The words "romance" and "romanticism" have been repeated to the ears of our generation with wearisome iteration. Not the least of the good luck of Wordsworth and Coleridge lay in the fact that they scarcely knew that they were "romanticists." aged12" target="_blank">Middle-aged11 readers of the present day may congratulate themselves that in their youth they read Wordsworth and Coleridge simply because it was Wordsworth and Coleridge and not documents illustrating13 the history of the romantic movement. But the rising generation is sophisticated. For better or worse it has been taught to distinguish between the word "romance" on the one side, and the word "romanticism" on the other. "Romantic" is a useful but overworked adjective which attaches itself indiscriminately to both "romance" and "romanticism." Professor Vaughan, for example, and a hundred other writers, have pointed14 out that in the narrower and more usual sense, the words "romance" and "romanticism" point to a love of vivid coloring and strongly marked contrasts; to a craving15 for the unfamiliar16, the marvellous, and the supernatural. In the[Pg 131] wider and less definite sense, they signify a revolt from the purely17 intellectual view of man's nature; a recognition of the instincts and the passions, a vague intimation of sympathy between man and the world around him,—in one word, the sense of mystery. The narrower and the broader meanings pass into one another by imperceptible shades. They are affected18 by the well-known historic conditions for romantic feeling in the different European countries. The common factor, of course, is the man with the romantic world set in his heart. It is Gautier with his love of color, Victor Hugo enraptured19 with the sound of words, Heine with his self-destroying romantic irony20, Novalis with his blue flower, and Maeterlinck with his Blue Bird.
But these romantic men of letters, writing in epochs of romanticism, are by no means the only children of romance. Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter Raleigh were as truly followers21 of "the gleam" as were Spenser or Marlowe. The spirit of romance is found wherever and whenever men say to themselves, as Don Quixote's niece said of her uncle, that "they wish better bread than is made of wheat," or when they look within their own hearts, and[Pg 132] assert, as the poet Young said in 1759, long before the English romantic movement had begun, "there is more in the spirit of man than mere22 prose-reason can fathom23."
We are familiar, perhaps too remorsefully24 familiar, with the fact that romance is likely to run a certain course in the individual and then to disappear. Looking back upon it afterward26, it resembles the upward and downward zigzag28 of a fever chart. It has in fact often been described as a measles29, a disease of which no one can be particularly proud, although he may have no reason to blush for it. Southey said that he was no more ashamed of having been a republican than of having been a boy. Well, people catch Byronism, and get over it, much as Southey got over his republicanism. In fact Byron himself lived long enough—though he died at thirty-six—to outgrow30 his purely "Byronic" phase, and to smile at it as knowingly as we do. Coleridge's blossoming period as a romantic poet was tragically31 brief. Keats and Shelley had the good fortune to die in the fulness of their romantic glory. They did not outlive their own poetic33 sense of the wonder and mystery of the world. Yet many an old[Pg 133] poet like Tennyson and Browning has preserved his romance to the end. Tennyson dies at eighty-three with the full moonlight streaming through the oriel window upon his bed, and with his fingers clasping Shakespeare's Cymbeline.
With most of us commonplace persons, however, a reaction from the romantic is almost inevitable34. The romantic temperament35 cannot long keep the pitch. Poe could indeed do it, although he hovered36 at times near the border of insanity37. Hawthorne went for relief to his profane38 sea-captains and the carnal-minded superannuated39 employees of the Salem Custom House. "The weary weight of all this unintelligible40 world" presses too hard on most of those who stop to think about it. The simplest way of relief is to shrug41 one's shoulders and let the weight go. That is to say, we cease being poets, we are no longer the children of romance, although we may remain idealists. Perhaps it is external events that change, rather than we ourselves. The restoration of the Bourbons, the Revolutions of 1830 and 1848, make and unmake romantics. Often society catches up with the romanticist; he is no longer a[Pg 134] soldier of revolt; he has become a "respectable." Or, while remaining a poet, he shifts his attention to some more familiar segment of the idealistic circle. He sings about his wife instead of the wife of somebody else. Like Wordsworth, he takes for his theme a Mary Hutchinson instead of the unknown and hauntingly alluring42 figure of Lucy. To put it differently, the high light, the mysterious color of dawn or sunset disappears from his picture of human life. Or, the high light may be diffused43 in a more tranquil44 radiance over the whole surface of experience. Such an artist may remain a true painter or poet, but he is not a romantic poet or painter any longer. He has, like the aging Emerson, taken in sail; the god Terminus has said to him, "no more."
One must of course admit that the typical romanticist has often been characterized by certain intellectual and moral weaknesses. But the great romance men, like Edmund Spenser, for example, may not possess these weaknesses at all. Robert Louis Stevenson was passionately45 in love with the romantic in life and with romanticism in literature; but it did not make him eccentric, weak, or empty. His instinct for enduring[Pg 135] romance was so admirably fine that it brought strength to the sinews of his mind, light and air and fire to his soul. Among the writers of our own day, it is Mr. Kipling who has written some of the keenest satire47 upon romantic foibles, while never ceasing to salute48 his real mistress, the true romance.
"Who wast, or yet the Lights were set, A whisper in the void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed."
What are the causes of American romance, the circumstances and qualities that have produced the romantic element in American life and character? Precisely as with the individual artist or man of letters, we touch first of all upon certain temperamental inclinations49. It is a question again of the national mind, of the differentiation50 of the race under new climatic and physical conditions. We have to reckon with the headiness and excitability of youth. It was young men who emigrated hither, just as in the eighteen-sixties it was young men who filled the Northern and the Southern armies. The first generations of American immigration were made up chiefly of vigorous, imaginative,[Pg 136] and daring youth. The incapables came later. It is, I think, safe to assert that the colonists51 of English stock, even as late as 1790,—when more than ninety per cent of the population of America had in their veins52 the blood of the British Isles,—were more responsive to romantic impulses than their English cousins. For that matter, an Irishman or a Welshman is more romantic than an Englishman to-day.
From the very beginning of the American settlements, likewise, there were evidences of the weaker, the over-excitable side of the romantic temper. There were volatile53 men like Morton of Merrymount; there were queer women like Anne Hutchinson, admirable woman as she was; among the wives of the colonists there were plenty of Emily Dickinsons in the germ. Among the men, there were schemes that came to nothing. There were prototypes of Colonel Sellers; a temperamental tendency toward that recklessness and extravagance which later historical conditions stimulated54 and confirmed. The more completely one studies the history of our forefathers55 on American soil, the more deeply does one become conscious of the prevailing56 atmosphere of emotionalism.[Pg 137]
Furthermore, as one examines the historic conditions under which the spirit of American romance has been preserved and heightened from time to time, one becomes aware that although ours is rather a romance of wonder than of beauty, the spirit of beauty is also to be found. The first fervors of the romance of discovery were childlike in their eagerness. Hakluyt's Voyages, John Smith's True Relation of Virginia, Thomas Morton's New England's Canaan, all appeal to the sense of the marvellous.
Listen to Morton's description of Cape58 Ann. I can never read it without thinking of Botticelli's picture of Spring, so na?vely does this picturesque59 rascal60 suffuse61 his landscape with the feeling for beauty:—
"In the Moneth of June, Anno Salutis 1622, it was my chaunce to arrive in the parts of New England with 30. Servants, and provision of all sorts fit for a plantation62: and whiles our howses were building, I did indeavour to take a survey of the Country: The more I looked, the more I liked it. And when I had more seriously considered of the bewty of the place, with all her faire indowments, I did not thinke that in all the knowne world it could be paralel'd,[Pg 138] for so many goodly groves63 of trees, dainty fine round rising hillucks, delicate faire large plaines, sweete cristall fountaines, and cleare running streames that twine64 in fine meanders65 through the meads, making so sweete a murmering noise to heare as would even lull66 the sences with delight a sleepe, so pleasantly doe they glide67 upon the pebble68 stones, jetting most jocundly69 where they doe meete and hand in hand runne downe to Neptunes Court, to pay the yearely tribute which they owe to him as soveraigne Lord of all the springs. Contained within the volume of the Land, Fowles in abundance, Fish in multitude; and discovered, besides, Millions of Turtledoves on the greene boughes, which sate70 pecking of the full ripe pleasant grapes that were supported by the lusty trees, whose fruitful loade did cause the armes to bend: while here and there dispersed71, you might see Lillies and the Daphnean-tree: which made the Land to mee seeme paradice: for in mine eie t'was Natures Masterpeece; Her cheifest Magazine of all where lives her store: if this Land be not rich, then is the whole world poore."
This is the Morton who, a few years later, settled at Merrymount. Let me condense the[Pg 139] story of his settlement, from the narrative73 of the stout74-hearted Governor William Bradford's History of Plymouth Plantation:—
[Pg 140]
"And Morton became lord of misrule, and maintained (as it were) a schoole of Athisme. And after they had gott some good into their hands, and gott much by trading with the Indeans, they spent it as vainly, in quaffing75 & drinking both wine & strong waters in great exsess, and, as some reported 10￡. worth in a morning. They allso set up a May-pole, drinking and dancing aboute it many days togeather, inviting76 the Indean women, for their consorts77, dancing and frisking togither, (like so many fairies, or furies rather,) and worse practises. As if they had anew revived & celebrated78 the feasts of the Roman Goddes Flora79, or the beasly practieses of the madd Bacchinalians. Morton likewise (to shew his poetrie) composed sundry80 rimes & verses, some tending to lasciviousnes, and others to the detraction81 & scandall of some persons, which he affixed82 to this idle or idoll May-polle. They chainged allso the name of their place, and in stead of calling it Mounte Wollaston, they call it Merie-mounte, as if this joylity would have lasted ever."
But it did not last long. Bradford and other leaders of the plantations83 "agreed by mutual84 consent" to "suppress Morton and his consorts." "In a friendly and neighborly way" they admonished85 him. "Insolently86 he persisted." "Upon which they saw there was no way but to take him by force." "So they mutually resolved to proceed," and sent Captain Standish to summon him to yield. But, says Bradford, Morton and some of his crew came out, not to yield, but to shoot; all of them rather drunk; Morton himself, with a carbine almost half filled with powder and shot, had thought to have shot Captain Standish, "but he stepped to him and put by his piece and took him."
It is not too fanciful to say that with those stern words of Governor Bradford the English Renaissance87 came to an end. The dream of a lawless liberty which has been dreamed and dreamed out so many times in the history of the world was over, for many a day. It was only a hundred years earlier that Rabelais had written over the doors of his ideal abbey, the motto "Do what thou wilt88." It is true that Rabelais proposed to admit to his Abbey of Thélème only such men and women as were[Pg 141] virtuously89 inclined. We do not know how many persons would have been able and willing to go into residence there. At any rate, two hundred years went by in New England after the fall of Morton before any notable spirit dared to cherish once more the old Renaissance ideal. At last, in Emerson's doctrine90 that all things are lawful91 because Nature is good and human nature is divine, we have a curious parallel to the doctrine of Rabelais. It was the old romance of human will under a new form and voiced in new accents. Yet in due time the hard facts of human nature reasserted themselves and put this romantic transcendentalism by, even as the implacable Myles Standish put by that heavily loaded fowling-piece of the drunken Morton.
But men believed in miracles in the first century of colonization92, and they will continue at intervals93 to believe in them until human nature is no more. The marvellous happenings recorded in Cotton Mather's Magnalia no longer excite us to any "suspension of disbelief." We doubt the story of Pocahontas. The fresh romantic enthusiasm of a settler like Crèvec?ur seems curiously94 juvenile95 to-day, as does[Pg 142] the romantic curiosity of Chateaubriand concerning the Mississippi and the Choctaws, or the zeal96 of Wordsworth and Coleridge over their dream of a "panti-Socratic" community in the unknown valley of the musically-sounding Susquehanna. Inexperience is a perpetual feeder of the springs of romance. John Wesley, it will be remembered, went out to the colony of Georgia full of enthusiasm for converting the Indians; but as he na?vely remarks in his Journal, he "neither found or heard of any Indians on the continent of America, who had the least desire of being instructed." The sense of fact, in other words, supervenes, and the glory disappears from the face of romance. The humor of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad turns largely upon this sense of remorseless fact confronting romantic inexperience.
American history, however, has been marked by certain great romantic passions that seem endowed with indestructible vitality97. The romance of discovery, the fascination98 of the forest and sea, the sense of danger and mystery once aroused by the very word "redskin," have all moulded and will continue to mould the national imagination. How completely the[Pg 143] romance of discovery may be fused with the glow of humanitarian99 and religious enthusiasm has been shown once for all in the brilliant pages of Parkman's story of the Jesuit missions in Canada. Pictorial100 romance can scarcely go further than this. In the crisis of Chateaubriand's picturesque and passionate46 tale of the American wilderness101, no one can escape the thrilling, haunting sound of the bell from the Jesuit chapel102, as it tolls103 in the night and storm that were fatal to the happiness of Atala. One scarcely need say that the romance of missions has never faded from the American mind. I have known a sober New England deacon aged eighty-five, who disliked to die because he thought he should miss the monthly excitement of reading the Missionary104 Herald105. The deacon's eyes, like the eyes of many an old sea-captain in Salem or Newburyport, were literally106 upon the ends of the earth. No one can reckon how many starved souls, deprived of normal outlet107 for human feeling, have found in this passionate curiosity and concern for the souls of black and yellow men and women in the antipodes, a constant source of beneficent excitement.[Pg 144]
Nor is there any diminution108 of interest in the mere romance of adventure, in the stories of hunter and trapper, the journals of Lewis and Clarke, the narratives109 of Boone and Crockett. In writing his superb romances of the Northern Lakes, the prairie and the sea, Fenimore Cooper had merely to bring to an artistic110 focus sentiments that lay deep in the souls of the great mass of his American readers. Students of our social life have pointed out again and again how deeply our national temperament has been affected by the existence, during nearly three hundred years, of an alien aboriginal111 race forever lurking112 upon the borders of our civilization. "Playing Indian" has been immensely significant, not merely in stimulating113 the outdoor activity of generations of American boys, but in teaching them the perennial114 importance of certain pioneer qualities of observation, resourcefulness, courage, and endurance which date from the time when the Indians were a daily and nightly menace. Even when the Indian has been succeeded by the cowboy, the spirit of romance still lingers,—as any collection of cowboy ballads115 will abundantly prove. And when the cowboys pass,[Pg 145] and the real-estate dealers116 take possession of the field, one is tempted117 to say that romance flourishes more than ever.
In short, things are what we make them at the moment, what we believe them to be. In my grandfather's youth the West was in the neighborhood of Port Byron, New York, and when he journeyed thither118 from Massachusetts in the eighteen-twenties, the glory of adventure enfolded him as completely as the boys of the preceding generation had been glorified119 in the War of the Revolution, or the boys of the next generation when they went gold-seeking in California in 1849. The West, in short, means simply the retreating horizon, the beckoning120 finger of opportunity. Like Boston, it has been not a place, but a "state of mind."
"We must go, go, go away from here, On the other side the world we're overdue121."
That is the song which sings itself forever in the heart of youth. Champlain and Cartier heard it in the sixteenth century, Bradford no less than Morton in the seventeenth. Some Eldorado has always been calling to the more adventurous spirits upon American soil. The[Pg 146] passion of the forty-niner neither began nor ended with the discovery of gold in California. It is within us. It transmutes122 the harsh or drab-colored everyday routine into tissue of fairyland. It makes our "winning of the West" a magnificent national epic123. It changes to-day the black belt of Texas, or the wheat-fields of Dakota, into pots of gold that lie at the end of rainbows, only that the pot of gold is actually there. The human hunger of it all, the gorgeous dream-like quality of it all, the boundlessness124 of the vast American spaces, the sense of forest and prairie and sky, are all inexplicably126 blended with our notion of the ideal America. Henry James once tried to explain the difference between Turgenieff and a typical French novelist by saying that the back door of the Russian's imagination was always open upon the endless Russian steppe. No one can understand the spirit of American romance if he is not conscious of this ever-present hinterland in which our spirits have, from the beginning, taken refuge and found solace127.
We have already noticed, in the chapter on idealism, how swiftly the American imagination modifies the prosaic128 facts of everyday[Pg 147] experience. The idealistic glamour129 which falls upon the day's work changes easily, in the more emotional temperaments130, and at times, indeed, in all of us, into the fervor57 of true romance. Then, the prosaic buying and selling becomes the "game." A combination of buyers and sellers becomes the "system." The place where these buyers and sellers most do congregate131 and concentrate becomes "Wall Street"—a sort of anthropomorphic monster which seems to buy and sell the bodies and souls of men. Seen half a continent away, through the mists of ignorance and prejudice and partisan132 passion, "Wall Street" has loomed133 like some vast Gibraltar. To the broker's clerk who earns his weekly salary in that street, the Nebraska notion of "Wall Street" is too grotesque134 for discussion.
How easily every phase of American business life may take on the hues135 of romance is illustrated137 by the history of our railroads. No wonder that Bret Harte wrote a poem about the meeting of the eastward138 and westward139 facing engines when the two sections of the union Pacific Railroad at last drew near each other on the interminable plains and the two engines[Pg 148] could talk. Of course what they said was poetry. There was a time when even the Erie Canal was poetic. The Panama Canal to-day, in the eyes of most Americans, is something other than a mere feat140 of engineering. We are doing more than making "the dirt fly." The canal represents victory over hostile forces, conquest of unwilling141 Nature, achievement of what had long been deemed impossible, the making not of a ditch, but of History.
So with all that American zest142 for camping, fishing, sailing, racing143, which lies deep in the Anglo-Saxon, and which succeeds to the more primitive144 era of actual struggle against savage145 beasts or treacherous146 men or mysterious forests. It is at once an outlet and a nursery for romantic emotion. The out-of-doors movement which began with Thoreau's hut on Walden Pond, and which has gone on broadening and deepening to this hour, implies far more than mere variation from routine. It furnishes, indeed, a healthful escape from the terrific pressure of modern social and commercial exigencies147. Yet its more important function is to provide for grown-ups a chance to "play Indian" too.[Pg 149]
But outdoors and indoors, after all, lie in the heart and mind, rather than in the realm of actual experience. The romantic imagination insists upon taking its holiday, whether the man who possesses it gets his holiday or not. I have never known a more truly romantic figure than a certain tin-pedler in Connecticut who, in response to the question, "Do you do a good business?" made this perfectly148 Stevensonian reply: "Well, I make a living selling crockery and tinware, but my business is the propagation of truth."
This wandering idealist may serve to remind us again of the difference between romance and romanticism. The true romance is of the spirit. Romanticism shifts and changes with external fortunes, with altering emotions, with the alternate play of light and shade over the vast landscape of human experience. The typical romanticist, as we have seen, is a man of moods. It is only a Poe who can keep the pitch through the whole concert of experience. But the deeper romance of the spirit is oblivious149 of these changes of external fortune, this rising or falling of the emotional temperature. The moral life of America furnishes striking illustrations of the[Pg 150] steadfastness150 with which certain moral causes have been kept, as it were, in the focus of intense feeling. Poetry, undefeated and unwavering poetry, has transfigured such practical propaganda as the abolition151 of slavery, the emancipation152 of woman, the fight against the liquor traffic, the emancipation of the individual from the clutches of economic and commercial despotism. Men like Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, women like Julia Ward27 Howe, fought for these causes throughout their lives. Colonel Higginson's attitude towards women was not merely chivalric153 (for one may be chivalrous154 without any marked predisposition to romance), but nobly romantic also. James Russell Lowell, poet as he was, outlived that particular phase of romantic moral reform which he had been taught by Maria White. But in other men and women bred in that old New England of the eighteen-forties, the moral fervor knew no restraint. Garrison155, although in many respects a most unromantic personality, was engaged in a task which gave him all the inspiration of romance. A romantic "atmosphere," fully25 as highly colored as any of the romantic atmospheres that we are accustomed[Pg 151] to mark in literature, surrounded as with a luminous156 mist the figures of the New England transcendentalists. They, too, as Heine said of himself, were soldiers. They felt themselves enlisted157 for a long but ultimately victorious158 campaign. They were willing to pardon, in their comrades and in themselves, those imaginative excesses which resemble the physical excesses of a soldier's camp. Transcendentalism was thus a militant159 philosophy and religion, with both a destructively critical and a positively160 constructive161 creed162. Channing, Parker, Alcott, Margaret Fuller, were warrior-priests, poets and prophets of a gallant163 campaign against inherited darkness and bigotry164, and for the light.
The atmosphere of that score of years in New England was now superheated, now rarefied, thin, and cold; but it was never quite the normal atmosphere of every day. On the purely literary side, it is needless to say, these men and women sought inspiration in Coleridge and Carlyle and other English and German romanticists. In fact, the most enduring literature of New England between 1830 and 1865 was distinctly a romantic literature.[Pg 152] It was rooted, however, not so much in those swift changes of historic condition, those startling liberations of the human spirit which gave inspiration to the romanticism of the Continent, as it was in the deep and vital fervor with which these New Englanders envisaged165 the problems of the moral life.
Other illustrations of the American capacity for romance lie equally close at hand. Take, for instance, the stout volume in which Mr. Burton Stevenson has collected the Poems of American History. Here are nearly seven hundred pages of closely printed patriotic166 verse. While Stedman's Anthology reveals no doubt national aspirations167 and national sentiment, as well as the emotional fervor of individuals, Mr. Stevenson's collection has the advantage of focussing this national feeling upon specific events. Stedman's Anthology is an enduring document of American idealism, touching168 in the sincerity169 of its poetic moods, pathetic in its long lists of men and women who are known by one poem only, or who have never, for one reason or another, fulfilled their poetic promise. The thousand poems which it contains are more striking, in fact, for their promise than for their[Pg 153] performance. They are intimations of what American men and women would have liked to do or to be. In this sense, it is a precious volume, but it is certainly not commensurate, either in passion or in artistic perfection, with the forces of that American life which it tries to interpret. Indeed, Mr. Stedman, after finishing his task of compilation170, remarked to more than one of his friends that what this country needed was some "adult male verse."
The Poems of American History collected by Mr. Stevenson are at least vigorous and concrete. One aspect of our history which especially lends itself to Mr. Stevenson's purpose is the romance which attaches itself to war. It is scarcely necessary to say nowadays that all wars, even the noblest, have had their sordid171, grimy, selfish, bestial172 aspect; and that the intelligence and conscience of our modern world are more and more engaged in the task of making future wars impossible. But the slightest acquaintance with American history reveals the immense reservoir of romantic emotion which has been drawn173 upon in our national struggles. War, of course, is an immemorial source of romantic feeling. William James's[Pg 154] notable essay on "A Moral Substitute for War" endeavored to prove that our modern economic and social life, if properly organized, would give abundant outlet and satisfaction to those romantic impulses which formerly174 found their sole gratification in battle. Many of us believe that he was right; but for the moment we must look backward and not forward. We must remember the stern if rude poetry inspired by our Revolutionary struggle, the romantic halo that falls upon the youthful figure of Nathan Hale, the baleful light that touches the pale face of Benedict Arnold, the romance of the Bennington fight to the followers of Stark175 and Ethan Allen, the serene176 voice of the "little captain," John Paul Jones:—"We have not struck, we have just begun our part of the fighting." The colors of romance still drape the Chesapeake and the Shannon, Tecumseh and Tippecanoe. The hunters of Kentucky, the explorers of the Yellowstone and the Columbia, the emigrants177 who left their bones along the old Santa Fé Trail, are our Homeric men.
The Mexican War affords pertinent178 illustration, not only of romance, but of reaction. The[Pg 155] earlier phases of the Texan struggle for independence have much of the daring, the splendid rashness, the glorious and tragic32 catastrophes179 of the great romantic adventures of the Old World. It is not the Texans only who still "remember the Alamo," but when those brilliant and dramatic adventures of border warfare180 became drawn into the larger struggle for the extension of slavery, the poetic reaction began. The physical and moral pretence181 of warfare, the cheap splendors182 of epaulets and feathers, shrivelled at the single touch of the satire of the Biglow Papers. Lowell, writing at that moment with the instinct and fervor of a prophet, brought the whole vainglorious183 business back to the simple issue of right and wrong:
"'Taint184 your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; 'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, God'll send the bill to you."
But far more interesting is the revelation of the American capacity for romance which was[Pg 156] made possible by the war between the States. Stevenson's Poems of American History and Stedman's Anthology give abundant illustration of almost every aspect of that epical185 struggle. The South was in a romantic mood from the very beginning. The North drifted into it after Sumter. I have already said that no one can examine a collection of Civil War verse without being profoundly moved by its evidence of American idealism. In specific phases of the struggle, in connection with certain battle-fields and certain leaders of both North and South, this idealism is heightened into pure romance, so that even our novelists feel that they can give no adequate picture of the war without using the colors of poetry. Most critics, no doubt, agree in feeling that we are still too near to that epoch-making crisis of our national existence to do it any justice in the terms of literature. Perhaps we must wait for the perfected romance of the years 1861-65, until the men and the events of that struggle are as remote as the heroes of Greece and Troy. Certainly no one can pass a final judgment186 upon the verse occasioned by recent struggles in arms. Any one who has studied the English[Pg 157] poetry inspired by the South-African War will be painfully conscious of the emotional and moral complexity187 of all such issues, of the bitter injustice188 which poets, as well as other men, render to one another, of the impossibility of transmuting189 into the pure gold of romance the emotions originating in the stock market, in race-hatred190, and in national vainglory.
We have lingered too long, perhaps, over these various evidences of the romantic temper of America. We must now glance at the forces of reaction, the recoil191 to fact. What is it which contradicts, inhibits192, or negatives the romantic tendency? Among other forces, there is certainly humor. Humor and romance often go hand in hand, but humor is commonly fatal to romanticism. There is satire, which rebukes193 both romanticism and romance, which exposes the fallacies of the one, and punctures194 the exuberance195 of the other. More effective, perhaps, than either humor or satire as an antiseptic against romance, is the overmastering sense of fact. This is what Emerson called the instinct for the milk in the pan, an instinct which Emerson himself possessed196 extraordinarily197 on his purely Yankee side, and which a[Pg 158] pioneer country is forced continually to develop and to recognize. Camping, for instance, develops both the romantic sense and the fact sense. Supper must be cooked, even at Walden Pond. There must be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and the dishes ought to be washed.
On a higher plane, also, than this mere sense of physical necessity, there are forces limiting the influence of romance. Schiller put it all into one famous line:—
"Und was uns alle b?ndigt, das Gemeine."
Or listen to Keats:—
"'T is best to remain aloof198 from people, and like their good parts, without being eternally troubled with the dull process of their everyday lives.... All I can say is that standing199 at Charing200 Cross, and looking East, West, North and South, I can see nothing but dullness."
And Henry James, describing New York in his book, The American Scene, speaks of "the overwhelming preponderance of the unmitigated 'business-man' face ... the consummate201 monotonous202 commonness of the pushing male crowd, moving in its dense72 mass—with[Pg 159] the confusion carried to chaos203 for any intelligence, any perception; a welter of objects and sounds in which relief, detachment, dignity, meaning, perished utterly204 and lost all rights ... the universal will to move—to move, move, move, as an end in itself, an appetite at any price."
One need not be a poet like Keats or an inveterate205 psychologist like Henry James, in order to become aware how the commonplaceness of the world rests like a fog upon the mind and heart. No one goes to his day's work and comes home again without a consciousness of contact with an unspiritual atmosphere, or incompletely spiritualized forces, not merely with indifference206, to what Emerson would term "the over-soul," but with a lack of any faith in the things which are unseen. Take those very forces which have limited the influence of Emerson throughout the United States; they illustrate136 the universal forces which clip the wings of romance. The obstacles in the path of Emerson's influence are not merely the religious and denominational differences which Dr. George A. Gordon portrayed207 in a notable article at the time of the Emerson Centenary.[Pg 160] The real obstacles are more serious. It is true that Dr. Park of Andover, Dr. Bushnell of Hartford, and Dr. Hodge of Princeton, could say in Emerson's lifetime: "We know a better, a more Scriptural and certificated road toward the very things which Emerson is seeking for. We do not grant that we are less idealistic than he. We think him a dangerous guide, following wandering fires. It is better to journey safely with us."
But I have known at least two livery-stable keepers and many college professors who would unite in saying: "Hodge and Park and Bushnell and Emerson are all following after something that does not exist. One is not much more mistaken than the others. We can get along perfectly well in our business without any of those ideas at all. Let us stick to the milk in the pan, the horse in the stall, the documents which you will find in the library."
There exists, in other words, in all classes of American society to-day, just as there existed during the Revolution, during the transcendental movement, or the Civil War, an immense mass of unspiritualized, unvitalized American manhood and womanhood. No literature[Pg 161] comes from it and no religion, though there is much human kindness, much material progress, and some indestructible residuum of that idealism which lifts man above the brute208.
Yet the curious and the endlessly fascinating thing about these forces of reaction is that they themselves shift and change. We have seen that external romance depending upon strangeness of scene, novelty of adventure, rich atmospheric209 distance of space or time, disappears with the changes of civilization. The farm expands over the wolf's den1, the Indian becomes a blacksmith, but do the gross and material instincts ultimately triumph? He would be a hardy210 prophet who should venture to assert it. We must reckon always with the swing of the human pendulum211, with the reaction against reaction. Here, for example, during the last decade, has been book after book written about the reaction against democracy. All over the world, it is asserted, there are unmistakable signs that democracy will not practically work in the face of the modern tasks to which the world has set itself. One reads these books, one persuades himself that the hour for democracy is passing, and then one goes out on the street[Pg 162] and buys a morning newspaper and discovers that democracy has scored again. So is it with the experience of the individual. You may fancy that the romance of the seas passes, for you, with the passing of the square-sailed ship. If Mr. Kipling's poetry cannot rouse you from that mood of reaction, walk down to the end of the pier212 to-morrow and watch the ocean liner come up the harbor. If there is no romance there, you do not know romance when you see it!
Take the case of the farmer; his prosaic life is the butt213 of the newspaper paragraphers from one end of the country to the other. But does romance disappear from the farm with machinery214 and scientific agriculture? There are farmers who follow Luther Burbank's experiments with plants, with all the fascination which used to attach to alchemy and astrology. The farmer has no longer Indians to fight or a wilderness to subdue215, but the soils of his farm are analyzed216 at his state university by men who live in the daily atmosphere of the romance of science, and who say, as a professor in the University of Chicago said once, that "a flower is so wonderful that if you knew[Pg 163] what was going on within its cell-structure, you would be afraid to stay alone with it in the dark."
The reaction from romance, therefore, real as it is, and dead weight as it lies upon the soul of the nation, often breeds the very forces which destroy it. In other words, the reaction against one type of romance produces inevitably217 another type of romance, other aspects of wonder, terror, and beauty. Following the romance of adventure comes, after never so deep a trough in the sea, the romance of science, like the crest218 of another wave; and then comes what we call, for lack of a better word, the psychological romance, the old mystery and strangeness of the human soul, ?schylus and Job, as Victor Hugo says, in the poor crawfish gatherer on the rocks of Brittany.
We must remember that we are endeavoring to measure great spaces and to take account of the "amplitude219 of time." The individual "fact-man," as Coleridge called him, remains220 perhaps a fact-man to the end, just as the dreamer may remain a dreamer. But no single generation is compounded all of fact or all of dream. Longfellow felt, no doubt, that there[Pg 164] was an ideal United States, which Dickens did not discover during that first visit of 1842; he would have set the Cambridge which he knew over against the Cincinnati viewed by Mrs. Trollope; he would have asserted that the homes characterized by refinement221, by cultivation222, by pure and simple sentiment, made up the true America. But even among Longfellow's own contemporaries there was Whitman, who felt that the true America was something very different from that exquisitely223 tempered ideal of Longfellow. There was Thoreau, who, over in Concord224, had been pushing forward the frontier of the mind and senses, who had opened his back-yard gate, as it were, upon the boundless125 and mysterious territory of Nature. There was Emerson, who was preaching an intellectual independence of the Old World which should correspond to the political and social independence of the Western Hemisphere. There was Parkman, whose hatred of philanthropy, whose lack of spirituality, is a striking illustration of the rebound225 of New England idealism against itself, of the reaction into stoicism. What different worlds these men lived in, and yet they were all inhabitants, so to[Pg 165] speak, of the same parish; most of them met often around the same table! The lesson of their variety of experience and differences of gifts as workmen in that great palace of literature which is so variously built, is that no action and reaction in the imaginative world is ever final. Least of all do these actions and reactions affect the fortunes of true romance. The born dreamer may fall from one dream into another, but he still murmurs226, in the famous line of William Ellery Channing,—
"If my bark sinks, 't is to another sea."
No line in our literature is more truly American,—unless it be that other splendid metaphor227, by David Wasson, which says the same thing in other words:—
"Life's gift outruns my fancies far, And drowns the dream In larger stream, As morning drinks the morning-star."
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1
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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covets
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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28
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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41
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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42
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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47
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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48
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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49
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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50
differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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51
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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52
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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53
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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54
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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55
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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56
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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57
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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58
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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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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60
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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61
suffuse
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| v.(色彩等)弥漫，染遍 | |
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62
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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63
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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64
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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65
meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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66
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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67
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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68
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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69
jocundly
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| adv.愉快地，快活地 | |
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70
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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71
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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72
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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73
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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75
quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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76
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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77
consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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78
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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80
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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81
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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82
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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83
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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84
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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85
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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86
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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88
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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89
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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90
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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91
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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92
colonization
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| 殖民地的开拓，殖民，殖民地化； 移殖 | |
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93
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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94
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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95
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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96
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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97
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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98
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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99
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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100
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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101
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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102
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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103
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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104
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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105
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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107
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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108
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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109
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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110
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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111
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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112
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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113
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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114
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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115
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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116
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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117
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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118
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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119
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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120
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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121
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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122
transmutes
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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124
boundlessness
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| 海阔天空 | |
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125
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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126
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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127
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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128
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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129
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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130
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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131
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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132
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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133
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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134
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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135
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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136
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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137
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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138
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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139
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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140
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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141
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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142
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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143
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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144
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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145
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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146
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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147
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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148
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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149
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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150
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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151
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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152
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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153
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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154
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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155
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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156
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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157
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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158
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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159
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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160
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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161
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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162
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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163
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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164
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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165
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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167
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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168
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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169
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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170
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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171
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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172
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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173
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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174
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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175
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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176
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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177
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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178
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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179
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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180
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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181
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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182
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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183
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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184
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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185
epical
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| adj.叙事诗的，英勇的 | |
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186
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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187
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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188
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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189
transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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190
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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191
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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192
inhibits
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| 阻止，抑制( inhibit的第三人称单数 )； 使拘束，使尴尬 | |
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193
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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194
punctures
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| n.（尖物刺成的）小孔( puncture的名词复数 )；（尤指）轮胎穿孔；（尤指皮肤上被刺破的）扎孔；刺伤v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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195
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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196
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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197
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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198
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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199
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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200
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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201
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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202
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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203
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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204
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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205
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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206
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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207
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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208
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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209
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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210
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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211
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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212
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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213
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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214
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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215
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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216
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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217
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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218
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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219
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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220
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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221
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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222
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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223
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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224
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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225
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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226
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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227
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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