THE next morning found us, with the indomitable pluck of Englishmen, once more upon an outside car, as doggedly1 determined2 as two old Whigs never to resign our seats. First, we drove to Merrion Square, where we had a call to make, and where, each side of the square being numbered alike, we spent a good deal of time in pulling at the wrong bells, and in unnecessarily evoking3 several servants, whose easy mission it was to take care of “number one.” Of this Square and of St. Stephen's Green we thought that, though as to extent and pleasant situation they were quite equal to anything in London, the houses themselves were by no means so handsome or commodious4.
The University of Dublin, to us who study among the chapels6 and the cloisters7 of mediaeval Oxford8, does not resemble a university at all, but is more like a series of Government offices, or any other spacious9 public buildings.
Why do the porters wear velvet10 hunting caps? Frank would keep inquiring, “where the hounds met” (it was a broiling11 day early in August), “why they didn't have top boots?” &c., &c., &c. The museum is a very interesting one; and our cicerone in the cap pointed12 out the harp13 of Brian Boroimhe—that “Bryan the Brave,” who was so devoted14 to threshing the Danes and music; the enormous antlers of an Irish elk15, which placed upon wheels would make a glorious outside car, the passengers sitting among the tines; eagles, and other native birds, galore; and numberless antiquities16 and curiosities. There were some awful instruments, which we gazed upon with intense interest, as being the most cruel shillelaghs we had ever seen, until the guide happened to mention that they were “weapons of the South-Sea Islanders.”
The Chapel5 of Trinity College, like some in our English Universities, is more suggestive of sleep than supplication17, gloomy without being solemn, and the light dim without being religious. There was a sacrifice of two inverted18 hassocks upon the altar, but the idol19 of the place, a gigantic pulpit, indignantly turned his back on them, and I was not slow to follow his example, with a sigh for
Of bright or beautiful, was deem'd a gift
Too liberal to Him who giveth all.”
Indeed, I felt much more impressed, and inclined to take off my hat in the Examination and Dining Halls, as I stood in the pictured presence of Irish worthies21, and thought of them, and of others not there portrayed22, in all their young power and promise. I thought of Archbishop Ussher, who, a boy of eighteen, contended with Jesuit, Fitz-Symonds, and was designated by his opponent as “acatholicorum doctissimus.” I thought of Swift, as well I might, having recently read, for the third time, that most touching23 essay on his life and genius from the master hand of Thackeray. 1 I could cry over that lecture any time; there is so much noble sympathy in it of one great genius with another—such a tender yearning24 not to condemn25, and, all the while, such a grand, honest resolution to take side with what is right and true. I thought of Swift, “wild and witty26,” in the happiest days of his unhappy life, getting his degree, “speciali gratia” (as a most particular favour), and going forth27 into the world to be a disappointed, miserable28 man—to fight against weapons which himself had welded, a hopeless, maddening fight. All must pity, as Johnson and Thackeray pity, but who can love? He put on the surplice for mere29 earthly views, and it was to him as the shirt of Hercules!
1 The English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century, three of
whom, Swift, Steele, and Goldsmith, were Irishmen.
And next (could two men differ more?) of Goldsmith. I thought of him shy and silent (for he was a dull boy, we read, and never learned the art of conversation), chaffed by his fellow-students, and saluted30 by them, doubtless, in the exuberance31 of their playful wit, as Demosthenes, Cicero, &c., &c., until he might have felt himself, like his own “Traveller”
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy32, slow,”
had there not been the “eternal sunshine” of genius, and the manifold soft chimes of poesy, to make his heart glad. “He was chastised33 by his tutor, for giving a dance in his room.” (was it a prance34 à la Spurgeon, and for gentlemen only, or was there a brighter presence of “sweet girl-graduates with their golden hair?”) “and took the box on his ear so much to his heart, that he packed up his all, pawned35 his books and little property, and disappeared from college.” 1 Horace Walpole speaks of him as “an inspired idiot,” and Garrick describes him as one
“for shortness call'd Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll:”
but I take leave to think that the “Deserted Village,” a tale told by this idiot, will be read when Walpole is forgotten; and I believe the author to have been as deep as Garrick.
1 Thackeray.
Blessed be the art that can immortalise, as Sir Joshua has immortalised, features so sublime36 and beautiful, because so bright with noble power and purpose, as those of Edmund Burke. Scholar, statesman, orator37, author, linguist38, lawyer, earnest worshipper of nature and of art, what a mine of purest gold thy genius! and how the coin stamped with the impress of thine own true self enriches all the world! “The mind of that man,” says Dr. Johnson, “was a perennial39 stream; no one grudges40 Burke the first place,” and Sir Archibald Alison speaks of him, as “the greatest political philosopher, and most far-seeing statesman of modern times.”
What a troublous, impressive sight that must have been, when he and Fox, both of them in tears, gave up the friendship of five-and-twenty years, because they loved each other too well to cry “Peace,” where there was no peace.
Out of all the grand music he wrote and spoke41, let me select one air and leave him. And are not his words on Marie Antoinette, like music, martial42 music, “like a glorious roll of drums,” and the sound of a trumpet43 to knightly44 hearts? “I thought,” he says, “ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge45 even a look, which threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry46 is gone.”
But no, I cannot leave him, it would not be honest to leave him, without the confession47 that there was a flaw in the statue, one note of this grand instrument out of tune48, and that this giant had his weakness. It must be sorrowfully owned that he had low and unsound views on the subject of the pursuit of game; he said it was “a trivial object with severe sanctions;” and his most devoted admirers can never emancipate49 his memory from the stern and sad suspicion, that he could not have been a first-rate shot.
I thought of Grattan, who distinguished50 himself within these walls,—the brave unswerving patriot51, whose fiery52 eloquence53 Moore terms “the very music of freedom” (music, by the way, which would very summarily be stopped in our day by Mr. Speaker Denison); of Moore himself, with his head upon his hands, “sapping” at those Latin verses, which he hated with all his heart, ever and anon disgusted to find the second syllable54 of some favourite dactyl long, or the first of some pet spondee short; finally (as the chroniclers tell), tearing up the performance, and sending to the Dons some English verse in lieu, for which, to their glory be it written, they gave him praise and a prize. Here, too, he commenced his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, (a labour of Love, if ever there was one); and here, doubtless, oft in the stilly night, he sang some of those touching melodies, which were so soon to “witch the world.”
Lastly, I thought (for our jockey in undress was getting rather restive) of genial55, jovial56 Curran, of whom Dan O'Connell said, “there never was so honest an Irishman,” and of whom there is one of the most charming biographies extant in the “Curran and his Contemporaries,” by Mr. Commissioner57 Philips.
We could not see the very large and valuable Library, as it is closed during Vacations; and so having admired the exterior58 of the New Museum, and taken a general survey of the college, we made our bow to the Alma Mater of Ireland.
It must be exquisitely59 gratifying to a large majority of the inhabitants to contemplate60 King William III. riding, gilt61 and bronzed, upon College Green, to be kept in constant recollection of the Boyne, and of the immunities62 and privileges which resulted from it. Everybody knows that he was a fine horseman, but the sculptor63 has not given him a hunting seat; and I think we could improve him, if we had him at Oxford, by painting him in a cutaway and buckskins.
There is no fault to be found with the statues of Nelson and of Moore, the former being very effective, and the latter (though suggestive in the distance of a gentleman hailing an omnibus) being impressive and pleasing on a nearer view.
The public buildings which we saw, the Bank of Ireland (once the Houses of its Lords and Commons), the Four Courts, College of Surgeons, Post Office, Barracks, &c., are all handsome, chiefly of Grecian architecture, and interesting to those who fancy this style of sight-seeing.
We were rather disappointed with Sackville-Street. It wants length; and it wants (Heaven send it soon!) the animation64 of business and opulence65, gay equipages, and crowded pavements.
The Phoenix66 Park is delightful67, rus in urbe—some 1700 acres of greensward and trees. We met several regiments69, returning from a review; (the carman told us there were two reviews weekly, and we, of course, said something brilliant about the Dublin Review being monthly); and were, consequently, in an admirable frame of mind to appreciate the monument, grim and granite70, in honour of the Iron Duke. What men this Dublin has given to the world—Swift, Steele, Burke, Grattan, Moore, Wellington. The names of his great battles are graven on the obelisk71, Waterloo being, of course, omitted. I say “of course,” because there is something so delightfully72 Irish in this small oversight73, that it seems quite natural and appropriate; and I should as little dream of being surprised or vexed74 by it, as if in an Irish edition of Milton I could find no “Paradise Lost.”
In the Phoenix Park are the Constabulary Barracks, and the men were at drill as we drove by. There is no exaggeration in stating, that if a regiment68 could be formed from the Irish constables75, it would be the finest regiment in arms See them wherever you may, they are, almost without exception, handsome, erect76, heroic. Picked men, and admirably trained, they are as smart, and clean, lithe77, and soldier-like, as the severest sergeant78 could desire. They do credit to him whose name they bear, for they are still called “Peelers” after their godfather Sir Robert, who originated the force, when Secretary for Ireland. Fifty of them had left Dublin for Kilkenny that morning, to expostulate with the bould pisantry on the impropriety of smashing some reaping-machines recently introduced among them. The Irishman is not quick to appreciate agricultural improvements. It required an Act of Parliament to prevent him from attaching the plough to the tails of his horses; he was very slow to acknowledge that the plough itself was better, when made of iron than of wood; he esteemed79 a bunch of thorns, with a big stone a-top, as the most efficient harrow going; and he denounced the winnowing-machine, as a wicked attempt to oppose the decree of a good Providence80, which sent the wind of heaven “to clane the whate and oats.”
A short time afterwards, we were surprised to see in a letter from one of these constables to The Galway Express, that their pay, after twenty years' service, is only two shillings per diem; and low as the remuneration for labour still is in this country, one cannot help but sympathise with the complainant.
These lions, from whose manes and tails we have ventured to extract a few memorial hairs, were inspected before luncheon81; immediately after that refection, we set forth per rail, and via Kingston, to Killiney. We had ample time, as we went, to contemplate the surrounding objects, which were not “rendered invisible from extreme velocity,” the nine miles occupying forty-five minutes; but we saw nothing of especial interest until we had reached the station, and began to ascend82 the hill. Then we exulted83, eye and heart. The hill itself is worthy84 of a visit, the massive blocks of “its cold grey stones” contrasting admirably with the rosy85 heaths (I never saw ericas in greenhouse or garden with such a fresh, vivid brightness, 1) and with the glowing, golden furze. Ah, how poor and formal are statues, and terraces, and vases, and “ribbon-patterns,” and geometrical designs, and “bedding out,” when compared with nature's handiwork! And though, perhaps, never since the days of “the grand old gardener” has ornate horticulture attained86 so great a splendour, what true lover of flowers is really satisfied with our gorgeous modern gardens? We treat them, for the most part, as a child, with a new box of paints, his pictures—all the most glaring colours are crowded together; and the eye, dazzled and bewildered, yearns87 for that repose88 and harmony which, in nature, whether in the few flowerets of some hidden nook, or in the fiery autumnal grandeur89 of some mighty90 forest, diffuse91 perpetual peace.
1 This applies throughout Ireland. See “Inglis's Tour,” vol.
ii., p. 42.
There is an extraordinary structure at the top of Killiney Hill, which could only have been devised by an Irish architect. It is not a tower, nor a lighthouse, nor a summer-house: nay92, the builder himself confesses he knows not what it is, in the following inscription:—“Last year being hard with the poor, the walls about these hills, and This, &c. &c., erected93 by John Mapas, Esq., June, 1742.”
Hard by, a young Duke of Dorset was thrown and killed, while hunting. It must have been a very Irish fox that led hound and horse into such a perilous94 position, and the only wonder is that any of the riders came down alive. A monumental pillar perpetuates95 the sorrowful history, and warns enthusiastic sportsmen from galloping96 over the broken ground and hidden fissures97 of misty98 mountain tops.
Apropos99 of mountain and of mist, we saw a sight which reminded us of Anne of Geierstein, as she appeared to Arthur Philipson, “perched upon the very summit of a pyramidical rock.” For among the works executed by the benevolent100 behest of Mapas, there is one, hewn in stone, a four-sided staircase, leading to an apex101, intended, doubtless, for a statue. But this was wanting when we first arrived; for the design, like so many others in poor old Ireland, had never been completed, and there were no
“statues gracing,
This noble place in.”
But by the goddess Vanus, just as Frank and I were lamenting102 this sad omission103, the loveliest—at all events one of the loveliest—girls I ever remember to have seen, tripped lightly up the steps, laughing at a dear old clerical papa, who pretended to be alarmed, but wasn't; and something, beating violently under my left brace104, told me that my heart had returned from Crewe, as a traveller comes home for a day or so, to prepare himself for another tour. It stayed with me four seconds, and then 'twas hers. “Behold,” I said,
“'Car les beaux yeux Sont les deux sceptres de l'amour,'
the enthronement of the Queen of Beauty.” And the sea-breeze forsook105 the jealous waves to woo her; the sunlight beamed on her with golden smiles; and the very swallow, turning from his favourite fly, flew past her, twittering admiration106. Rough sailors out at sea that day caught sight of this fair vision through the glass, and ceased for half an hour to swear. There she stood, as
“jocund day Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain top;”
like Byron's Mary, on the hill of Annesley, awaiting that mighty hunter, the gallant107, handsome Musters108, when
“on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy109, and flew.”
Or she might have been “The Gardener's Daughter,” when,
“Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.”
But never mind what she might have been, there she was.
“Talk about Helen,
That was a fiction, but this is reality.”
And never shall I forget how painfully drear that pedestal seemed, when the statue, descending110, took her Papa's arm (Oh, that her beloved Governor were mine also!), and was gone from our gaze, like a beautiful star.
The view from the hill of Killiney is one of the loveliest in this land of loveliness. Seated among the purple and golden flowers, you look over its rocks and trees upon the noble Bay of Dublin with its waters “bickering in the noontide blaze,” and the stately ships gliding111 to and fro. Below is Kingstown, opposite the old hill of Howth, and in the centre the metropolis112 of Ireland.
I do not think that one ever has such a happy feeling of entire contentment, as when gazing upon beautiful scenery; and there we sat, in silent admiration, and took no note of time, until the train by which we had proposed to return, awoke us from our dreamy bliss113, shrieking114 at us in derision from below, and steaming off to Dublin. So that, some two hours later, we found our dinners and ourselves a little overdone115 at Morrisson's; and nothing but some very transcendental claret, and the resilient spirit of roving Englishmen, could have induced us to sally forth once more for the gardens of Porto-Bello.
Becoming acclimatised to the Outside Car, we began to enter into conversation with the drivers, and found them, like all Irishmen, quant and witty, though their humour, perhaps, does not lie so near the surface as it did before the Famine and Father Mathew.1 Our charioteer this evening was eloquently116 invective117 against a London cab which preceded us, and which he designated as “a baste118 of a tub.”
“Sure, gintlemen,” said he, “and I'm for th'ould style intirely—it's illigant. I tell ye what it is, yer onners,” (and he turned to us in impressive confidence, and pointed contemptuously with his whip at the offending vehicle) “I'd lep over the likes o' that with this little mare;” but we earnestly begged he wouldn't.
We were so fortunate as to reach the Porto-Bello Gardens just in time for “The Siege and Capture of Delhi.” We had both of us formed most erroneous impressions on the subject, and it was a grand opportunity for ascertaining119 truth. If the representation was correct, and there seems no reason to mistrust it, as “no expense had been spared,” it is high time for the English people to be told that the accounts which have appeared in their newspapers (the graphic120, glowing descriptions of Mr. William Russell inclusive) are wickedly and superlatively false!
1 The priest can scarcely have been a descendant of his
namesake, the General, who, to the manifest delight of an
Irish Parliament, thus spake of potheen:—“The Chancellor121
on the woolsack drinks it, the Judge on the bench drinks
it, the Peer in his robes drinks it, the Beggar with his
wallet drinks it, I drink it, every man drinks it.”
The city of Delhi is constructed of painted wood, and does not exceed in dimensions a respectable modern residence. Before it, there is a pool of water. The siege commenced with a tune on the key-bugle, and with an appropriate illumination of Bengal lights, which extended over the entire scene of war, and was got up, as we supposed, at the joint122 expense of the combatants. Then the Anglo-Indian army, which had taken up a perilous position about four yards from the city, led off with a Roman-candle, and the rebels promptly123 replied with a maroon124. The exasperated125 besiegers now went in, or rather went a long way over, with rockets,—the Sepoys, with undaunted courage, defying them with blue lights and crackers126. For a time the battle was waged with extraordinary spirit, steel-filings, &c., &c.; but, finally, the “awful explosion of the Magazine,” admirably rendered by a “Jack-in-a-box,” threw the rebels into sad distress127, and they came running (all six of them) from the city, trying the old dodge128 to give an idea of multitude, by rushing in at one door and rushing out at another. The British soldiers, conversant129 with this manouvre, which they had so often witnessed at Mr. Batty's Hippodrome, immediately charged into the devoted city, lit a red light, and all was over. The total silence, which immediately ensued within the walls, impressively told the annihilation of the vanquished130, and the great fatigue131 (or, alas132! it might be the abject133 intoxication) of the victors, reminding one forcibly of the schoolboy's description, in Latin, of the termination of a siege,—“Dein victores, urbe capta, si cut pisces bibunt, et, parvula, si ulla, itlis culpa, nullum bestiarum finem ex seipsis faciunt.”
Frank said it was Delhicious! and to this atrocity134, as well as to His Excellency's absence from Dublin, I attribute the melancholy fact that the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland never called upon us.
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1
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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elk
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| n.麋鹿 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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idol
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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touching
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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exuberance
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melancholy
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chastised
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prance
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pawned
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sublime
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orator
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linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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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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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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46
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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47
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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48
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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49
emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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50
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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51
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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52
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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53
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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54
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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55
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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56
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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57
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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58
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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59
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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60
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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61
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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62
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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63
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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64
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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65
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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66
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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67
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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68
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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69
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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70
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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71
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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72
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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73
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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74
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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75
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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76
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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77
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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78
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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79
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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80
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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81
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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82
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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83
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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85
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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86
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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87
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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89
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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90
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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91
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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92
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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93
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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94
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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95
perpetuates
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| n.使永存，使人记住不忘( perpetuate的名词复数 )；使永久化，使持久化，使持续 | |
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96
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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97
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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99
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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100
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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101
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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102
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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103
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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104
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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105
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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106
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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107
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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108
musters
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的第三人称单数 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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109
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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110
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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111
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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112
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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113
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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114
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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115
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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116
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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117
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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118
baste
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| v.殴打，公开责骂 | |
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119
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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120
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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121
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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122
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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123
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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124
maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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125
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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126
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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127
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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128
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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129
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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130
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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131
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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132
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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133
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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134
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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