Before resuming the narrative28 of his first adventures, and the building of the great brotherhood29 which was the beginning of so merciful a revolution, I think it well to complete this imperfect personal portrait here; and having attempted in the last chapter a tentative description of the process, to add in this chapter a few touches to describe the result. I mean by the result the real man as he was after his first formative experiences; the man whom men met walking about on the Italian roads in his brown tunic31 tied with a rope. For that man, saving the grace of God, is the explanation of all that followed; men acted quite differently according to whether they had met him or not. If we see afterwards a vast tumult32, an appeal to the Pope, mobs of men in brown habits besieging33 the seats of authority, Papal pronouncements, heretical sessions, trial and triumphant34 survival, the world full of a new movement, the friar a household word in every corner of Europe, and if we ask why all this happened, we can only approximate to any answer to our own question if we can, in some faint and indirect imaginative fashion, hear one human voice or see one human face under a hood30. There is no answer except that Francis Bernardone had {97}happened; and we must try in some sense to see what we should have seen if he had happened to us. In other words, after some groping suggestions about his life from the inside, we must again consider it from the outside; as if he were a stranger coming up the road towards us, along the hills of Umbria, between the olives or the vines.
Francis of Assisi was slight in figure with that sort of slightness which, combined with so much vivacity35, gives the impression of smallness. He was probably taller than he looked; middle-sized, his biographers say; he was certainly very active and, considering what he went through, must have been tolerably tough. He was of the brownish Southern colouring, with a dark beard thin and pointed37 such as appears in pictures under the hoods38 of elves; and his eyes glowed with the fire that fretted39 him night and day. There is something about the description of all he said and did which suggests that, even more than most Italians, he turned naturally to a passionate40 pantomime of gestures. If this was so it is equally certain that with him, even more than with most Italians, the gestures were all gestures of politeness or hospitality. And both these facts, the vivacity and the courtesy, are the outward signs of something that mark him out very distinctively41 from many who might appear to be more of his kind than they really are. It is truly said {98}that Francis of Assisi was one of the founders43 of the medieval drama, and therefore of the modern drama. He was the very reverse of a theatrical44 person in the selfish sense; but for all that he was pre-eminently a dramatic person. This side of him can best be suggested by taking what is commonly regarded as a reposeful46 quality; what is commonly described as a love of nature. We are compelled to use the term; and it is entirely47 the wrong term.
St. Francis was not a lover of nature. Properly understood, a lover of nature was precisely48 what he was not. The phrase implies accepting the material universe as a vague environment, a sort of sentimental49 pantheism. In the romantic period of literature, in the age of Byron and Scott, it was easy enough to imagine that a hermit50 in the ruins of a chapel51 (preferably by moonlight) might find peace and a mild pleasure in the harmony of solemn forests and silent stars, while he pondered over some scroll52 or illuminated53 volume, about the liturgical54 nature of which the author was a little vague. In short, the hermit might love nature as a background. Now for St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. We might say that his mind had no background, except perhaps that divine darkness out of which the divine love had called up every coloured creature one by one. He saw everything as dramatic, distinct from its setting, not all of a {99}piece like a picture but in action like a play. A bird went by him like an arrow; something with a story and a purpose, though it was a purpose of life and not a purpose of death. A bush could stop him like a brigand55; and indeed he was as ready to welcome the brigand as the bush.
In a word, we talk about a man who cannot see the wood for the trees. St. Francis was a man who did not want to see the wood for the trees. He wanted to see each tree as a separate and almost a sacred thing, being a child of God and therefore a brother or sister of man. But he did not want to stand against a piece of stage scenery used merely as a background, and inscribed56 in a general fashion: "Scene; a wood." In this sense we might say that he was too dramatic for the drama. The scenery would have come to life in his comedies; the walls would really have spoken like Snout the Tinker and the trees would really have come walking to Dunsinane. Everything would have been in the foreground; and in that sense in the footlights. Everything would be in every sense a character. This is the quality in which, as a poet, he is the very opposite of a pantheist. He did not call nature his mother; he called a particular donkey his brother or a particular sparrow his sister. If he had called a pelican58 his aunt or an elephant his uncle, as he might possibly have done, he would still have meant that they were particular creatures assigned by their {100}Creator to particular places; not mere9 expressions of the evolutionary59 energy of things. That is where his mysticism is so close to the common sense of the child. A child has no difficulty about understanding that God made the dog and the cat; though he is well aware that the making of dogs and cats out of nothing is a mysterious process beyond his own imagination. But no child would understand what you meant if you mixed up the dog and the cat and everything else into one monster with a myriad60 legs and called it nature. The child would resolutely61 refuse to make head or tail of any such animal. St. Francis was a mystic, but he believed in mysticism and not in mystification. As a mystic he was the mortal enemy of all those mystics who melt away the edges of things and dissolve an entity62 into its environment. He was a mystic of the daylight and the darkness; but not a mystic of the twilight63. He was the very contrary of that sort of oriental visionary who is only a mystic because he is too much of a sceptic to be a materialist16. St. Francis was emphatically a realist, using the word realist in its much more real medieval sense. In this matter he really was akin45 to the best spirit of his age, which had just won its victory over the nominalism of the twelfth century. In this indeed there was something symbolic64 in the contemporary art and decoration of his period; as in the art of heraldry. The Franciscan birds and beasts {101}were really rather like heraldic birds and beasts; not in the sense of being fabulous65 animals but in the sense of being treated as if they were facts, clear and positive and unaffected by the illusions of atmosphere and perspective. In that sense he did see a bird sable66 on a field azure67 or a sheep argent on a field vert. But the heraldry of humility was richer than the heraldry of pride; for it saw all these things that God had given as something more precious and unique than the blazonry that princes and peers had only given to themselves. Indeed out of the depths of that surrender it rose higher than the highest titles of the feudal68 age; than the laurel of Cæsar or the Iron Crown of Lombardy. It is an example of extremes that meet, that the Little Poor Man, who had stripped himself of everything and named himself as nothing, took the same title that has been the wild vaunt of the vanity of the gorgeous Asiatic autocrat69, and called himself the Brother of the Sun and Moon.
This quality, of something outstanding and even startling in things as St. Francis saw them, is here important as illustrating70 a character in his own life. As he saw all things dramatically, so he himself was always dramatic. We have to assume throughout, needless to say, that he was a poet and can only be understood as a poet. But he had one poetic71 privilege denied to most poets. In that respect indeed he might be called the one happy {102}poet among all the unhappy poets of the world. He was a poet whose whole life was a poem. He was not so much a minstrel merely singing his own songs as a dramatist capable of acting72 the whole of his own play. The things he said were more imaginative than the things he wrote. The things he did were more imaginative than the things he said. His whole course through life was a series of scenes in which he had a sort of perpetual luck in bringing things to a beautiful crisis. To talk about the art of living has come to sound rather artificial than artistic73. But St. Francis did in a definite sense make the very act of living an art, though it was an unpremeditated art. Many of his acts will seem grotesque74 and puzzling to a rationalistic taste. But they were always acts and not explanations; and they always meant what he meant them to mean. The amazing vividness with which he stamped himself on the memory and imagination of mankind is very largely due to the fact that he was seen again and again under such dramatic conditions. From the moment when he rent his robes and flung them at his father's feet to the moment when he stretched himself in death on the bare earth in the pattern of the cross, his life was made up of these unconscious attitudes and unhesitating gestures. It would be easy to fill page after page with examples; but I will here pursue the method found convenient everywhere in this short sketch75, and {103}take one typical example, dwelling76 on it with a little more detail than would be possible in a catalogue, in the hope of making the meaning more clear. The example taken here occurred in the last days of his life, but it refers back in a rather curious fashion to the first; and rounds off the remarkable77 unity78 of that romance of religion.
The phrase about his brotherhood with the sun and moon, and with the water and the fire, occurs of course in his famous poem called the Canticle of the Creatures or the Canticle of the Sun. He sang it wandering in the meadows in the sunnier season of his own career, when he was pouring upwards79 into the sky all the passions of a poet. It is a supremely81 characteristic work, and much of St. Francis could be reconstructed from that work alone. Though in some ways the thing is as simple and straightforward82 as a ballad83, there is a delicate instinct of differentiation18 in it. Notice, for instance, the sense of sex in inanimate things, which goes far beyond the arbitrary genders84 of a grammar. It was not for nothing that he called fire his brother, fierce and gay and strong, and water his sister, pure and clear and inviolate85. Remember that St. Francis was neither encumbered86 nor assisted by all that Greek and Roman polytheism turned into allegory, which has been to European poetry often an inspiration, too often a convention. Whether he gained or lost by his contempt of learning, it never occurred to him {104}to connect Neptune87 and the nymphs with the water or Vulcan and the Cyclops with the flame. This point exactly illustrates88 what has already been suggested; that, so far from being a revival89 of paganism, the Franciscan renascence was a sort of fresh start and first awakening90 after a forgetfulness of paganism. Certainly it is responsible for a certain freshness in the thing itself. Anyhow St. Francis was, as it were, the founder42 of a new folk-lore; but he could distinguish his mermaids91 from his mermen and his witches from his wizards. In short, he had to make his own mythology92; but he knew at a glance the goddesses from the gods. This fanciful instinct for the sexes is not the only example of an imaginative instinct of the kind. There is just the same quaint93 felicity in the fact that he singles out the sun with a slightly more courtly title besides that of brother; a phrase that one king might use of another, corresponding to "Monsieur notre frère." It is like a faint half ironic94 shadow of the shining primacy that it had held in the pagan heavens. A bishop95 is said to have complained of a Nonconformist saying Paul instead of Saint Paul; and to have added "He might at least have called him Mr. Paul." So St. Francis is free of all obligation to cry out in praise or terror on the Lord God Apollo, but in his new nursery heavens, he salutes96 him as Mr. Sun. Those are the things in which he has a sort of inspired infancy97, only to be paralleled in nursery {105}tales. Something of the same hazy98 but healthy awe99 makes the story of Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit refer respectfully to Mr. Man.
This poem, full of the mirth of youth and the memories of childhood, runs through his whole life like a refrain, and scraps100 of it turn up continually in the ordinary habit of his talk. Perhaps the last appearance of its special language was in an incident that has always seemed to me intensely impressive, and is at any rate very illustrative of the great manner and gesture of which I speak. Impressions of that kind are a matter of imagination and in that sense of taste. It is idle to argue about them; for it is the whole point of them that they have passed beyond words; and even when they use words, seem to be completed by some ritual movement like a blessing101 or a blow. So, in a supreme80 example, there is something far past all exposition, something like the sweeping102 movement and mighty103 shadow of a hand, darkening even the darkness of Gethsemane; "Sleep on now, and take your rest...." Yet there are people who have started to paraphrase104 and expand the story of the Passion.
St. Francis was a dying man. We might say he was an old man, at the time this typical incident occurred; but in fact he was only prematurely105 old; for he was not fifty when he died, worn out with his fighting and fasting life. But when he came down from the awful asceticism106 and more {106}awful revelation of Alverno, he was a broken man. As will be apparent when these events are touched on in their turn, it was not only sickness and bodily decay that may well have darkened his life; he had been recently disappointed in his main mission to end the Crusades by the conversion of Islam; he had been still more disappointed by the signs of compromise and a more political or practical spirit in his own order; he had spent his last energies in protest. At this point he was told that he was going blind. If the faintest hint has been given here of what St. Francis felt about the glory and pageantry of earth and sky, about the heraldic shape and colour and symbolism of birds and beasts and flowers, some notion may be formed of what it meant to him to go blind. Yet the remedy might well have seemed worse than the disease. The remedy, admittedly an uncertain remedy, was to cauterise the eye, and that without any anæsthetic. In other words it was to burn his living eyeballs with a red-hot iron. Many of the tortures of martyrdom, which he envied in martyrology and sought vainly in Syria, can have been no worse. When they took the brand from the furnace, he rose as with an urbane107 gesture and spoke57 as to an invisible presence: "Brother Fire, God made you beautiful and strong and useful; I pray you be courteous108 with me."
If there be any such thing as the art of life, it seems to me that such a moment was one of its {107}masterpieces. Not to many poets has it been given to remember their own poetry at such a moment, still less to live one of their own poems. Even William Blake would have been disconcerted if, while he was re-reading the noble lines "Tiger, tiger, burning bright," a real large live Bengal tiger had put his head in at the window of the cottage in Felpham, evidently with every intention of biting his head off. He might have wavered before politely saluting109 it, above all by calmly completing the recitation of the poem to the quadruped to whom it was dedicated110. Shelley, when he wished to be a cloud or a leaf carried before the wind, might have been mildly surprised to find himself turning slowly head over heels in mid36 air a thousand feet above the sea. Even Keats, knowing that his hold on life was a frail111 one, might have been disturbed to discover that the true, the blushful Hippocrene of which he had just partaken freely had indeed contained a drug, which really ensured that he should cease upon the midnight with no pain. For Francis there was no drug; and for Francis there was plenty of pain. But his first thought was one of his first fancies from the songs of his youth. He remembered the time when a flame was a flower, only the most glorious and gaily112 coloured of the flowers in the garden of God; and when that shining thing returned to him in the shape of an instrument of torture, he hailed it from afar like {108}an old friend, calling it by the nickname which might most truly be called its Christian113 name.
That is only one incident out of a life of such incidents; and I have selected it partly because it shows what is meant here by that shadow of gesture there is in all his words, the dramatic gesture of the south; and partly because its special reference to courtesy covers the next fact to be noted114. The popular instinct of St. Francis, and his perpetual preoccupation with the idea of brotherhood, will be entirely misunderstood if it is understood in the sense of what is often called camaraderie115; the back-slapping sort of brotherhood. Frequently from the enemies and too frequently from the friends of the democratic ideal, there has come a notion that this note is necessary to that ideal. It is assumed that equality means all men being equally uncivil, whereas it obviously ought to mean all men being equally civil. Such people have forgotten the very meaning and derivation of the word civility, if they do not see that to be uncivil is to be uncivic. But anyhow that was not the equality which Francis of Assisi encouraged; but an equality of the opposite kind; it was a camaraderie actually founded on courtesy.
Even in that fairy borderland of his mere fancies about flowers and animals and even inanimate things, he retained this permanent posture117 of a sort of deference118. A friend of mine {109}said that somebody was the sort of man who apologises to the cat. St. Francis really would have apologised to the cat. When he was about to preach in a wood full of the chatter119 of birds, he said, with a gentle gesture "Little sisters, if you have now had your say, it is time that I also should be heard." And all the birds were silent; as I for one can very easily believe. In deference to my special design of making matters intelligible120 to average modernity, I have treated separately the subject of the miraculous121 powers that St. Francis most certainly possessed122. But even apart from any miraculous powers, men of that magnetic sort, with that intense interest in animals, often have an extraordinary power over them. St. Francis's power was always exercised with this elaborate politeness. Much of it was doubtless a sort of symbolic joke, a pious123 pantomime intended to convey the vital distinction in his divine mission, that he not only loved but reverenced124 God in all his creatures. In this sense he had the air not only of apologising to the cat or to the birds, but of apologising to a chair for sitting on it or to a table for sitting down at it. Anyone who had followed him through life merely to laugh at him, as a sort of lovable lunatic, might easily have had an impression as of a lunatic who bowed to every post or took off his hat to every tree. This was all a part of his instinct for imaginative gesture. He taught the world a large part of {110}its lesson by a sort of divine dumb alphabet. But if there was this ceremonial element even in lighter125 or lesser126 matters, its significance became far more serious in the serious work of his life, which was an appeal to humanity, or rather to human beings.
I have said that St. Francis deliberately did not see the wood for the trees. It is even more true that he deliberately did not see the mob for the men. What distinguishes this very genuine democrat116 from any mere demagogue is that he never either deceived or was deceived by the illusion of mass-suggestion. Whatever his taste in monsters, he never saw before him a many-headed beast. He only saw the image of God multiplied but never monotonous127. To him a man was always a man and did not disappear in a dense128 crowd any more than in a desert. He honoured all men; that is, he not only loved but respected them all. What gave him his extraordinary personal power was this; that from the Pope to the beggar, from the sultan of Syria in his pavilion to the ragged129 robbers crawling out of the wood, there was never a man who looked into those brown burning eyes without being certain that Francis Bernardone was really interested in him; in his own inner individual life from the cradle to the grave; that he himself was being valued and taken seriously, and not merely added to the spoils of some social policy or the names in {111}some clerical document. Now for this particular moral and religious idea there is no external expression except courtesy. Exhortation130 does not express it, for it is not mere abstract enthusiasm; beneficence does not express it, for it is not mere pity. It can only be conveyed by a certain grand manner which may be called good manners. We may say if we like that St. Francis, in the bare and barren simplicity131 of his life, had clung to one rag of luxury; the manners of a court. But whereas in a court there is one king and a hundred courtiers, in this story there was one courtier, moving among a hundred kings. For he treated the whole mob of men as a mob of kings. And this was really and truly the only attitude that will appeal to that part of man to which he wished to appeal. It cannot be done by giving gold or even bread; for it is a proverb that any reveller132 may fling largesse133 in mere scorn. It cannot even be done by giving time and attention; for any number of philanthropists and benevolent134 bureaucrats135 do such work with a scorn far more cold and horrible in their hearts. No plans or proposals or efficient rearrangements will give back to a broken man his self-respect and sense of speaking with an equal. One gesture will do it.
With that gesture Francis of Assisi moved among men; and it was soon found to have something in it of magic and to act, in a double sense, like a charm. But it must always be conceived {112}as a completely natural gesture; for indeed it was almost a gesture of apology. He must be imagined as moving thus swiftly through the world with a sort of impetuous politeness; almost like the movement of a man who stumbles on one knee half in haste and half in obeisance136. The eager face under the brown hood was that of a man always going somewhere, as if he followed as well as watched the flight of the birds. And this sense of motion is indeed the meaning of the whole revolution that he made; for the work that has now to be described was of the nature of an earthquake or a volcano, an explosion that drove outwards137 with dynamic energy the forces stored up by ten centuries in the monastic fortress138 or arsenal139 and scattered140 all its riches recklessly to the ends of the earth. In a better sense than the antithesis commonly conveys, it is true to say that what St. Benedict had stored St. Francis scattered; but in the world of spiritual things what had been stored into the barns like grain was scattered over the world as seed. The servants of God who had been a besieged141 garrison142 became a marching army; the ways of the world were filled as with thunder with the trampling143 of their feet and far ahead of that ever swelling144 host went a man singing; as simply he had sung that morning in the winter woods, where he walked alone.
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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perversity
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inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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eccentricity
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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brotherhood
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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tunic
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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besieging
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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pointed
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hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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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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distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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46
reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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49
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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50
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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51
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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52
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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53
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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54
liturgical
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| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
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55
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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56
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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57
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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58
pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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59
evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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60
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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61
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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62
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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63
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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64
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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65
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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66
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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67
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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68
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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69
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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70
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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71
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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72
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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73
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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74
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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75
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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76
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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77
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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78
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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79
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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80
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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81
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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82
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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83
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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84
genders
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| n.性某些语言的（阳性、阴性和中性，不同的性有不同的词尾等）( gender的名词复数 )；性别；某些语言的（名词、代词和形容词）性的区分 | |
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85
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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86
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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88
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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89
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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90
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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91
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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92
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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93
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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94
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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95
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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96
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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97
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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98
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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99
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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100
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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101
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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102
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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103
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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104
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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105
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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106
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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107
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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108
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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109
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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110
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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111
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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112
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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113
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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114
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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115
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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116
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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117
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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118
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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119
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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120
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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121
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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122
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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123
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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124
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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125
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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126
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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127
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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128
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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129
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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130
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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131
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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132
reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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133
largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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134
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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135
bureaucrats
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| n.官僚( bureaucrat的名词复数 )；官僚主义；官僚主义者；官僚语言 | |
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136
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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137
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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138
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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139
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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140
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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141
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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143
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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144
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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