Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding3 shore,
The pomp of groves4, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial5 ray of morning gilds6,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom7 shields,
And all the dread8 magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
. . . . .
These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding9 over the heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau10, and who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert’s visit, expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual11 regret.
‘If any thing could have tempted12 me from my retirement,’ said M. Barreaux, ‘it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience13.’
The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended14 the heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy15 imagination suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness16 of distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to
Drag at each remove a lengthening17 chain.
He and Emily continued sunk in musing18 silence for some leagues, from which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the grandeur19 of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful20 impressions. The road now descended21 into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs22 fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted23 their recesses25, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing26. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its magnificence.
Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations27 of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious28 hue29, that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic30 Garonne wandered; descending31 from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
The ruggedness32 of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes35, and to indulge the sublime36 reflections, which soften37, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment38 of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive39 melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower40 tint24, and breathes a sacred charm over all around.
They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that they might take refreshment41 on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil enabled her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.
The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen driving his mule33, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it, that he determined42, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate43 further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean44 along part of that country to Languedoc.
Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn45, like gems46, the tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding47 among the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated48 itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs49 were lost in the abyss, though its white foam51 was long seen amid the darkness of the pines below.
This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine, while the mules52 were unharnessed to browse53 on the savoury herbs that enriched this summit.
It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed54 out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled55 to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging56 thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued58 him, and he abruptly59 rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief.
When he returned, his countenance60 had recovered its usual serenity61; he took Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in.
St. Aubert, after some hesitation62, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage63 to a cross, that stood on a rock impending64 over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked65 his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting66, rattled67, in a full gallop68, along the edge of a precipice69, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending70 still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion71 of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink72 of the rivulet73 that watered it.
Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects74, they now entered this narrow valley screened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy75 green.
The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch76 and cedar77, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent78 that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling79 among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled.
As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage80 features gradually softened81, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary82 sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut83, herds84 of cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing85 on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping86 its wave.
The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints87 of the heath and broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired88 of Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in twilight90, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to disperse91 melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal92 ditties his present auditors93 had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.
They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which twilight and solitude34 impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy94 murmur50 of the breeze among the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling95 among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth96 a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung97 across his shoulders, the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly98 grace of his figure, and assisted the agility99 of his steps.
After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and waited till he came up, that they might enquire89 concerning the hamlet they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half a league distant, that he was going thither100 himself, and would readily shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the mules. ‘But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,’ said he: ‘the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute101 of what in other places are held to be its necessaries.’
‘I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,’ said St. Aubert.
‘No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.’
The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance like a bright cloud in the air. ‘What light is yonder, sir?’ said she.
St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the sun’s rays, while those below lay in deep shade.
At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin102 they stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light.
The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.
On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the chase. ‘Not much, sir,’ he replied, ‘nor do I aim at it. I am pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible103 business, and procures104 me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive105 for coming among them.’
‘I admire your taste,’ said St. Aubert, ‘and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours — I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.’ St. Aubert sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect57 himself, he resumed: ‘If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject.’
The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely106 at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.
They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that would afford a night’s lodging107. In several, which they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor108 of her father’s countenance, and lamented109, that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid110. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech111 leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture112 in the roof; and here the scent113 of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. ‘It is a decent one,’ said he, ‘when compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.’ St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. ‘Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,’ said he, ‘that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the way. I have no doubt my landlady114 can accommodate this young lady also.’
St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had proved himself so deficient115 in gallantry, as to administer to the repose116 of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated117 smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference of her father.
On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the cottage afforded; but against scarcity118 of provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of less homely119 fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness, simplicity120, and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.
The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar121 without, in which the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let his mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy122 than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract123 of country, she persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would have received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness124. He declared that his beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went. ‘They are as harmless as lambs,’ said he, ‘if people don’t affront125 them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they understood me, for they never did so again.’
He concluded this eloquent126 harangue127 with protesting, that they should share with him, go where he would.
The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination128 to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was at length settled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired129 to their rooms, and Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they belonged.
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1
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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3
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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5
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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6
gilds
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| 把…镀金( gild的第三人称单数 )； 给…上金色； 作多余的修饰（反而破坏原已完美的东西）； 画蛇添足 | |
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7
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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9
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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14
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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37
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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38
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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40
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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41
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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42
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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43
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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44
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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46
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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48
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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49
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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50
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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51
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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52
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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53
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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56
presaging
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的现在分词 ) | |
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57
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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58
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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59
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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60
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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61
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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62
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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63
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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64
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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65
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
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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67
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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68
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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69
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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70
apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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71
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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72
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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73
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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74
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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75
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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76
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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77
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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78
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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79
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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80
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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81
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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82
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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83
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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84
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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85
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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86
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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87
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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88
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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89
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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90
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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91
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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92
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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93
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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94
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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95
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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96
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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97
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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98
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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99
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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100
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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101
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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102
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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103
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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104
procures
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的第三人称单数 )；拉皮条 | |
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105
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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106
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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107
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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108
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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109
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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111
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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112
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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113
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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114
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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115
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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116
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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117
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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118
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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119
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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120
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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121
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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122
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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123
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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124
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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125
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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126
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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127
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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128
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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129
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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