Every season has its own charm in England. Even winter, in its stern, rude aspect, its brawling8 voice of winds and storms, has, in the deep, still haunts of nature, its own peculiar beauty. Spring, with its young, fresh joyousness10, its sparkling glory of earth and sky—its gushing11 atmosphere; for, as the breeze comes laughing and dancing along, we can give it no other term. Summer, with its still and deeper feeling, as if the dancing light and glittering love of the youthful year had sobered into a being deeper, stronger, more fervid13 and intense. Then autumn, decking decay with such bright beauty, shedding a parting halo on the fading year; concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet, dreamy pensiveness15, which, while it lingers almost mournfully on earth’s parting glories, looks through their passing light into their renovated16 being, reading in the death and resurrection of nature the spirit’s immortality18.
One charm, indeed, spring possesses beyond those of the other seasons; it is, that almost every hour of the day is equally delicious; in the morning, noon, afternoon, or evening, we may come forth and make acquaintance with her in every variety of aspect, each one as lovely as the other. Evening indeed is the hour of that delicious musing20 which, in the very blessedness of the PRESENT, unconsciously recalls the loveliest images of the PAST, and adumbrates21 the FUTURE, by the thrilling whisper of our immortal17 goal. It is then that, as Wordsworth says—
“We are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul.”
But these are not the sensations of the morning; then life is infused with the PRESENT alone. We can neither recall, nor think, nor hope; we do but believe, and love, and feel, conscious only of the blessing22 of Existence, of the omnipotence23 of Love!
It was with all the elastic24 joyousness of such sensations I hastened up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the top to gaze beneath me. There lay Old Ocean, slumbering25 in the early sunshine as a lake of molten gold, tinged26 here and there with the shadow of overhanging rocks, and ever and anon fringed with a snowy crest27, as a passing breeze rocked the waves into heavier swell28. The broad and graceful29 river, rushing boldly and proudly into its parent sea; its undulating course visible for miles up the land; its shores skirted with towns half buried in foliage30; churches, towers, and villages coming forth in the glowing light from their background of hills dark with verdure; headlands, bold, rugged31, and broken into every diversity of form; Powder-ham’s castellated mansion32 glancing through magnificent plantations33, with their glades34 and lawns of emerald issuing from the deeper shadows as jewels of the sunshine. Mamhead just visible through its dark, dense35 woods; and farther still in the distance, woody uplands and barren rocks towering above the broken summits of the headlands, taking every grotesque36 form from the clouds lingering above them, and at length fading into ether, changing like phantasmagoria beneath the magic influence of light and shade, and mist and sun.
My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a perfect mosaic37 of gold, and white and green, formed by the patches of grass, kingcup, and daisy, leading into those narrow, luxuriant lanes, with their gurgling streamlets and clustering flowers which mark at once the county of Devon.
The hedges rose high above my head, and from them sprung forth the oak, and elm, and beech38, and ash, bearing the weight of centuries on their lofty trunks and far-spreading branches; the hawthorn39, with its blossoms just tipping its rich green as with a shower of snow; and the holly40 standing41 forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage of the early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in the hedge disclosed a complete mass of hill, and wood, and orchard42; on one side bounded by sea and sky, on the other stretching farther and farther inland, till hills met the sky, and seemed to close around the landscape. Every shade of green, from the darkest to the lightest, was visible in the tender foliage—some as if already clothed in the intenser hues43 of summer; others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that their exquisite44 tracery was distinctly marked against the clear blue sky. The orchards45 already lay as patches of snow in their verdant46 dells, and primroses48 and violets by thousands clustered on the banks of the clear, trickling49 streamlet which skirted the deep green hedge as a fringe of silver.
I do so love the primrose47; there is something so sad and pensive14 in her meek50, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent stars from their darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the laughing waters, as if their very mirth were sad to her. And the deep purple violet, shrouding51 itself in silence, yet seeming in its very scent52, to smile and whisper joy. And the speedwell, with its full blue petals53 and delicate stems, which literally54 bend beneath their weight of blossom, light and fragile as they are; the deep-red campion, with its gorgeous clusters, looking proudly down on its humbler brethren, rejoicing in its lofty home, that it may fade unplucked upon its stem; these and countless55 other flowers gemmed56 the hedge a very garniture of love.
There was no sound save the delicious music of the fresh springy breeze, as it wantoned with the glistening57 leaves, or played with the gushing waters, inciting58 them to break in tiny waves against the hedge; and the rich thrilling melody of the happy birds, calling to each other from tree to tree, or sending forth such a gush12 of song, such a trilling flow of rapture59, that their slender throats seemed quivering with the effort; then would come silence, as startled and hushed by their own joy; and then a low twittering, with perhaps the distant call of the lonely cuckoo, and a burst of melody again.
After rambling60 amid such scenes and sounds for about two miles, a thick grove61 of lofty trees, interspersed62 with thatched roofs, ivy-clad and smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys of every architecture, marked its termination. The lane narrowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic63 gate opened into an old churchyard, surrounding a village church of such extreme old age, and so picturesque64, that it sent me back in fancy centuries at once. There was the low, square belfry, indented65 and fractured, with lichen66 and moss67, and flowering weeds springing from every crevice68; the long and rambling choir69, roofed with copper70; the slender buttresses71; the small-paned windows, some of Saxon, some of Tudor architecture; the large square porch or entrance, with its grotesque carvings72, that could only belong to the middle ages. The very trees, massive alike in root, and trunk, and branch; yews73 so dark and thick, they seemed in the distance more as solid masonry74 than trees—looked as if they had stood there grim guardians75 of the holy dead for centuries; and grassy76 graves and quaint19 old tombs, so battered77 with age and atmosphere as wholly to obliterate78 their inscriptions79—though some bore date as far back as 1500—strewed the ground, so closely congregated80 that there was no space for a foot between.
The very birds seemed imbued81 with the spirit of the place, for they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or winging their way to less sacred groves82. A sudden sound awoke me from my musing, and transported me at once from past to present; a joyous9 peal83 burst forth from the old belfry, and a kindly84 voice accosted85 me with—“Maybe, you’d like to walk in, sir, and see the old place? You’d ha’ time to look round ye afore the wedding party comes; and if not, there’ll be time enow during the service.”
The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old guide; for if one place in the country be more interesting to me than any other, it is an old village church, so buried in its own beautiful site that the roar of the railroad can never reach it; where we can stand still and breathe, apart from the rush and the turmoil86, and the haste, still pressing onward—onward, in the vain strife87 for man’s intellect to keep pace with the giant he has raised, which is now the constant accompaniment of the neighbourhood of towns. The interior betrayed still greater age than the exterior88; the windows were painted rudely but gaudily89, throwing streams of coloured light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving the remainder of the interior in that dim twilight90 so in unison91 with holiness and age. An antique shrine92, adorned93 with most grotesque, and to me incomprehensible carvings, ran between the nave94 and chancel. The nave, fitted up as a Protestant place of worship, with pews and seats, looked more modern than the chancel; though the very black oak of its furniture gave it a venerable appearance, and seemed to mark its date as among the earliest of the reformed churches, while the dilapidated pavement and crumbling95 seats of the chancel spoke96 of an age still further back. The font was roughly hewn out of a single stone. I was intently engaged in endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions and dates on the stone flooring, which appeared entirely97 made up of graves, when the entreaty98 of the old clerk that I would withdraw into a pew, as the wedding party was approaching, most abruptly99 scared away all my antiquarian lore100, and transported me, very unwillingly101, if the truth must be told, to the contemplation of that common, every-day occurrence, a modern wedding.
But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or seven persons, riveted102 my interest. In my whole London career I had never seen such a face of intellect, and soul, and beauty as that of the bride. Whether it was the contrast of such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern old shrine around, or the excessive agitation103 of the bridegroom, and the almost extraordinary self-possession of the bride, I know not; but no marriage ceremony ever affected104 me as this. Self-possessed105 as she was, there was no absence of feeling; her cheek was perfectly106 colourless, and at times there seemed a slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the effort to retain her composure was too painful to be continued, and only persevered107 in for him. His responses were wholly inaudible; hers so distinct and thrilling, they affected me almost to tears. The clergyman himself, though young, and, by his gay careless face and manner, the only one who did not well assimilate with the scene, became gradually impressed with its unusual solemnity. The embrace with which, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the bridegroom folded the bride to his heart, was so full of passionate108 feeling, of such suppressed yet intense emotion, even I could scarcely witness it unmoved, and it completely checked the customary joyous greetings of their companions.
I followed them almost unconsciously from the church, saw them enter the two carriages waiting for them outside the little gate, and remained leaning on a tombstone overlooking the road, long after they had disappeared. My reverie was interrupted by a courteous109 address from the young clergyman who, having noticed my attendance in the church, volunteered the information which I so much desired.
Pierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Martinique, having received the best education which an alternate residence in France and England could bestow110, returned to his father only to feel that a residence in Martinique was about the most miserable111 thing that could happen to him, and so again made his appearance in England. He sought no profession, because he had no need to do so, his father’s possessions being immense. Joining in the very best society, in which a handsome face, elegant address, and highly cultivated mind gave him many advantages, he became acquainted with the reigning112 beauty of the season, Helen Campbell. Now Pierre had a decided113 aversion to cried-up beauties, and so he resolved that, however she might conquer others, she should never obtain any power over him. It is one thing to make a wise resolution, and another to keep it. It so happened that Helen Campbell possessed none of the repulsive114 attributes of an acknowledged beauty. She was in truth, much more lovely than he had anticipated, but it was the intellectuality of her sweet face which was its peculiar charm. She was frank, truthful115, gay—nay, almost wild in her joyousness; and, moreover, possessed the spell of one of the sweetest voices, either in speech or song, which he had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long time, but it would not do; he was fairly conquered: and then for the first time, he imagined himself wanting in every quality likely to make that love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence and reserve, was in a fair way of actually creating the evil he dreaded116, had not a mutual117 friend opened his eyes, and with sudden desperation he urged his suit, and discovered, to his inexpressible happiness, that his love was returned.
For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to his father, and did not harbour a single doubt as to his residence being permanently118 fixed119 in England, although Helen had made no such condition to his acceptance. Anxiously the arrival of the packet was anticipated; but instead of the answer expected, it brought news so overwhelming, that the unfortunate Pierre was at first verging120 on distraction121.
Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined; a revolt in the slave population of the island had taken place, and his extensive plantations were burnt to ashes. Other heavy losses had congregated round him; and what with these misfortunes, and having been severely122 wounded in the revolt, his health appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion still reigned123; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope that, when all was quiet again, the Laval losses might not involve such utter ruin as at present appeared. Nothing was so earnestly desired, in fact, so indispensable, as the immediate124 presence of Pierre.
For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his thoughts to order; and at length, hardly knowing what he did, he sought his betrothed125, told her all, and with a desperate effort, offered to resign all his pretensions126 to her hand; he was a ruined man—must labour for years in Martinique; how could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious127 home, country, friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery128 in a distant colony, for him? She heard him quietly to the end, and then clasping his hand, vowed129 nothing should part them. She was his by the most holy of all ties—mutual love and truth; and no persuasion130, no effort, could turn her from his side. In vain her mother and all her friends seconded Laval’s appeal, urging the madness of the sacrifice. Helen’s only reply was, “Had the voice of man united us, would you thus persuade me? Would you not bid me follow my husband through weal and through woe131? And shall I do less now, because freedom is in my power? I could desert him if I chose. No, no, mother, you have other children, who will be to you all I have been. Pierre has but me,” and no subsequent persuasion had power to shake her resolution. It was, however, thought advisable that Pierre should seek Martinique alone; and that when affairs were a little quiet, he should either return for her, or she should go to him. But how could she join him, an unprotected girl in a strange land? She saw that he hesitated to speak the only means, and so spoke them for him: “Give me the sanctity, the protection of your name, my Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a wife who joins her husband? If the day which unites us, must also bid us part, let it be so; but save me, as your wife, from attentions and notice, and persuasions132 which may be forced upon me.”
Pierre’s first answer was a wild and passionate embrace; his next, as passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his doom133 to banish134 her to a home so little congenial to her taste, as the burning climate would be to her health. And it was long ere she could soothe135 or chide136 him into composure; for the more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the more bitterly he felt the extent of sacrifice she made.
Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition137 and upbraiding138 as to her romantic far-fetched folly139; but hers was not a mind to change or waver, when feeling and principle had alike dictated140 her resolution.
Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth; and yearning141 for the quiet only found amid the repose142 of nature, Helen prevailed on her mother to reside for the next few months in Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed; and when I heard that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was to part from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when united by the holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few troubled hours were left them together, I no longer wondered at the emotion I had beheld143.
Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted me with the vain longing144 to know if indeed that unworldly love had been blessed as it deserved, and when those loving and aching hearts did meet again. For years that olden shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in itself, blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in the present; and never can I recall the old altar to my mind without beholding145 in fancy the sweet shadowy form of Helen Campbell, and the suppressed but terrible emotion of her Pierre.
点击收听单词发音
1 beacon | |
n.烽火,(警告用的)闪火灯,灯塔 | |
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2 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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3 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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4 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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5 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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6 scatter | |
vt.撒,驱散,散开;散布/播;vi.分散,消散 | |
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7 profusion | |
n.挥霍;丰富 | |
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8 brawling | |
n.争吵,喧嚷 | |
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9 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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10 joyousness | |
快乐,使人喜悦 | |
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11 gushing | |
adj.迸出的;涌出的;喷出的;过分热情的v.喷,涌( gush的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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12 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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13 fervid | |
adj.热情的;炽热的 | |
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14 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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15 pensiveness | |
n.pensive(沉思的)的变形 | |
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16 renovated | |
翻新,修复,整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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18 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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19 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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20 musing | |
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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21 adumbrates | |
v.约略显示,勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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23 omnipotence | |
n.全能,万能,无限威力 | |
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24 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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25 slumbering | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的现在分词形式) | |
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26 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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28 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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29 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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30 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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31 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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32 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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33 plantations | |
n.种植园,大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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34 glades | |
n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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35 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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36 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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37 mosaic | |
n./adj.镶嵌细工的,镶嵌工艺品的,嵌花式的 | |
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38 beech | |
n.山毛榉;adj.山毛榉的 | |
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39 hawthorn | |
山楂 | |
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40 holly | |
n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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41 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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42 orchard | |
n.果园,果园里的全部果树,(美俚)棒球场 | |
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43 hues | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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44 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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45 orchards | |
(通常指围起来的)果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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46 verdant | |
adj.翠绿的,青翠的,生疏的,不老练的 | |
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47 primrose | |
n.樱草,最佳部分, | |
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48 primroses | |
n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 );淡黄色;追求享乐(招至恶果) | |
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49 trickling | |
n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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50 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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51 shrouding | |
n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 );保密 | |
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52 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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53 petals | |
n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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54 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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55 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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56 gemmed | |
点缀(gem的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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57 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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58 inciting | |
刺激的,煽动的 | |
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59 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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60 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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61 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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62 interspersed | |
adj.[医]散开的;点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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64 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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65 indented | |
adj.锯齿状的,高低不平的;缩进排版 | |
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66 lichen | |
n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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67 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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68 crevice | |
n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝;缺口 | |
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69 choir | |
n.唱诗班,唱诗班的席位,合唱团,舞蹈团;v.合唱 | |
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70 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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71 buttresses | |
n.扶壁,扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑,加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72 carvings | |
n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 );雕刻术;雕刻品;雕刻物 | |
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73 yews | |
n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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74 masonry | |
n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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75 guardians | |
监护人( guardian的名词复数 ); 保护者,维护者 | |
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76 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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77 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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78 obliterate | |
v.擦去,涂抹,去掉...痕迹,消失,除去 | |
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79 inscriptions | |
(作者)题词( inscription的名词复数 ); 献词; 碑文; 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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80 congregated | |
(使)集合,聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81 imbued | |
v.使(某人/某事)充满或激起(感情等)( imbue的过去式和过去分词 );使充满;灌输;激发(强烈感情或品质等) | |
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82 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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83 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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84 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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85 accosted | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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86 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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87 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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88 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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89 gaudily | |
adv.俗丽地 | |
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90 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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91 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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92 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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93 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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94 nave | |
n.教堂的中部;本堂 | |
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95 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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96 spoke | |
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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97 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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98 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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99 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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100 lore | |
n.传说;学问,经验,知识 | |
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101 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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102 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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103 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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104 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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105 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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106 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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107 persevered | |
v.坚忍,坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108 passionate | |
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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109 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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110 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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111 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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112 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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113 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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114 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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115 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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116 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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117 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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118 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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119 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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120 verging | |
接近,逼近(verge的现在分词形式) | |
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121 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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122 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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123 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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124 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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125 betrothed | |
n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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126 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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127 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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128 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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129 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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130 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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131 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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132 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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133 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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134 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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135 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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136 chide | |
v.叱责;谴责 | |
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137 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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138 upbraiding | |
adj.& n.谴责(的)v.责备,申斥,谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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139 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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140 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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141 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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142 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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143 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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144 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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145 beholding | |
v.看,注视( behold的现在分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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