[Communicated by a Romantic Old Gentleman.]
I hope nobody will be alarmed if I confess that I am about to disclose the existence of a Disreputable Society, in one of the most respectable counties in England. I dare not be more particular as to the locality, and I cannot possibly mention the members by name. But I have no objection to admit that I am perpetual Secretary, that my wife is President, that my daughters are Council, and that my nieces form the Society. Our object is to waste our time, misemploy our intellects, and ruin our morals—or, in other words, to enjoy the prohibited luxury of novel-reading.
It is a settled opinion of mine that the dull people in this country, are the people who, privately1 as well as publicly, govern the nation. By dull people, I mean people of all degrees of rank and education, who never want to be amused. I don't know how long it is since these dreary2 members of the population 73 first hit on the cunning idea of calling themselves Respectable; but I do know that, ever since that time, this great nation has been afraid of them—afraid in religious, in political, and in social matters. If my present business were with the general question, I think I could prove this assertion by simple reference to those records of our national proceedings4 which appear in the daily newspapers. But my object in writing is of the particular kind. I have a special petition to address to the writers of novels, on the part of the Disreputable Society to which I belong; and if I am to give any example here of the supremacy6 of the dull people, it must be drawn7 from one or two plain evidences of their success in opposing the claims of our fictitious8 literature to popular recognition.
The dull people decided9 years and years ago, as every one knows, that novel-writing was the lowest species of literary exertion10, and that novel-reading was a dangerous luxury and an utter waste of time. They gave, and still give, reasons for this opinion, which are very satisfactory to persons born without Fancy or Imagination, and which are utterly11 inconclusive to everyone else. But, with reason or without it, the dull people have succeeded in affixing12 to our novels the stigma13 of being a species of contraband14 goods. Look, for example, at the Prospectus16 of any librarian. The principal part of his trade of 74 book-lending consists in the distributing of novels; and he is uniformly ashamed to own that simple fact. Sometimes, he is afraid to print the word Novel at all in his lists, and smuggles17 in his contraband fiction under the head of Miscellaneous Literature. Sometimes, after freely offering all histories, all biographies, all voyages, all travels, he owns self-reproachfully to the fact of having novels too, but deprecatingly adds—Only the best! As if no other branch of the great tree of literature ever produced tasteless and worthless fruit! In all cases, he puts novels last on his public list of the books he distributes, though they stand first on his private list of the books he gains by. Why is he guilty of all these sins against candour? Because he is afraid of the dull people.
Look again—and this brings me to the subject of these lines—at our Book Clubs. How paramount18 are the dull people there! How they hug to their rigid19 bosoms20 Voyages and Travels! How they turn their intolerant backs on novels! How resolutely23 they get together, in a packed body, on the committee, and impose their joyless laws on the yielding victims of the club, who secretly want to be amused! Our book club was an example of the unresisted despotism of their rule. We began with a law that novels should be occasionally admitted; and the dull people abrogated24 it before we had been in existence 75 a twelvemonth. I smuggled25 in the last morsel26 of fiction that our starving stomachs were allowed to consume, and produced a hurricane of virtuous27 indignation at the next meeting of the committee.
All the dull people of both sexes attended that meeting. One dull gentleman said the author was a pantheist, and quoted some florid ecstacies on the subject of scenery and flowers in support of the opinion. Nobody seemed to know exactly what a pantheist was, but everybody cried "Hear, hear,"—which did just as well for the purpose. Another dull gentleman said the book was painful because there was a death-bed scene in it. A third reviled28 it for morbid29 revelling30 in the subject of crime, because a shot from the pistol of a handsome highwayman dispatched the villain31 of the story. But the great effect of the day was produced by a lady, the mother of a large family which began with a daughter of eighteen years, and ended with a boy of eight months. This lady's objection affected32 the heroine of the novel,—a respectable married woman, perpetually plunged33 in virtuous suffering, but an improper34 character for young persons to read about, because the poor thing had two accouchements—only two!—in the course of three volumes. "How can I suffer my daughters to read such a book as that?" cried our prolific35 subscriber36 indignantly. A tumult37 of applause followed. A chorus of speeches 76 succeeded, full of fierce references to "our national morality," and "the purity of our hearths38 and homes." A resolution was passed excluding all novels for the future; and then, at last, the dull people held their tongues, and sat down with a thump39 in their chairs, and glared contentedly40 on each other in stolid41 controversial triumph.
From that time forth42 (histories and biographies being comparatively scarce articles), we were fed by the dull people on nothing but Voyages and Travels. Every man (or woman) who had voyaged and travelled to no purpose, who had made no striking observations of any kind, who had nothing whatever to say, and who said it at great length in large type on thick paper, with accompaniment of frowsy lithographic illustrations, was introduced weekly to our hearths and homes as the most valuable guide, philosopher, and friend whom our rulers could possibly send us. All the subscribers submitted; all partook the national dread44 of the dull people, with the exception of myself and the members of my family enumerated45 at the beginning of these pages. We resolutely abandoned the club; got a box-full of novels for ourselves, once a month, from London; lost caste with our respectable friends in consequence; and became, for the future, throughout the length and breadth of our neighbourhood, the Disreputable Society to which I have already alluded46. 77 If the dull people of our district were told to-morrow that my wife, daughters, and nieces had all eloped in different directions, leaving just one point of the compass open as a runaway47 outlet48 for me and the cook, I feel firmly persuaded that not one of them would be inclined to discredit49 the report. "This is what comes of novel-reading!" they would say—and would return, with renewed zest50, to their Voyages and Travels, their accouchements in real life, their canting "national morality," and their blustering51 "purity of our hearths and homes."
And now, to come to the main object of this paper,—the humble52 petition of myself and family to certain of our novel-writers. We may say of ourselves that we deserve to be heard, for we have braved public opinion for the sake of reading novels; and we have read, for some years past, all (I hold to the assertion, incredible as it may appear)—all the stories in one, two, and three volumes, that have issued from the press. What, then, have we got to petition about? A very slight matter. Marking, first of all, as exceptions, certain singular instances of originality53, I may mention, as a rule, that our novel-reading enjoyments54 have hitherto been always derived55 from the same sort of characters and the same sort of stories—varied, indeed, as to names and minor56 events, but fundamentally always the same, 78 through hundreds on hundreds of successive volumes, by hundreds on hundreds of different authors. We, none of us complain of this, so far; for we like to have as much as possible of any good thing; but we beg deferentially57 to inquire whether it might not be practicable to give us a little variety for the future. We have no unwholesome craving58 after absolute novelty—all that we venture to ask for is, the ringing of a slight change on some of the favourite old tunes59 which we have long since learnt by heart.
To begin with our favourite Hero. He is such an old friend that we have by this time got to love him dearly. We would not lose sight of him altogether on any consideration whatever. Far be it from us to hint at the withdrawal60 of this noble, loving, injured, fascinating man! We adore his aquiline61 nose, his tall form, his wavy62 hair, his rich voice. Long may we continue to weep on his deep chest and press respectfully to our lips the folds of his ample cloak! Personally speaking it is by no means of him that we are getting tired, but of certain actions which we think he has now performed often enough.
For instance, may we put it respectfully to the ladies and gentlemen who are so good as to exhibit him, that he had better not "stride" any more? He has stridden so much, on so many different occasions, across so many halls, along so many avenues, in and out at so many drawing-room doors, that he 79 must be knocked up by this time, and his dear legs ought really to have a little rest. Again, when his dignity is injured by irreverent looks or words, can he not be made to assert it for the future without "drawing himself up to his full height?" He has really been stretched too much by perpetual indulgence in this exercise for scores and scores of years. Let him sit down—do please let him sit down next time! It would be quite new, and so impressive. Then, again, we have so often discovered him standing63 with folded arms, so often beheld64 him pacing with folded arms, so often heard him soliloquise with folded arms, so often broken in upon him meditating65 with folded arms, that we think he had better do something else with his arms for the future. Could he swing them for a change? or put them akimbo? or drop them suddenly on either side of him? Or could he give them a holiday altogether, and fold his legs by way of variety? Perhaps not. The word Legs—why, I cannot imagine—seems always suggestive of jocularity. "Fitzherbert stood up and folded his arms," is serious. "Fitzherbert sat down and folded his legs," is comic. Why, I should like to know?
A word—one respectful word of remonstrance66 to the lady-novelists especially. We think they have put our Hero on horseback often enough. For the first five hundred novels or so, it was grand, it was 80 thrilling, when he threw himself into the saddle after the inevitable67 quarrel with his lady-love, and galloped68 off madly to his bachelor home. It was inexpressibly soothing69 to behold70 him in the milder passages of his career, moody71 in the saddle, with the reins72 thrown loosely over the arched neck of his steed, as the gallant73 animal paced softly with his noble burden, along a winding74 road, under a blue sky, on a balmy afternoon in early spring. All this was delightful75 reading for a certain number of years; but everything wears out at last, and trust me, ladies, your hero's favourite steed, your dear, intelligent, affectionate, glossy76, long-tailed horse, has really done his work, and may now be turned loose, for some time to come, with great advantage to yourselves, and your readers.
Having spoken a word to the ladies, I am necessarily and tenderly reminded of their charming representatives—the Heroines. Let me say something, first, about our favourite two sisters—the tall dark one, who is serious and unfortunate: the short light one, who is coquettish and happy.
Being an Englishman, I have, of course, an ardent77 attachment78 to anything like an established rule, simply because it is established. I know that it is a rule that, when two sisters are presented in a novel, one must be tall and dark, and the other short and light. I know that five-feet-eight of female flesh 81 and blood, when accompanied by an olive complexion79, black eyes, and raven80 hair, is synonymous with strong passions and an unfortunate destiny. I know that five feet nothing, golden ringlets, soft blue eyes, and a lily-brow, cannot possibly be associated by any well-constituted novelist, with anything but ringing laughter, arch innocence81, and final matrimonial happiness. I have studied these great first principles of the art of fiction too long not to reverence82 them as established laws; but I venture respectfully to suggest that the time has arrived when it is no longer necessary to insist on them in novel after novel. I am afraid there is something naturally revolutionary in the heart of man. Although I know it to be against all precedent83, I want to revolutionise our favourite two sisters. Would any bold innovator84 run all risks, and make them both alike in complexion and in stature85? Or would any desperate man (I dare not suggest such a course to the ladies) effect an entire alteration86, by making the two sisters change characters? I tremble when I see to what lengths the spirit of innovation is leading me. Would the public accept the tall dark-haired sister, if she exhibited a jolly disposition87 and a tendency to be flippant in her talk? Would readers be fatally startled out of their sense of propriety88, if the short charmer with the golden hair, appeared before them as a serious, strong-minded, 82 fierce-spoken, miserable89, guilty woman? It might be a dangerous experiment to make this change; but it would be worth trying—the rather (if I may be allowed to mention anything so utterly irrelevant90 to the subject under discussion as real life) because I think there is some warrant in nature for attempting the proposed innovation. Judging by my own small experience, I should say that strong minds and passionate91 natures reside principally in the breasts of little, light women, especially if they have angelic blue eyes and a quantity of fair ringlets. The most facetiously92 skittish93 woman, for her age, with whom I am acquainted, is my own wife, who is three inches taller than I am. The heartiest94 laugher I ever heard is my second daughter, who is bigger even than my wife, and has the blackest eyebrows95 and the swarthiest cheeks in the whole neighbourhood. With such instances as these, producible from the bosom21 of my own family, who can wonder if I want, for once in a way, to overthrow96 the established order of things, and have a jovial97 dark sister and a dismal98 light one introduced as startling novelties in some few of the hundred new volumes which we are likely to receive next season from the Circulating Library?
But, after all, our long-established two sisters seem to be exceptional beings, and to possess comparatively small importance, the moment our minds 83 revert99 to that vastly superior single personage, THE HEROINE.
Let me mention, to begin with, that we wish no change to be made in our respectable, recognised, old-fashioned Heroine, who has lived and loved and wept for centuries. I have taken her to my bosom thousands of times already, and ask nothing better than to indulge in that tender luxury thousands of times again. I love her blushing cheek, her gracefully-rounded form, her chiselled100 nose, her slender waist, her luxuriant tresses which always escape from the fillet that binds101 them. Any man or woman who attempts, from a diseased craving after novelty, to cheat me out of one of her moonlight walks, one of her floods of tears, one of her kneeling entreaties102 to obdurate103 relatives, one of her rapturous sinkings on her lover's bosom, is a novelist whom I distrust and dislike. He, or she, may be a very remarkable104 writer; but their books will not do for my family and myself. The Heroine, the whole Heroine, and nothing but the Heroine—that is our cry, if you drive us into a corner and insist on our stating precisely105 what we want, in the plainest terms possible.
Being thus faithfully attached to the established Heroine, it will not, I trust, appear a very unaccountable proceeding5, if we now protest positively106, and even indignantly, against her modern successor—a 84 bouncing, ill-conditioned, impudent107 young woman, who has been introduced among us of late years. I venture to call this wretched and futile108 substitute for our dear, tender, gentle, loving old Heroine, the Man-Hater; because, in every book in which she appears, it is her mission from first to last to behave as badly as possible to every man with whom she comes in contact. She enters on the scene with a preconceived prejudice against my sex, for which I, as a man, abominate109 her; for which my wife, my daughters, my nieces, and all other available women whom I have consulted on the subject, despise her. When her lover makes her an offer of marriage, she receives it in the light of a personal insult, goes up to her room immediately afterwards, and flies into a passion with herself, because she is really in love with the man all the time—comes down again, and snubs him before company instead of making a decent apology—pouts and flouts110 at him, on all after-occasions, until the end of the book is at hand—then suddenly turns round and marries him! If we feel inclined to ask why she could not, under the circumstances, receive his advances with decent civility at first, we are informed that her "maidenly111 consciousness" prevented it. This maidenly consciousness seems to me very like new English for our old-fashioned phrase, bad manners. And I am the more confirmed in this idea, because, 85 on all minor occasions, the Man-Hater is persistently112 rude and disobliging to the last. Every individual in the novel who wears trousers and gets within range of her maidenly consciousness, becomes her natural enemy from that moment. If he makes a remark on the weather, her lip curls; if he asks leave to give her a potato at dinner-time (meaning, poor soul, to pick out for her the mealiest in the dish), her neck curves in scorn; if he offers a compliment, finding she won't have a potato, her nostril113 dilates114. Whatever she does, even in her least aggressive moments, she always gets the better of all the men. They are set up like nine-pins for the Man-Hater to knock down. They are described, on their introduction, as clever, resolute22 fellows; but they lose their wits and their self-possession the instant they come within hail of the Man-Hater's terrible tongue. No man kisses her, no man dries her tears, no man sees her blush (except with rage), all through the three volumes. And this is the opposition116 Heroine who is set up as successor to our soft, feminine, loveable, sensitive darling of former days!
Set up, too, by lady-novelists, who ought surely to be authorities when female characters are concerned. Is the Man-Hater a true representative of young women, now-a-days? If so, what is to become of my son—my unlucky son, aged43 twelve years? 86
In a short time, this boy will be marriageable, and he will go into the world to bill and coo, and offer his hand and heart, as his father did before him. My unhappy offspring, what a prospect15 awaits you! One forbidding phalanx of Man-Haters, bristling117 with woman's dignity, and armed to the teeth with maidenly consciousness, occupies the wide matrimonial field, look where you will! Ill-fated youth, yet a few years, and the female neck will curve, the female nostril dilate115, at the sight of you. You see that stately form, those rustling118 skirts, that ample brow, and fall on your knees before it, and make your proposal with the impassioned imbecility which your father exhibited before you. My deluded119 boy, that is not a woman—it is a Man-Hater—a whited sepulchre full of violent expostulations and injurious epithets120. She will lead you the life of a costermonger's ass3, until she has exhausted121 her whole stock of maidenly consciousness; and she will then say (in effect, if not in words):—"Inferior animal, I loved you from the first—I have asserted my dignity by making a fool of you in public and private—now you may marry me!" Marry her not, my son! Go rather to the slave-market at Constantinople—buy a Circassian wife, who has heard nothing and read nothing about man-haters—bring her home (with no better dowry than pots of the famous Cream from her native land to propitiate122 your mother and sisters)—and 87 trust to your father to welcome an Asiatic daughter-in-law, who will not despise him for the unavoidable misfortune of being a Man!
But I am losing my temper over a hypothetical case. I am forgetting the special purpose of my petition, which is to beg that the Man-Hater may be removed altogether from her usurped123 position of heroine. The new-fashioned heroine is a libel on her sex. As a husband and a father, I solemnly deny that she is in any single respect a natural woman. Am I no judge? I have a wife, and I made her an offer. Did she receive it as the Man-Haters receive offers? Can I ever forget the mixture of modest confusion and perfect politeness with which that admirable woman heard me utter the most absolute nonsense that ever issued from my lips? Perhaps she is not fit for a heroine. Well, I can give her up in that capacity without a pang124. But my daughters and nieces have claims, I suppose, to be considered as examples of what young ladies are in the present day. Ever since I read the first novel with a Man-Hater in it, I have had my eye on their nostrils125, and I can make affidavit126 that I have never yet seen them dilate under any circumstances, or in any society. As for curling their lips and curving their necks, they have attempted both operations at my express request, and have found them to be physical impossibilities. In men's society, their manners 88 (like those of all other girls whom I meet with) are natural and modest; and—in the cases of certain privileged men—winning, into the bargain. They open their eyes with astonishment127 when they read of the proceedings of our new-fashioned heroines, and throw the book indignantly across the room, when they find a nice man submitting to be bullied128 by a nasty woman, because he has paid her the compliment of falling in love with her. No, no! we positively decline to receive any more Man-Haters, and there is an end of it!
With this uncompromising expression of opinion, I think it desirable to bring the present petition to a close. There are one or two other good things in fiction, of which we have had enough; but I refrain from mentioning them, from modest apprehension129 of asking for too much at a time. If the slight changes in general, and the sweeping130 reform in particular, which I have ventured to suggest, can be accomplished131, we are sure, in the future as in the past, to be grateful, appreciating, and incessant132 novel-readers. If we cannot claim any critical weight in the eyes of our esteemed133 authors, we can at least arrogate134 to ourselves the minor merit, not only of reading novels perpetually, but (and this is a rarer virtue) of publicly and proudly avowing135 the fact. We only pretend to be human beings with a natural desire for as much amusement as our work-a-day destinies will let us 89 have. We are just respectable enough to be convinced of the usefulness of occasionally reading for information; but we are also certain (and we say it boldly, in the teeth of the dull people), that there are few higher, better, or more profitable enjoyments in this world than reading a good novel.
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fictitious
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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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exertion
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utterly
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affixing
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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smuggles
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paramount
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rigid
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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bosom
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resolute
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resolutely
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abrogated
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| 废除（法律等）( abrogate的过去式和过去分词 )； 取消； 去掉； 抛开 | |
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smuggled
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morsel
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virtuous
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morbid
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revelling
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villain
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affected
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improper
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prolific
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subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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tumult
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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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thump
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contentedly
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stolid
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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48
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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49
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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50
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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51
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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52
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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53
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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54
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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55
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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56
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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57
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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58
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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59
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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60
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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61
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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62
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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63
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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64
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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65
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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66
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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67
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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68
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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69
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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70
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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71
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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72
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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74
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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75
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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76
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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79
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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80
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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81
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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82
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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83
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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84
innovator
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| n.改革者；创新者 | |
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85
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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86
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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87
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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88
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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89
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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91
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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92
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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93
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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94
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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95
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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96
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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97
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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98
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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99
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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100
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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101
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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102
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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103
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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104
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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105
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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106
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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107
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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108
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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109
abominate
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| v.憎恨，厌恶 | |
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110
flouts
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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112
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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113
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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114
dilates
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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116
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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117
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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118
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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119
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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121
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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122
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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123
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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124
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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125
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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126
affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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127
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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128
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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130
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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131
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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132
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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133
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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134
arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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135
avowing
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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