In rainy Bute and the dilapidated Kaimes Castle, it was evident, there lay no Goshen for such a man. The lease, originally but for some three years and a half, drawing now to a close, he resolved to quit Bute; had heard, I know not where, of an eligible10 cottage without farm attached, in the pleasant little village of Llanblethian close by Cowbridge in Glamorganshire; of this he took a lease, and thither11 with his family he moved in search of new fortunes. Glamorganshire was at least a better climate than Bute; no groups of idle or of busy reapers12 could here stand waiting on the guidance of a master, for there was no farm here;—and among its other and probably its chief though secret advantages, Llanblethian was much more convenient both for Dublin and London than Kaimes Castle had been.
The removal thither took place in the autumn of 1809. Chief part of the journey (perhaps from Greenock to Swansea or Bristol) was by sea: John, just turned of three years, could in after-times remember nothing of this voyage; Anthony, some eighteen months older, has still a vivid recollection of the gray splashing tumult14, and dim sorrow, uncertainty15, regret and distress16 he underwent: to him a "dissolving-view" which not only left its effect on the plate (as all views and dissolving-views doubtless do on that kind of "plate"), but remained consciously present there. John, in the close of his twenty-first year, professes17 not to remember anything whatever of Bute; his whole existence, in that earliest scene of it, had faded away from him: Bute also, with its shaggy mountains, moaning woods, and summer and winter seas, had been wholly a dissolving-view for him, and had left no conscious impression, but only, like this voyage, an effect.
Llanblethian hangs pleasantly, with its white cottages, and orchard18 and other trees, on the western slope of a green hill looking far and wide over green meadows and little or bigger hills, in the pleasant plain of Glamorgan; a short mile to the south of Cowbridge, to which smart little town it is properly a kind of suburb. Plain of Glamorgan, some ten miles wide and thirty or forty long, which they call the Vale of Glamorgan;—though properly it is not quite a Vale, there being only one range of mountains to it, if even one: certainly the central Mountains of Wales do gradually rise, in a miscellaneous manner, on the north side of it; but on the south are no mountains, not even land, only the Bristol Channel, and far off, the Hills of Devonshire, for boundary,—the "English Hills," as the natives call them, visible from every eminence19 in those parts. On such wide terms is it called Vale of Glamorgan. But called by whatever name, it is a most pleasant fruitful region: kind to the native, interesting to the visitor. A waving grassy20 region; cut with innumerable ragged21 lanes; dotted with sleepy unswept human hamlets, old ruinous castles with their ivy22 and their daws, gray sleepy churches with their ditto ditto: for ivy everywhere abounds23; and generally a rank fragrant24 vegetation clothes all things; hanging, in rude many-colored festoons and fringed odoriferous tapestries25, on your right and on your left, in every lane. A country kinder to the sluggard26 husbandman than any I have ever seen. For it lies all on limestone27, needs no draining; the soil, everywhere of handsome depth and finest quality, will grow good crops for you with the most imperfect tilling. At a safe distance of a day's riding lie the tartarean copper-forges of Swansea, the tartarean iron-forges of Merthyr; their sooty battle far away, and not, at such safe distance, a defilement28 to the face of the earth and sky, but rather an encouragement to the earth at least; encouraging the husbandman to plough better, if he only would.
The peasantry seem indolent and stagnant29, but peaceable and well-provided; much given to Methodism when they have any character;—for the rest, an innocent good-humored people, who all drink home-brewed beer, and have brown loaves of the most excellent home-baked bread. The native peasant village is not generally beautiful, though it might be, were it swept and trimmed; it gives one rather the idea of sluttish stagnancy,—an interesting peep into the Welsh Paradise of Sleepy Hollow. Stones, old kettles, naves30 of wheels, all kinds of broken litter, with live pigs and etceteras, lie about the street: for, as a rule, no rubbish is removed, but waits patiently the action of mere31 natural chemistry and accident; if even a house is burnt or falls, you will find it there after half a century, only cloaked by the ever-ready ivy. Sluggish32 man seems never to have struck a pick into it; his new hut is built close by on ground not encumbered33, and the old stones are still left lying.
This is the ordinary Welsh village; but there are exceptions, where people of more cultivated tastes have been led to settle, and Llanblethian is one of the more signal of these. A decidedly cheerful group of human homes, the greater part of them indeed belonging to persons of refined habits; trimness, shady shelter, whitewash34, neither conveniency nor decoration has been neglected here. Its effect from the distance on the eastward35 is very pretty: you see it like a little sleeping cataract36 of white houses, with trees overshadowing and fringing it; and there the cataract hangs, and does not rush away from you.
John Sterling spent his next five years in this locality. He did not again see it for a quarter of a century; but retained, all his life, a lively remembrance of it; and, just in the end of his twenty-first year, among his earliest printed pieces, we find an elaborate and diffuse37 description of it and its relations to him,—part of which piece, in spite of its otherwise insignificant38 quality, may find place here:—
"The fields on which I first looked, and the sands which were marked by my earliest footsteps, are completely lost to my memory; and of those ancient walls among which I began to breathe, I retain no recollection more clear than the outlines of a cloud in a moonless sky. But of L——, the village where I afterwards lived, I persuade myself that every line and hue39 is more deeply and accurately40 fixed41 than those of any spot I have since beheld42, even though borne in upon the heart by the association of the strongest feelings.
"My home was built upon the slope of a hill, with a little orchard stretching down before it, and a garden rising behind. At a considerable distance beyond and beneath the orchard, a rivulet43 flowed through meadows and turned a mill; while, above the garden, the summit of the hill was crowned by a few gray rocks, from which a yew44-tree grew, solitary45 and bare. Extending at each side of the orchard, toward the brook46, two scattered47 patches of cottages lay nestled among their gardens; and beyond this streamlet and the little mill and bridge, another slight eminence arose, divided into green fields, tufted and bordered with copsewood, and crested48 by a ruined castle, contemporary, as was said, with the Conquest. I know not whether these things in truth made up a prospect49 of much beauty. Since I was eight years old, I have never seen them; but I well know that no landscape I have since beheld, no picture of Claude or Salvator, gave me half the impression of living, heartfelt, perfect beauty which fills my mind when I think of that green valley, that sparkling rivulet, that broken fortress50 of dark antiquity51, and that hill with its aged52 yew and breezy summit, from which I have so often looked over the broad stretch of verdure beneath it, and the country-town, and church-tower, silent and white beyond.
"In that little town there was, and I believe is, a school where the elements of human knowledge were communicated to me, for some hours of every day, during a considerable time. The path to it lay across the rivulet and past the mill; from which point we could either journey through the fields below the old castle, and the wood which surrounded it, or along a road at the other side of the ruin, close to the gateway53 of which it passed. The former track led through two or three beautiful fields, the sylvan54 domain55 of the keep on one hand, and the brook on the other; while an oak or two, like giant warders advanced from the wood, broke the sunshine of the green with a soft and graceful56 shadow. How often, on my way to school, have I stopped beneath the tree to collect the fallen acorns57; how often run down to the stream to pluck a branch of the hawthorn58 which hung over the water! The road which passed the castle joined, beyond these fields, the path which traversed them. It took, I well remember, a certain solemn and mysterious interest from the ruin. The shadow of the archway, the discolorizations of time on all the walls, the dimness of the little thicket59 which encircled it, the traditions of its immeasurable age, made St. Quentin's Castle a wonderful and awful fabric60 in the imagination of a child; and long after I last saw its mouldering61 roughness, I never read of fortresses62, or heights, or spectres, or banditti, without connecting them with the one ruin of my childhood.
"It was close to this spot that one of the few adventures occurred which marked, in my mind, my boyish days with importance. When loitering beyond the castle, on the way to school, with a brother somewhat older than myself, who was uniformly my champion and protector, we espied64 a round sloe high up in the hedge-row. We determined65 to obtain it; and I do not remember whether both of us, or only my brother, climbed the tree. However, when the prize was all but reached,—and no alchemist ever looked more eagerly for the moment of projection66 which was to give him immortality67 and omnipotence,—a gruff voice startled us with an oath, and an order to desist; and I well recollect13 looking back, for long after, with terror to the vision of an old and ill-tempered farmer, armed with a bill-hook, and vowing68 our decapitation; nor did I subsequently remember without triumph the eloquence69 whereby alone, in my firm belief, my brother and myself had been rescued from instant death.
"At the entrance of the little town stood an old gateway, with a pointed70 arch and decaying battlements. It gave admittance to the street which contained the church, and which terminated in another street, the principal one in the town of C——. In this was situated71 the school to which I daily wended. I cannot now recall to mind the face of its good conductor, nor of any of his scholars; but I have before me a strong general image of the interior of his establishment. I remember the reverence72 with which I was wont73 to carry to his seat a well-thumbed duodecimo, the History of Greece by Oliver Goldsmith. I remember the mental agonies I endured in attempting to master the art and mystery of penmanship; a craft in which, alas74, I remained too short a time under Mr. R—— to become as great a proficient75 as he made his other scholars, and which my awkwardness has prevented me from attaining76 in any considerable perfection under my various subsequent pedagogues77. But that which has left behind it a brilliant trait of light was the exhibition of what are called 'Christmas pieces;' things unknown in aristocratic seminaries, but constantly used at the comparatively humble78 academy which supplied the best knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic to be attained80 in that remote neighborhood.
"The long desks covered from end to end with those painted masterpieces, the Life of Robinson Crusoe, the Hunting of Chevy-Chase, the History of Jack81 the Giant-Killer, and all the little eager faces and trembling hands bent82 over these, and filling them up with some choice quotation83, sacred or profane;—no, the galleries of art, the theatrical84 exhibitions, the reviews and processions,—which are only not childish because they are practiced and admired by men instead of children,—all the pomps and vanities of great cities, have shown me no revelation of glory such as did that crowded school-room the week before the Christmas holidays. But these were the splendors85 of life. The truest and the strongest feelings do not connect themselves with any scenes of gorgeous and gaudy86 magnificence; they are bound up in the remembrances of home.
"The narrow orchard, with its grove87 of old apple-trees against one of which I used to lean, and while I brandished88 a beanstalk, roar out with Fitzjames,—
'Come one, come all; this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I!'—
while I was ready to squall at the sight of a cur, and run valorously away from a casually89 approaching cow; the field close beside it, where I rolled about in summer among the hay; the brook in which, despite of maid and mother, I waded90 by the hour; the garden where I sowed flower-seeds, and then turned up the ground again and planted potatoes, and then rooted out the potatoes to insert acorns and apple-pips, and at last, as may be supposed, reaped neither roses, nor potatoes, nor oak-trees, nor apples; the grass-plots on which I played among those with whom I never can play nor work again: all these are places and employments,—and, alas, playmates,—such as, if it were worth while to weep at all, it would be worth weeping that I enjoy no longer.
"I remember the house where I first grew familiar with peacocks; and the mill-stream into which I once fell; and the religious awe91 wherewith I heard, in the warm twilight92, the psalm-singing around the house of the Methodist miller93; and the door-post against which I discharged my brazen94 artillery95; I remember the window by which I sat while my mother taught me French; and the patch of garden which I dug for— But her name is best left blank; it was indeed writ79 in water. These recollections are to me like the wealth of a departed friend, a mournful treasure. But the public has heard enough of them; to it they are worthless: they are a coin which only circulates at its true value between the different periods of an individual's existence, and good for nothing but to keep up a commerce between boyhood and manhood. I have for years looked forward to the possibility of visiting L——; but I am told that it is a changed village; and not only has man been at work, but the old yew on the hill has fallen, and scarcely a low stump96 remains97 of the tree which I delighted in childhood to think might have furnished bows for the Norman archers98." 3
In Cowbridge is some kind of free school, or grammar-school, of a certain distinction; and this to Captain Sterling was probably a motive99 for settling in the neighborhood of it with his children. Of this however, as it turned out, there was no use made: the Sterling family, during its continuance in those parts, did not need more than a primary school. The worthy100 master who presided over these Christmas galas, and had the honor to teach John Sterling his reading and writing, was an elderly Mr. Reece of Cowbridge, who still (in 1851) survives, or lately did; and is still remembered by his old pupils as a worthy, ingenious and kindly101 man, "who wore drab breeches and white stockings." Beyond the Reece sphere of tuition John Sterling did not go in this locality.
In fact the Sterling household was still fluctuating; the problem of a task for Edward Sterling's powers, and of anchorage for his affairs in any sense, was restlessly struggling to solve itself, but was still a good way from being solved. Anthony, in revisiting these scenes with John in 1839, mentions going to the spot "where we used to stand with our Father, looking out for the arrival of the London mail:" a little chink through which is disclosed to us a big restless section of a human life. The Hill of Welsh Llanblethian, then, is like the mythic Caucasus in its degree (as indeed all hills and habitations where men sojourn102 are); and here too, on a small scale, is a Prometheus Chained! Edward Sterling, I can well understand, was a man to tug103 at the chains that held him idle in those the prime of his years; and to ask restlessly, yet not in anger and remorse104, so much as in hope, locomotive speculation105, and ever-new adventure and attempt, Is there no task nearer my own natural size, then? So he looks out from the Hill-side "for the arrival of the London mail;" thence hurries into Cowbridge to the Post-office; and has a wide web, of threads and gossamers, upon his loom106, and many shuttles flying, in this world.
By the Marquis of Bute's appointment he had, very shortly after his arrival in that region, become Adjutant of the Glamorganshire Militia107, "Local Militia," I suppose; and was, in this way, turning his military capabilities108 to some use. The office involved pretty frequent absences, in Cardiff and elsewhere. This doubtless was a welcome outlet109, though a small one. He had also begun to try writing, especially on public subjects; a much more copious110 outlet,—which indeed, gradually widening itself, became the final solution for him. Of the year 1811 we have a Pamphlet of his, entitled Military Reform; this is the second edition, "dedicated111 to the Duke of Kent;" the first appears to have come out the year before, and had thus attained a certain notice, which of course was encouraging. He now furthermore opened a correspondence with the Times Newspaper; wrote to it, in 1812, a series of Letters under the signature Vetus: voluntary Letters I suppose, without payment or pre-engagement, one successful Letter calling out another; till Vetus and his doctrines112 came to be a distinguishable entity113, and the business amounted to something. Out of my own earliest Newspaper reading, I can remember the name Vetus, as a kind of editorial hacklog on which able-editors were wont to chop straw now and then. Nay114 the Letters were collected and reprinted; both this first series, of 1812, and then a second of next year: two very thin, very dim-colored cheap octavos; stray copies of which still exist, and may one day become distillable into a drop of History (should such be wanted of our poor "Scavenger115 Age" in time coming), though the reading of them has long ceased in this generation.4 The first series, we perceive, had even gone to a second edition. The tone, wherever one timidly glances into this extinct cockpit, is trenchant116 and emphatic117: the name of Vetus, strenuously118 fighting there, had become considerable in the talking political world; and, no doubt, was especially of mark, as that of a writer who might otherwise be important, with the proprietors119 of the Times. The connection continued: widened and deepened itself,—in a slow tentative manner; passing naturally from voluntary into remunerated: and indeed proving more and more to be the true ultimate arena8, and battle-field and seed-field, for the exuberant120 impetuosities and faculties121 of this man.
What the Letters of Vetus treated of I do not know; doubtless they ran upon Napoleon, Catholic Emancipation122, true methods of national defence, of effective foreign Anti-gallicism, and of domestic ditto; which formed the staple123 of editorial speculation at that time. I have heard in general that Captain Sterling, then and afterwards, advocated "the Marquis of Wellesley's policy;" but that also, what it was, I have forgotten, and the world has been willing to forget. Enough, the heads of the Times establishment, perhaps already the Marquis of Wellesley and other important persons, had their eye on this writer; and it began to be surmised124 by him that here at last was the career he had been seeking.
Accordingly, in 1814, when victorious125 Peace unexpectedly arrived; and the gates of the Continent after five-and-twenty years of fierce closure were suddenly thrown open; and the hearts of all English and European men awoke staggering as if from a nightmare suddenly removed, and ran hither and thither,—Edward Sterling also determined on a new adventure, that of crossing to Paris, and trying what might lie in store for him. For curiosity, in its idler sense, there was evidently pabulum enough. But he had hopes moreover of learning much that might perhaps avail him afterwards;—hopes withal, I have understood, of getting to be Foreign Correspondent of the Times Newspaper, and so adding to his income in the mean while. He left Llanblethian in May; dates from Dieppe the 27th of that month. He lived in occasional contact with Parisian notabilities (all of them except Madame de Stael forgotten now), all summer, diligently126 surveying his ground;—returned for his family, who were still in Wales but ready to move, in the beginning of August; took them immediately across with him; a house in the neighborhood of Paris, in the pleasant village of Passy at once town and country, being now ready; and so, under foreign skies, again set up his household there.
Here was a strange new "school" for our friend John now in his eighth year! Out of which the little Anthony and he drank doubtless at all pores, vigorously as they had done in no school before. A change total and immediate127. Somniferous green Llanblethian has suddenly been blotted128 out; presto129, here are wakeful Passy and the noises of paved Paris instead. Innocent ingenious Mr. Reece in drab breeches and white stockings, he with his mild Christmas galas and peaceable rules of Dilworth and Butterworth, has given place to such a saturnalia of panoramic130, symbolic131 and other teachers and monitors, addressing all the five senses at once. Who John's express tutors were, at Passy, I never heard; nor indeed, especially in his case, was it much worth inquiring. To him and to all of us, the expressly appointed schoolmasters and schoolings we get are as nothing, compared with the unappointed incidental and continual ones, whose school-hours are all the days and nights of our existence, and whose lessons, noticed or unnoticed, stream in upon us with every breath we draw. Anthony says they attended a French school, though only for about three months; and he well remembers the last scene of it, "the boys shouting Vive l'Empereur when Napoleon came back."
Of John Sterling's express schooling132, perhaps the most important feature, and by no means a favorable one to him, was the excessive fluctuation133 that prevailed in it. Change of scene, change of teacher, both express and implied, was incessant134 with him; and gave his young life a nomadic135 character,—which surely, of all the adventitious136 tendencies that could have been impressed upon him, so volatile137, swift and airy a being as him, was the one he needed least. His gentle pious-hearted Mother, ever watching over him in all outward changes, and assiduously keeping human pieties138 and good affections alive in him, was probably the best counteracting139 element in his lot. And on the whole, have we not all to run our chance in that respect; and take, the most victoriously140 we can, such schooling as pleases to be attainable141 in our year and place? Not very victoriously, the most of us! A wise well-calculated breeding of a young genial142 soul in this world, or alas of any young soul in it, lies fatally over the horizon in these epochs!—This French scene of things, a grand school of its sort, and also a perpetual banquet for the young soul, naturally captivated John Sterling; he said afterwards, "New things and experiences here were poured upon his mind and sense, not in streams, but in a Niagara cataract." This too, however, was but a scene; lasted only some six or seven months; and in the spring of the next year terminated as abruptly143 as any of the rest could do.
For in the spring of the next year, Napoleon abruptly emerged from Elba; and set all the populations of the world in motion, in a strange manner;—set the Sterling household afloat, in particular; the big European tide rushing into all smallest creeks144, at Passy and elsewhere. In brief, on the 20th of March, 1815, the family had to shift, almost to fly, towards home and the sea-coast; and for a day or two were under apprehension145 of being detained and not reaching home. Mrs. Sterling, with her children and effects, all in one big carriage with two horses, made the journey to Dieppe; in perfect safety, though in continual tremor146: here they were joined by Captain Sterling, who had stayed behind at Paris to see the actual advent63 of Napoleon, and to report what the aspect of affairs was, "Downcast looks of citizens, with fierce saturnalian acclaim147 of soldiery:" after which they proceeded together to London without farther apprehension;—there to witness, in due time, the tar-barrels of Waterloo, and other phenomena148 that followed.
Captain Sterling never quitted London as a residence any more; and indeed was never absent from it, except on autumnal or other excursions of a few weeks, till the end of his life. Nevertheless his course there was as yet by no means clear; nor had his relations with the heads of the Times, or with other high heads, assumed a form which could be called definite, but were hanging as a cloudy maze149 of possibilities, firm substance not yet divided from shadow. It continued so for some years. The Sterling household shifted twice or thrice to new streets or localities,—Russell Square or Queen Square, Blackfriars Road, and longest at the Grove, Blackheath,—before the vapors150 of Wellesley promotions151 and such like slowly sank as useless precipitate152, and the firm rock, which was definite employment, ending in lucrative153 co-proprietorship and more and more important connection with the Times Newspaper, slowly disclosed itself.
These changes of place naturally brought changes in John Sterling's schoolmasters: nor were domestic tragedies wanting, still more important to him. New brothers and sisters had been born; two little brothers more, three little sisters he had in all; some of whom came to their eleventh year beside him, some passed away in their second or fourth: but from his ninth to his sixteenth year they all died; and in 1821 only Anthony and John were left. 5 How many tears, and passionate154 pangs155, and soft infinite regrets; such as are appointed to all mortals! In one year, I find, indeed in one half-year, he lost three little playmates, two of them within one month. His own age was not yet quite twelve. For one of these three, for little Edward, his next younger, who died now at the age of nine, Mr. Hare records that John copied out, in large school-hand, a History of Valentine and Orson, to beguile156 the poor child's sickness, which ended in death soon, leaving a sad cloud on John.
Of his grammar and other schools, which, as I said, are hardly worth enumerating157 in comparison, the most important seems to have been a Dr. Burney's at Greenwich; a large day-school and boarding-school, where Anthony and John gave their attendance for a year or two (1818-19) from Blackheath. "John frequently did themes for the boys," says Anthony, "and for myself when I was aground." His progress in all school learning was certain to be rapid, if he even moderately took to it. A lean, tallish, loose-made boy of twelve; strange alacrity158, rapidity and joyous159 eagerness looking out of his eyes, and of all his ways and movements. I have a Picture of him at this stage; a little portrait, which carries its verification with it. In manhood too, the chief expression of his eyes and physiognomy was what I might call alacrity, cheerful rapidity. You could see, here looked forth160 a soul which was winged; which dwelt in hope and action, not in hesitation161 or fear. Anthony says, he was "an affectionate and gallant162 kind of boy, adventurous163 and generous, daring to a singular degree." Apt enough withal to be "petulant164 now and then;" on the whole, "very self-willed;" doubtless not a little discursive165 in his thoughts and ways, and "difficult to manage."
I rather think Anthony, as the steadier, more substantial boy, was the Mother's favorite; and that John, though the quicker and cleverer, perhaps cost her many anxieties. Among the Papers given me, is an old browned half-sheet in stiff school hand, unpunctuated, occasionally ill spelt,—John Sterling's earliest remaining Letter,—which gives record of a crowning escapade of his, the first and the last of its kind; and so may be inserted here. A very headlong adventure on the boy's part; so hasty and so futile166, at once audacious and impracticable; emblematic167 of much that befell in the history of the man!
"To Mrs. Sterling, Blackheath.
"21st September, 1818.
"DEAR MAMMA,—I am now at Dover, where I arrived this morning about seven o'clock. When you thought I was going to church, I went down the Kent Road, and walked on till I came to Gravesend, which is upwards168 of twenty miles from Blackheath; at about seven o'clock in the evening, without having eat anything the whole time. I applied169 to an inkeeper (sic) there, pretending that I had served a haberdasher in London, who left of (sic) business, and turned me away. He believed me; and got me a passage in the coach here, for I said that I had an Uncle here, and that my Father and Mother were dead;—when I wandered about the quays170 for some time, till I met Captain Keys, whom I asked to give me a passage to Boulogne; which he promised to do, and took me home to breakfast with him: but Mrs. Keys questioned me a good deal; when I not being able to make my story good, I was obliged to confess to her that I had run away from you. Captain Keys says that he will keep me at his house till you answer my letter.
"J. STERLING."
Anthony remembers the business well; but can assign no origin to it,—some penalty, indignity171 or cross put suddenly on John, which the hasty John considered unbearable172. His Mother's inconsolable weeping, and then his own astonishment173 at such a culprit's being forgiven, are all that remain with Anthony. The steady historical style of the young runaway174 of twelve, narrating175 merely, not in the least apologizing, is also noticeable.
This was some six months after his little brother Edward's death; three months after that of Hester, his little sister next in the family series to him: troubled days for the poor Mother in that small household on Blackheath, as there are for mothers in so many households in this world! I have heard that Mrs. Sterling passed much of her time alone, at this period. Her husband's pursuits, with his Wellesleys and the like, often carrying him into Town and detaining him late there, she would sit among her sleeping children, such of them as death had still spared, perhaps thriftily176 plying177 her needle, full of mournful affectionate night-thoughts,—apprehensive too, in her tremulous heart, that the head of the house might have fallen among robbers in his way homeward.
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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arenas
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| 表演场地( arena的名词复数 )； 竞技场； 活动或斗争的场所或场面； 圆形运动场 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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16
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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17
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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18
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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19
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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20
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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21
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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22
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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23
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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25
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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26
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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27
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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28
defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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29
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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30
naves
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| n.教堂正厅( nave的名词复数 )；本堂；中央部；车轮的中心部 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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33
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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34
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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35
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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36
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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37
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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38
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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39
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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40
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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41
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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42
beheld
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| 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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43
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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44
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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47
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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48
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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49
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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51
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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52
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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53
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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54
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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55
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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56
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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57
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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58
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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59
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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60
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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61
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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62
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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63
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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64
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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66
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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67
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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68
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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69
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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70
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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71
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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72
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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73
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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74
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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75
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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76
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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77
pedagogues
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| n.教师，卖弄学问的教师( pedagogue的名词复数 ) | |
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78
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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79
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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80
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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81
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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84
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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85
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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86
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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87
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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88
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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89
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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90
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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94
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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95
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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96
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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97
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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98
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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99
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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100
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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101
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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102
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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103
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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104
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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105
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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106
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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107
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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108
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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109
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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110
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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111
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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112
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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113
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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114
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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115
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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116
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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117
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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118
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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119
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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120
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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121
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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122
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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123
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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124
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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125
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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126
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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127
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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128
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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129
presto
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| adv.急速地；n.急板乐段；adj.急板的 | |
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130
panoramic
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| adj. 全景的 | |
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131
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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132
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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133
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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134
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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135
nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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136
adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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137
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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138
pieties
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| 虔诚，虔敬( piety的名词复数 ) | |
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139
counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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140
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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141
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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142
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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143
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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144
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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145
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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146
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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148
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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149
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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150
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
promotions
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| 促进( promotion的名词复数 )； 提升； 推广； 宣传 | |
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152
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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153
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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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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155
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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156
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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157
enumerating
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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158
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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159
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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160
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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161
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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162
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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164
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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165
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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166
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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168
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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170
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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171
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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172
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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173
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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174
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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175
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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176
thriftily
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| 节俭地； 繁茂地； 繁荣的 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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