerson was so urgent and so eloquent.
His position was a strong one; his arguments, and the spirit which prompted them, were, as Whitman admitted, overwhelming, and his companion was in a sense convinced. It is much to be regretted that neither of the friends kept any detailed143 record of this discussion, but I think we can guess what the older man’s position would be.
Your message of the soul, we can imagine Emerson saying, is of the utmost importance to America: it is what America needs, and it is what you, and you alone, can make her hear. But you can only make her hear it, if you state it in the most convincing and simple way.
Now these poems of yours upon sex complicate144 and confuse the real message, not because they are necessarily wrong in themselves—I do not say they are—but because they do and must give rise to misunderstanding, and in consequence, obscure or even cancel the rest. They give the book an evil notoriety, and will create for it a succès de scandale. It will be bought and read by the prurient145, to whom its worth will be wholly sealed.
And not only do you destroy the value of the book[Pg 146] by printing such poems as these, you render it actually dangerous. Personally you and I are agreed—he would say—with Boehme where he writes that “the new spirit cometh to Divine vision in himself, and heareth God’s word, and hath Divine understanding and inclination146 ... and ... the earthly flesh ... hurteth him not at all”.[263] We know the flesh to be beautiful and sacred; we turn with loathing147 from the blasphemies148 of Saint Bernard and of Luther, who saw in it nothing but a maggot-sack, a sack of dung. On these things we are at one; but how are we most wisely and surely to direct others on the road to self-realisation?
To feed the monster of a crude passion is surely not the way to bring the individual toward the Divine vision. To be frank about these matters is necessary; but in order to be honest is it necessary to fling abroad this wildfire, against which we are all contending, lest it destroy the labours of ages? Must we nourish this giant, whose unruly strength is for ever threatening to tear in pieces the unity63 of the self?
By these poems you are deliberately149 consigning150 your book to the class which every wise parent must label “dangerous to young people,” and which the very spirits you most desire to kindle26 for America will be compelled, by the law of their being, to handle at their peril, and to turn from with distress.
Arguments not unlike these were doubtless used by Emerson, for we know that he discussed this problem; and Whitman listened attentively151 to them, explaining himself at times, but generally weighing them in silence. Perhaps they were not new to him, but they were rendered the more powerful and well-nigh irresistible by the persuasive152 and beautiful spirit, the whole magnetic personality of his friend.
Walt was deeply moved, and when, after a couple of hours, Emerson concluded the statement of his case with the challenge, “What have you to say to such[Pg 147] things?” could but reply, “Only that while I can’t answer them at all, I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my own theory and exemplify it”. “Very well,” responded Emerson cheerfully, “then let us go to dinner.”[264]
They had been pacing up and down the Long Walk by Beacon153 Street, from which one looks across the broad, park-like stretch of the Common—that Common whose grey, bright-eyed squirrels are so confiding154, and whose air is so good from the sea. To-day the oldest of the elms, that kept record of the past as wisely as any archives, have yielded to the winds and to the tooth of time. The growth of these trees is very different from that of our English species, and their long, curving branches rib83 the vault155 of sky overhead. The two men went over the historic hill—where now the gilded156 dome157 of the State House glows richly against the sky—descending through picturesquely158 narrow streets, full of memories and echoes of old days, to their destination at the American House.
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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presidency
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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nominee
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| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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annexation
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supreme
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bloody
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enacted
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exasperated
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forth
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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memorable
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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kindle
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arsenal
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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personalities
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fanatic
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muzzle
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musket
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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persistently
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vehemently
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36
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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37
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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38
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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40
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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41
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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42
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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43
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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44
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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45
liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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46
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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47
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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48
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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49
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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50
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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51
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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52
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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53
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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54
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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55
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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56
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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57
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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58
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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59
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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60
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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61
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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62
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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63
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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64
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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65
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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66
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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67
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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68
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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69
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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70
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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71
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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72
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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76
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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77
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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78
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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79
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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80
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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81
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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82
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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83
rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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84
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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85
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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86
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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87
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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88
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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89
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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90
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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91
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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92
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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93
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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94
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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95
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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96
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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97
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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98
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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99
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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100
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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101
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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102
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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103
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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104
exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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106
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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108
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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109
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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110
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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111
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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112
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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113
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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114
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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115
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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116
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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117
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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118
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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119
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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120
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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121
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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122
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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123
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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124
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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125
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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126
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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127
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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128
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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129
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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130
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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132
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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133
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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134
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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135
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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136
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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137
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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139
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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140
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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141
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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142
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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143
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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144
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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145
prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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146
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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147
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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148
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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149
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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150
consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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151
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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152
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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153
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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154
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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155
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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156
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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157
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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158
picturesquely
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