Many writers have vigorously described the pains of the first day or the first night at school; to a boy of any enterprise, I believe, they are more often agreeably exciting. Misery1—or at least misery unrelieved—is confined to another period, to the days of suspense2 and the “dreadful looking-for” of departure; when the old life is running to an end, and the new life, with its new interests, not yet begun: and to the pain of an imminent3 parting, there is added the unrest of a state of conscious pre-existence. The area railings, the beloved shop-window, the smell of semi-suburban tanpits, the song of the church bells upon a Sunday, the thin, high voices of compatriot children in a playing-field—what a sudden, what an overpowering pathos4 breathes to him from each familiar circumstance! The assaults of sorrow come not from within, as it seems to him, but from without. I was proud and glad to go to school; had I been let alone, I could have borne up like any hero; but there was around me, in all my native town, a conspiracy5 of lamentation6: “Poor little boy, he is going away—unkind little boy, he is going to leave us”; so the unspoken burthen followed me as I went, with yearning7 and reproach. And at length, one melancholy8 afternoon in the early autumn, and at a place where it seems to me, looking back, it must be always autumn and generally Sunday, there came suddenly upon the face of all I saw—the long empty road, the lines of the tall houses, the church upon the hill, the woody hillside garden—a look of such a piercing sadness that my heart died; and seating myself on a door-step, I shed tears of miserable9 sympathy. A benevolent10 cat cumbered me the while with consolations—we two were alone in all that was visible of the London Road: two poor waifs who had each tasted sorrow—and she fawned11 upon the weeper, and gambolled12 for his entertainment, watching the effect it seemed, with motherly eyes.
For the sake of the cat, God bless her! I confessed at home the story of my weakness; and so it comes about that I owed a certain journey, and the reader owes the present paper, to a cat in the London Road. It was judged, if I had thus brimmed over on the public highway, some change of scene was (in the medical sense) indicated; my father at the time was visiting the harbour lights of Scotland; and it was decided13 he should take me along with him around a portion of the shores of Fife; my first professional tour, my first journey in the complete character of man, without the help of petticoats.
The Kingdom of Fife (that royal province) may be observed by the curious on the map, occupying a tongue of land between the firths of Forth14 and Tay. It may be continually seen from many parts of Edinburgh (among the rest, from the windows of my father’s house) dying away into the distance and the easterly haar with one smoky seaside town beyond another, or in winter printing on the gray heaven some glittering hill-tops. It has no beauty to recommend it, being a low, sea-salted, wind-vexed promontory15; trees very rare, except (as common on the east coast) along the dens16 of rivers; the fields well cultivated, I understand, but not lovely to the eye. It is of the coast I speak: the interior may be the garden of Eden. History broods over that part of the world like the easterly haar. Even on the map, its long row of Gaelic place-names bear testimony17 to an old and settled race. Of these little towns, posted along the shore as close as sedges, each with its bit of harbour, its old weather-beaten church or public building, its flavour of decayed prosperity and decaying fish, not one but has its legend, quaint18 or tragic19: Dunfermline, in whose royal towers the king may be still observed (in the ballad) drinking the blood-red wine; somnolent20 Inverkeithing, once the quarantine of Leith; Aberdour, hard by the monastic islet of Inchcolm, hard by Donibristle where the “bonny face was spoiled”; Burntisland where, when Paul Jones was off the coast, the Reverend Mr. Shirra had a table carried between tidemarks, and publicly prayed against the rover at the pitch of his voice and his broad lowland dialect; Kinghorn, where Alexander “brak’s neckbane” and left Scotland to the English wars; Kirkcaldy, where the witches once prevailed extremely and sank tall ships and honest mariners22 in the North Sea; Dysart, famous—well famous at least to me for the Dutch ships that lay in its harbour, painted like toys and with pots of flowers and cages of song-birds in the cabin windows, and for one particular Dutch skipper who would sit all day in slippers23 on the break of the poop, smoking a long German pipe; Wemyss (pronounce Weems) with its bat-haunted caves, where the Chevalier Johnstone, on his flight from Culloden, passed a night of superstitious24 terrors; Leven, a bald, quite modern place, sacred to summer visitors, whence there has gone but yesterday the tall figure and the white locks of the last Englishman in Delhi, my uncle Dr. Balfour, who was still walking his hospital rounds, while the troopers from Meerut clattered25 and cried “Deen Deen” along the streets of the imperial city, and Willoughby mustered26 his handful of heroes at the magazine, and the nameless brave one in the telegraph office was perhaps already fingering his last despatch27; and just a little beyond Leven, Largo28 Law and the smoke of Largo town mounting about its feet, the town of Alexander Selkirk, better known under the name of Robinson Crusoe. So on, the list might be pursued (only for private reasons, which the reader will shortly have an opportunity to guess) by St. Monance, and Pittenweem, and the two Anstruthers, and Cellardyke, and Crail, where Primate29 Sharpe was once a humble30 and innocent country minister: on to the heel of the land, to Fife Ness, overlooked by a sea-wood of matted elders and the quaint old mansion31 of Balcomie, itself overlooking but the breach32 or the quiescence33 of the deep—the Carr Rock beacon34 rising close in front, and as night draws in, the star of the Inchcape reef springing up on the one hand, and the star of the May Island on the other, and farther off yet a third and a greater on the craggy foreland of St. Abb’s. And but a little way round the corner of the land, imminent itself above the sea, stands the gem35 of the province and the light of mediæval Scotland, St. Andrews, where the great Cardinal36 Beaton held garrison37 against the world, and the second of the name and title perished (as you may read in Knox’s jeering38 narrative) under the knives of true-blue Protestants, and to this day (after so many centuries) the current voice of the professor is not hushed.
Here it was that my first tour of inspection39 began, early on a bleak40 easterly morning. There was a crashing run of sea upon the shore, I recollect41, and my father and the man of the harbour light must sometimes raise their voices to be audible. Perhaps it is from this circumstance, that I always imagine St. Andrews to be an ineffectual seat of learning, and the sound of the east wind and the bursting surf to linger in its drowsy42 classrooms and confound the utterance43 of the professor, until teacher and taught are alike drowned in oblivion, and only the sea-gull beats on the windows and the draught44 of the sea-air rustles45 in the pages of the open lecture. But upon all this, and the romance of St. Andrews in general, the reader must consult the works of Mr. Andrew Lang; who has written of it but the other day in his dainty prose and with his incommunicable humour, and long ago in one of his best poems, with grace, and local truth, and a note of unaffected pathos. Mr. Lang knows all about the romance, I say, and the educational advantages, but I doubt if he had turned his attention to the harbour lights; and it may be news even to him, that in the year 1863 their case was pitiable. Hanging about with the east wind humming in my teeth, and my hands (I make no doubt) in my pockets, I looked for the first time upon that tragi-comedy of the visiting engineer which I have seen so often re-enacted on a more important stage. Eighty years ago, I find my grandfather writing: “It is the most painful thing that can occur to me to have a correspondence of this kind with any of the keepers, and when I come to the Light House, instead of having the satisfaction to meet them with approbation46 and welcome their Family, it is distressing47 when one-is obliged to put on a most angry countenance48 and demeanour.” This painful obligation has been hereditary49 in my race. I have myself, on a perfectly50 amateur and unauthorised inspection of Turnberry Point, bent51 my brows upon the keeper on the question of storm-panes52; and felt a keen pang53 of self-reproach, when we went down stairs again and I found he was making a coffin54 for his infant child; and then regained55 my equanimity56 with the thought that I had done the man a service, and when the proper inspector57 came, he would be readier with his panes. The human race is perhaps credited with more duplicity than it deserves. The visitation of a lighthouse at least is a business of the most transparent58 nature. As soon as the boat grates on the shore, and the keepers step forward in their uniformed coats, the very slouch of the fellows’ shoulders tells their story, and the engineer may begin at once to assume his “angry countenance.” Certainly the brass59 of the handrail will be clouded; and if the brass be not immaculate, certainly all will be to match—the reflectors scratched, the spare lamp unready, the storm-panes in the storehouse. If a light is not rather more than middling good, it will be radically60 bad. Mediocrity (except in literature) appears to be unattainable by man. But of course the unfortunate of St. Andrews was only an amateur, he was not in the Service, he had no uniform coat, he was (I believe) a plumber61 by his trade and stood (in the mediæval phrase) quite out of the danger of my father; but he had a painful interview for all that, and perspired62 extremely.
From St. Andrews, we drove over Magus Muir. My father had announced we were “to post,” and the phrase called up in my hopeful mind visions of top-boots and the pictures in Rowlandson’s Dance of Death; but it was only a jingling63 cab that came to the inn door, such as I had driven in a thousand times at the low price of one shilling on the streets of Edinburgh. Beyond this disappointment, I remember nothing of that drive. It is a road I have often travelled, and of not one of these journeys do I remember any single trait. The fact has not been suffered to encroach on the truth of the imagination. I still see Magus Muir two hundred years ago; a desert place, quite uninclosed; in the midst, the primate’s carriage fleeing at the gallop64; the assassins loose-reined in pursuit, Burley Balfour, pistol in hand, among the first. No scene of history has ever written itself so deeply on my mind; not because Balfour, that questionable65 zealot, was an ancestral cousin of my own; not because of the pleadings of the victim and his daughter; not even because of the live bum-bee that flew out of Sharpe’s ’bacco-box, thus clearly indicating his complicity with Satan; nor merely because, as it was after all a crime of a fine religious flavour, it figured in Sunday books and afforded a grateful relief from Ministering Children or the Memoirs67 of Mrs. Kathatine Winslowe. The figure that always fixed68 my attention is that of Hackston of Rathillet, sitting in the saddle with his cloak about his mouth, and through all that long, bungling69, vociferous70 hurly-burly, revolving71 privately72 a case of conscience. He would take no hand in the deed, because he had a private spite against the victim, and “that action” must be sullied with no suggestion of a worldly motive73; on the other hand, “that action,” in itself, was highly justified74, he had cast in his lot with “the actors,” and he must stay there, inactive but publicly sharing the responsibility. “You are a gentleman—you will protect me!” cried the wounded old man, crawling towards him. “I will never lay a hand on you,” said Hackston, and put his cloak about his mouth. It is an old temptation with me, to pluck away that cloak and see the face—to open that bosom75 and to read the heart. With incomplete romances about Hackston, the drawers of my youth were lumbered76. I read him up in every printed book that I could lay my hands on. I even dug among the Wodrow manuscripts, sitting shame-faced in the very room where my hero had been tortured two centuries before, and keenly conscious of my youth in the midst of other and (as I fondly thought) more gifted students. All was vain: that he had passed a riotous77 nonage, that he was a zealot, that he twice displayed (compared with his grotesque78 companions) some tincture of soldierly resolution and even of military common sense, and that he figured memorably79 in the scene on Magus Muir, so much and no more could I make out. But whenever I cast my eyes backward, it is to see him like a landmark80 on the plains of history, sitting with his cloak about his mouth, inscrutable. How small a thing creates an immortality81! I do not think he can have been a man entirely82 commonplace; but had he not thrown his cloak about his mouth, or had the witnesses forgot to chronicle the action, he would not thus have haunted the imagination of my boyhood, and to-day he would scarce delay me for a paragraph. An incident, at once romantic and dramatic, which at once awakes the judgment83 and makes a picture for the eye, how little do we realise its perdurable power! Perhaps no one does so but the author, just as none but he appreciates the influence of jingling words; so that he looks on upon life, with something of a covert84 smile, seeing people led by what they fancy to be thoughts and what are really the accustomed artifices85 of his own trade, or roused by what they take to be principles and are really picturesque86 effects. In a pleasant book about a school-class club, Colonel Fergusson has recently told a little anecdote87. A “Philosophical Society” was formed by some Academy boys—among them, Colonel Fergusson himself, Fleeming Jenkin, and Andrew Wilson, the Christian88 Buddhist89 and author of The Abode90 of Snow. Before these learned pundits91, one member laid the following ingenious problem: “What would be the result of putting a pound of potassium in a pot of porter?” “I should think there would be a number of interesting bi-products,” said a smatterer at my elbow; but for me the tale itself has a bi-product, and stands as a type of much that is most human. For this inquirer who conceived himself to burn with a zeal66 entirely chemical, was really immersed in a design of a quite different nature; unconsciously to his own recently breeched intelligence, he was engaged in literature. Putting, pound, potassium, pot, porter; initial p, mediant t—that was his idea, poor little boy! So with politics and that which excites men in the present, so with history and that which rouses them in the past: there lie at the root of what appears, most serious unsuspected elements.
The triple town of Anstruther Wester, Anstruther Easter, and Cellardyke, all three Royal Burghs—or two Royal Burghs and a less distinguished92 suburb, I forget which—lies continuously along the seaside, and boasts of either two or three separate parish churches, and either two or three separate harbours. These ambiguities93 are painful; but the fact is (although it argue me uncultured), I am but poorly posted upon Cellardyke. My business lay in the two Anstruthers. A tricklet of a stream divides them, spanned by a bridge; and over the bridge at the time of my knowledge, the celebrated94 Shell House stood outpost on the west. This had been the residence of an agreeable eccentric; during his fond tenancy, he had illustrated95 the outer walls, as high (if I remember rightly) as the roof, with elaborate patterns and pictures, and snatches of verse in the vein96 of exegi monumentum; shells and pebbles97, artfully contrasted and conjoined, had been his medium; and I like to think of him standing98 back upon the bridge, when all was finished, drinking in the general effect and (like Gibbon) already lamenting99 his employment.
The same bridge saw another sight in the seventeenth century. Mr. Thomson, the “curat” of Anstruther Easter, was a man highly obnoxious100 to the devout101: in the first place, because he was a “curat”; in the second place, because he was a person of irregular and scandalous life; and in the third place, because he was generally suspected of dealings with the Enemy of Man. These three disqualifications, in the popular literature of the time, go hand in hand; but the end of Mr. Thomson was a thing quite by itself, and in the proper phrase, a manifest judgment. He had been at a friend’s house in Anstruther Wester, where (and elsewhere, I suspect) he had partaken of the bottle; indeed, to put the thing in our cold modern way, the reverend gentleman was on the brink102 of delirium103 tremens. It was a dark night, it seems; a little lassie came carrying a lantern to fetch the curate home; and away they went down the street of Anstruther Wester, the lantern swinging a bit in the child’s hand, the barred lustre104 tossing up and down along the front of slumbering105 houses, and Mr. Thomson not altogether steady on his legs nor (to all appearance) easy in his mind. The pair had reached the middle of the bridge when (as I conceive the scene) the poor tippler started in some baseless fear and looked behind him; the child, already shaken by the minister’s strange behaviour, started also; in so doing, she would jerk the lantern; and for the space of a moment the lights and the shadows would be all confounded. Then it was that to the unhinged toper and the twittering child, a huge bulk of blackness seemed to sweep down, to pass them close by as they stood upon the bridge, and to vanish on the farther side in the general darkness of the night. “Plainly the devil come for Mr. Thomson!” thought the child. What Mr. Thomson thought himself, we have no ground of knowledge; but he fell upon his knees in the midst of the bridge like a man praying. On the rest of the journey to the manse, history is silent; but when they came to the door, the poor caitiff, taking the lantern from the child, looked upon her with so lost a countenance that her little courage died within her, and she fled home screaming to her parents. Not a soul would venture out; all that night, the minister dwelt alone with his terrors in the manse; and when the day dawned, and men made bold to go about the streets, they found the devil had come indeed for Mr. Thomson.
This manse of Anstruther Easter has another and a more cheerful association. It was early in the morning, about a century before the days of Mr. Thomson, that his predecessor106 was called out of bed to welcome a Grandee107 of Spain, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, just landed in the harbour underneath108. But sure there was never seen a more decayed grandee; sure there was never a duke welcomed from a stranger place of exile. Half-way between Orkney and Shetland, there lies a certain isle21; on the one hand the Atlantic, on the other the North Sea, bombard its pillared cliffs; sore-eyed, short-living, inbred fishers and their families herd109 in its few huts; in the graveyard110 pieces of wreck-wood stand for monuments; there is nowhere a more inhospitable spot. Belle-Isle-en-Mer—Fair-Isle-at-Sea—that is a name that has always rung in my mind’s ear like music; but the only “Fair Isle” on which I ever set my foot, was this unhomely, rugged112 turret-top of submarine sierras. Here, when his ship was broken, my lord Duke joyfully113 got ashore114; here for long months he and certain of his men were harboured; and it was from this durance that he landed at last to be welcomed (as well as such a papist deserved, no doubt) by the godly incumbent115 of Anstruther Easter; and after the Fair Isle, what a fine city must that have appeared! and after the island diet, what a hospitable111 spot the minister’s table! And yet he must have lived on friendly terms with his outlandish hosts. For to this day there still survives a relic116 of the long winter evenings when the sailors of the great Armada crouched117 about the hearths118 of the Fair-Islanders, the planks119 of their own lost galleon120 perhaps lighting121 up the scene, and the gale122 and the surf that beat about the coast contributing their melancholy voices. All the folk of the north isles123 are great artificers of knitting: the Fair-Islanders alone dye their fabrics124 in the Spanish manner. To this day, gloves and nightcaps, innocently decorated, may be seen for sale in the Shetland warehouse125 at Edinburgh, or on the Fair Isle itself in the catechist’s house; and to this day, they tell the story of the Duke of Medina Sidonia’s adventure.
It would seem as if the Fair Isle had some attraction for “persons of quality.” When I landed there myself, an elderly gentleman, unshaved, poorly attired126, his shoulders wrapped in a plaid, was seen walking to and fro, with a book in his hand, upon the beach. He paid no heed127 to our arrival, which we thought a strange thing in itself; but when one of the officers of the Pharos, passing narrowly by him, observed his book to be a Greek Testament128, our wonder and interest took a higher flight. The catechist was cross-examined; he said the gentleman had been put across some time before in Mr. Bruce of Sumburgh’s schooner129, the only link between the Fair Isle and the rest of the world; and that he held services and was doing “good.” So much came glibly130 enough; but when pressed a little farther, the catechist displayed embarrassment131. A singular diffidence appeared upon his face: “They tell me,” said he, in low tones, “that he’s a lord.” And a lord he was; a peer of the realm pacing that inhospitable beach with his Greek Testament, and his plaid about his shoulders, set upon doing good, as he understood it, worthy132 man! And his grandson, a good-looking little boy, much better dressed than the lordly evangelist, and speaking with a silken English accent very foreign to the scene, accompanied me for a while in my exploration of the island. I suppose this little fellow is now my lord, and wonder how much he remembers of the Fair Isle. Perhaps not much; for he seemed to accept very quietly his savage133 situation; and under such guidance, it is like that this was not his first nor yet his last adventure.
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1
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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fawned
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| v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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largo
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| n.广板乐章；adj.缓慢的，宽广的；adv.缓慢地，宽广地 | |
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primate
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| n.灵长类（目）动物，首席主教；adj.首要的 | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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42
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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44
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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45
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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47
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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48
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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49
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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50
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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52
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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53
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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54
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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55
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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56
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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57
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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58
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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59
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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60
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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61
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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62
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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64
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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65
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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66
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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67
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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68
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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69
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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70
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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71
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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72
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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73
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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74
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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75
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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76
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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78
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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79
memorably
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| 难忘的 | |
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80
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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81
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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82
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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83
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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84
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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85
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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86
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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87
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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88
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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89
Buddhist
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| adj./n.佛教的，佛教徒 | |
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90
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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91
pundits
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| n.某一学科的权威，专家( pundit的名词复数 ) | |
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92
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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93
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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94
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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95
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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97
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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98
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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99
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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100
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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101
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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102
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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103
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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104
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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105
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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106
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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107
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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108
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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109
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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110
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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111
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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112
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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113
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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114
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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115
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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116
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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117
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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119
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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120
galleon
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| n.大帆船 | |
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121
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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122
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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123
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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124
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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125
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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126
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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128
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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129
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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130
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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131
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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132
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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133
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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