“He was rather under the middle size, but gracefully5 formed, and extremely prepossessing in his general appearance. His hair was light-colored, and tastefully disposed. Below a fine forehead gleamed two of the most beautiful eyes 279 I had ever beheld6 in any human head. One seemed to gaze far into their azure7 depths. A very sweet smile, not at all of the pensively-poetical character, lurked8 about the well-shaped mouth, and altogether the expression of Henry Wordsworth [sic] Longfellow’s face was most winning. He was dressed very fashionably—almost too much so; a blue frock coat of Parisian cut, a handsome waistcoat, faultless pantaloons, and primrose-colored ‘kids’ set off his compact figure, which was not a moment still; for like a butterfly glancing from flower to flower, he was tripping from one lady to another, admired and courted by all. He shook me cordially by the hand, introduced me to his lady, invited me to his house, and then he was off again like a humming bird.”[106]
A later picture by another English observer is contained in Lord Ronald Gower’s “My Reminiscences.” After a description of a visit to Craigie House, in 1878, he says: “If asked to describe Longfellow’s appearance, I should compare him to the ideal representations of early Christian9 saints and prophets. There is a kind of halo of goodness about him, a benignity10 in his expression which one associates with St. John at Patmos saying to his followers11 and brethren, ‘Little children, love one another!’... Longfellow 280 has had the rare fortune of being thoroughly12 appreciated in his own country and in other countries during his lifetime; how different, probably, would have been the career of Byron, of Keats, or of Shelley, had it been thus with them! It would be presumptuous13 for me, and out of place, to do more here than allude14 to the universal popularity of Longfellow’s works wherever English is spoken; I believe it is not an exaggeration to say that his works are more popular than those of any other living poet. What child is there who has not heard of ‘Excelsior,’ or of ‘Evangeline,’ of ‘Miles Standish,’ or of ‘Hiawatha’? What songs more popular than ‘The Bridge,’ and ‘I know a maiden16 fair to see’? Or who, after reading the ‘Psalm of Life,’ or the ‘Footsteps of Angels,’ does not feel a little less worldly, a little less of the earth, earthy? The world, indeed, owes a deep debt of gratitude17 to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.... Bidding me note the beauty of the autumnal tints18 that make America in the ‘fall’ look as if rainbows were streaming out of the earth, Longfellow presented me with a goodly sample of the red and golden leaves of the previous autumn, which, although dry and faded, still glowed like gems19; these leaves I brought away with me, and they now form a garland round the 281 poet’s portrait; a precious souvenir of that morning passed at Craigie House.”[107]
Lord Ronald Gower then quotes the words used long since in regard to Longfellow by Cardinal20 Wiseman,—words which find an appropriate place here.
“‘Our hemisphere,’ said the Cardinal, ‘cannot claim the honor of having brought him forth21, but he still belongs to us, for his works have become as household words wherever the English language is spoken. And whether we are charmed by his imagery, or soothed22 by his melodious23 versification, or elevated by the moral teachings of his pure muse1, or follow with sympathetic hearts the wanderings of Evangeline, I am sure that all who hear my voice will join with me in the tribute I desire to pay to the genius of Longfellow.’”[108]
“We have but one life here on earth,” wrote Longfellow in his diary; “we must make that beautiful. And to do this, health and elasticity24 of mind are needful, and whatever endangers or impedes25 these must be avoided.” It is not often that a man’s scheme of life is so well fulfilled, or when fulfilled is so well reflected in his face and bearing, tinged26 always by the actual 282 mark of the terrible ordeal27 through which he had passed. When Sydney Dobell was asked to describe Tennyson, he replied, “If he were pointed28 out to you as the man who had written the Iliad, you would answer, ‘I can well believe it.’” This never seemed to be quite true of Tennyson, whose dark oriental look would rather have suggested the authorship of the Arab legend of “Antar” or of the quatrains of Omar Khayyám. But it was eminently29 true of the picturesqueness30 of Longfellow in his later years, with that look of immovable serenity31 and of a benignity which had learned to condone32 all human sins. In this respect Turgenieff alone approached him, in real life, among the literary men I have known, and there is a photograph of the Russian which is often mistaken for that of the American.
Indeed, the beauty of his home life remained always visible. Living constantly in the same old house with its storied associations, surrounded by children and their friends, mingling33 with what remained of his earlier friends,—with his younger brother, a most accomplished34 and lovable person, forming one of his own family, and his younger sister living near him in a house of her own,—he was also easily the first citizen of the little University City. Giving readily his time and means to all public interests, even those 283 called political, his position was curiously35 unlike that of the more wayward or detached poets. Later his two married daughters built houses close by and bore children, and the fields were full of their playmates, representing the exuberant36 life of a new generation. He still kept his health, and as he walked to and fro his very presence was a benediction37. Some of his old friends had been unfortunate in life and were only too willing to seek his door; and even his literary enterprises, as for instance the “Poems of Places,” were mainly undertaken for their sakes, that they might have employment and support.
It is a curious but indisputable fact that no house in Cambridge, even in the tenfold larger university circle of to-day, presents such a constant course of hospitable38 and refined social intercourse39 as existed at Craigie House in the days of Longfellow. Whether it is that professors are harder worked and more poorly paid, or only that there happens to be no one so sought after by strangers and so able, through favoring fortune, to receive them, is not clear. But the result is the same. He had troops of friends; they loved to come to him and he to have them come, and the comforts of creature refreshment40 were never wanting, though perhaps in simpler guise41 than now. It needs but to turn the pages 284 of his memoirs42 as written by his brother to see that with the agreeable moderation of French or Italian gentlemen, he joined their daintiness of palate and their appreciation43 of choice vintages, and this at a time when the physiological44 standard was less advanced than now, and a judicious45 attention to the subject was for that reason better appreciated. His friends from Boston and Brookline came so constantly and so easily as to suggest a far greater facility of conveyance46 than that of to-day, although the real facts were quite otherwise. One can hardly wonder that the bard47’s muse became a little festive48 under circumstances so very favorable. His earlier circle of friends known as “the five of clubs” included Professor Felton, whom Dickens called “the heartiest49 of Greek professors;” Charles Sumner; George S. Hillard, Sumner’s law partner; and Henry R. Cleveland, a retired50 teacher and educational writer. Of these, Felton was a man of varied51 learning, as was Sumner, an influence which made Felton jocose52 but sometimes dogged, and Sumner eloquent53, but occasionally tumid in style. Hillard was one of those thoroughly accomplished men who fail of fame only for want of concentration, and Cleveland was the first to advance ideas of school training, now so well established that men forget their ever needing an advocate. He died young, and Dr. Samuel G. Howe, a man of worldwide 285 fame as a philanthropist and trainer of the blind, was put in to fill the vacancy54. All these five men, being of literary pursuits, could scarcely fail of occasionally praising one another, and were popularly known as “the mutual55 admiration56 society;” indeed, there was a tradition that some one had written above a review of Longfellow’s “Evangeline” by Felton, to be found at the Athen?um Library, the condensed indorsement, “Insured at the Mutual.” At a later period this club gave place, as clubs will, to other organizations, such as the short-lived Atlantic Club and the Saturday Club; and at their entertainments Longfellow was usually present, as were also, in the course of time, Emerson, Holmes, Lowell, Agassiz, Whittier, and many visitors from near and far. Hawthorne was rarely seen on such occasions, and Thoreau never. On the other hand, the club never included the more radical57 reformers, as Garrison58, Phillips, Bronson Alcott, Edmund Quincy, or Theodore Parker, and so did not call out what Emerson christened “the soul of the soldiery of dissent59.”
It would be a mistake to assume that on these occasions Longfellow was a recipient60 only. Of course Holmes and Lowell, the most naturally talkative of the party, would usually have the lion’s share of the conversation; but Longfellow, with all his gentle modesty61, had a quiet wit of 286 his own and was never wholly a silent partner. His saying of Ruskin, for instance, that he had “grand passages of rhetoric62, Iliads in nutshells;” of some one else, that “Criticism is double edged. It criticises him who receives and him who gives;” his description of the contented63 Dutch tradesman “whose golden face, like the round and ruddy physiognomy of the sun on the sign of a village tavern64, seems to say ‘Good entertainment here;’” of Venice, that “it is so visionary and fairylike that one is almost afraid to set foot on the ground, lest he should sink the city;” of authorship, that “it is a mystery to many people that an author should reveal to the public secrets that he shrinks from telling to his most intimate friends;” that “nothing is more dangerous to an author than sudden success, because the patience of genius is one of its most precious attributes;” that “he who carries his bricks to the building of every one’s house will never build one for himself;”—these were all fresh, racy, and truthful65, and would bear recalling when many a brilliant stroke of wit had sparkled on the surface and gone under. As a mere66 critic he grew more amiable67 and tolerant as he grew older, as is the wont68 of literary men; and John Dwight, then the recognized head of the musical brotherhood69 of Boston, always maintained that Longfellow was 287 its worst enemy by giving his warm indorsement to the latest comer, whatever his disqualifications as to style or skill.
Holmes said of him in a letter to Motley in 1873:—
“I find a singular charm in the society of Longfellow,—a soft voice, a sweet and cheerful temper, a receptive rather than aggressive intelligence, the agreeable flavor of scholarship without any pedantic70 ways, and a perceptible soup?on of the humor, not enough to startle or surprise or keep you under the strain of over-stimulation, which I am apt to feel with very witty71 people.”
And ten years later, writing to a friend and referring to his verses on the death of Longfellow, printed in the “Atlantic Monthly,” he said: “But it is all too little, for his life was so exceptionally sweet and musical that any voice of praise sounds almost like a discord72 after it.”
Professor Rolfe has suggested that he unconsciously describes himself in “The Golden Legend,” where Walter the Minnesinger says of Prince Henry:—
“His gracious presence upon earth
As pleasant songs, at morning sung,
The words that dropped from his sweet tongue
Strengthened our hearts; or, heard at night,
288
He also points out that this is the keynote of the dedication75 of “The Seaside and the Fireside,” the volume published in 1849.
Hears round about him voices as it darkens,
And seeing not the forms from which they come,
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens;
“So walking here in twilight, O my friends!
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends
His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance.
“Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown!
That teaches me, when seeming most alone,
Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.”
In another age or country Longfellow would have been laurelled, medalled, or ennobled; but he has had what his essentially79 republican spirit doubtless preferred, the simple homage80 of a nation’s heart. He had his share of foreign honors; and these did not come from Oxford82 and Cambridge only, since in 1873 he was chosen a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences, and in 1877 of the Spanish Academy. At home he was the honored member of every literary club or association to which he cared to belong. In the half-rural city where he spent his maturer life—that which he himself described in “Hyperion” as “this leafy blossoming, and beautiful 289 Cambridge”—he held a position of as unquestioned honor and reverence83 as that of Goethe at Weimar or Jean Paul at Baireuth. This was the more remarkable84, as he rarely attended public meetings, seldom volunteered counsel or action, and was not seen very much in public. But his weight was always thrown on the right side; he took an unfeigned interest in public matters, always faithful to the traditions of his friend Sumner; and his purse was always easily opened for all good works. On one occasion there was something like a collision of opinion between him and the city government, when it was thought necessary for the widening of Brattle Street to remove the “spreading chestnut-tree” that once stood before the smithy of the village blacksmith, Dexter Pratt. The poet earnestly expostulated; the tree fell, nevertheless; but by one of those happy thoughts which sometimes break the monotony of municipal annals, it was proposed to the city fathers that the children of the public schools should be invited to build out of its wood, by their small subscriptions85, a great armchair for the poet’s study. The unexpected gift, from such a source, salved the offence, but it brought with it a penalty to Mr. Longfellow’s household, for the kindly bard gave orders that no child who wished to see the chair should be excluded; and 290 the tramp of dirty little feet through the hall was for many months the despair of housemaids. Thenceforward his name was to these children a household word; and the most charming feature of the festival held on the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Cambridge (December 28, 1880) was the reception given by a thousand grammar-school children to the gray and courteous86 old poet, who made then and there, almost for the only time in his life, and contrary to all previous expectations, a brief speech in reply.
On that occasion he thus spoke15 briefly87, at the call of the mayor, who presided, and who afterwards caused to be read by Mr. George Riddle88, the verses “From My Arm-Chair,” which the poet had written for the children. He spoke as follows:—
My dear Young Friends,—I do not rise to make an address to you, but to excuse myself from making one. I know the proverb says that he who excuses himself accuses himself,—and I am willing on this occasion to accuse myself, for I feel very much as I suppose some of you do when you are suddenly called upon in your class room, and are obliged to say that you are not prepared. I am glad to see your faces and to hear your voices. I am glad to have this 291 opportunity of thanking you in prose, as I have already done in verse, for the beautiful present you made me some two years ago. Perhaps some of you have forgotten it, but I have not; and I am afraid,—yes, I am afraid that fifty years hence, when you celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of this occasion, this day and all that belongs to it will have passed from your memory; for an English philosopher has said that the ideas as well as children of our youth often die before us, and our minds represent to us those tombs to which we are approaching, where, though the brass89 and marble remain, yet the inscriptions90 are effaced91 by time, and the imagery moulders92 away.
Again, upon his seventy-fifth birthday, there were great rejoicings in the Cambridge schools, as indeed in those of many other cities far and wide.
Craigie House, his residence, has already been described. In this stately old edifice93 dwelt the venerable poet, who was usually to be found in his ample study, rich with the accumulations of literary luxury. One might find him seated with Coleridge’s inkstand before him, perhaps answering one of the vast accumulations of letters from the school children of Western cities—an enormous mass of correspondence, which 292 was a little while a delight, and then became a burden. Before him was a carved bookcase containing a priceless literary treasure,—the various editions of his works, and, which was far more valuable, the successive manuscripts of each, carefully preserved and bound under his direction, and often extending to three separate copies: the original manuscript, the manuscript as revised for the printer, and the corrected proofs. More than once his friends urged him to build a fireproof building for these unique memorials, as Washington did for his own papers elsewhere; but the calm and equable author used to reply, “If the house burns, let its contents go also.”
The wonder of Mr. Longfellow’s later years was not so much that he kept up his incessant94 literary activity as that he did it in the midst of the constant interruptions involved in great personal popularity and fame. He had received beneath his roof every notable person who had visited Boston for half a century; he had met them all with the same affability, and had consented, with equal graciousness, to be instructed by Emerson and Sumner, or to be kindly patronized—as the story goes—by Oscar Wilde. From that room had gone forth innumerable kind acts and good deeds, and never a word of harshness. He retained to the last his sympathy 293 with young people, and with all liberal and progressive measures. Indeed, almost his latest act of public duty was to sign a petition to the Massachusetts legislature for the relief of the disabilities still placed in that State upon the testimony95 of atheists.
Mr. Longfellow’s general health remained tolerably good, in spite of advancing years, until within about three months of his death. After retiring to bed in apparent health one night, he found himself in the morning so dizzy as to be unable to rise, and with a pain in the top of his head. For a week he was unable to walk across the room on account of dizziness, and although it gradually diminished, yet neither this nor the pain in the head ever entirely96 disappeared, and there was great loss of strength and appetite. He accepted the situation at once, retreated to the security of his own room, refused all visitors outside of the family, and had a printed form provided for the acknowledgment of letters, leaving his daughters to answer them. During the last three months of his life he probably did not write three dozen letters, and though he saw some visitors, he refused many more. He might sometimes be seen walking on his piazza97, or even in the street before the house, but he accepted no invitations, and confined himself mainly within doors. His seventy-fifth birthday, February 294 27, was passed very quietly at home, in spite of the many celebrations held elsewhere. On Sunday, March 19, he had a sudden attack of illness, not visibly connected with his previous symptoms. It was evident that the end was near, and he finally died of peritonitis on Friday afternoon, March 24, 1882.
It will perhaps be found, as time goes on, that the greatest service rendered by Longfellow—beyond all personal awakening98 or stimulus99 exerted on his readers—was that of being the first conspicuous100 representative, in an eminently practical and hard-working community, of the literary life. One of a circle of superior men, he was the only one who stood for that life purely101 and supremely102, and thus vindicated103 its national importance. Among his predecessors104, Irving had lived chiefly in Europe, and Bryant in a newspaper office. Among his immediate105 friends, Holmes stood for exact science, Lowell and Whittier for reform, Sumner for statesmanship, Emerson for spiritual and mystic values; even the shy Hawthorne for public functions at home and abroad. Here was a man whose single word, sent forth from his quiet study, reached more hearts in distant nations than any of these, and was speedily reproduced in the far-off languages of the world. Considered merely as an antidote106 to materialism107, such a life was of incalculable 295 value. Looking at him, the reign81 of the purely materialistic108, however much aided by organizing genius, was plainly self-limited; the modest career of Longfellow outshone it in the world’s arena109. Should that reign henceforth grow never so potent110, the best offset111 to its most arrogant112 claims will be found, for years to come, in the memory of his name.
The End
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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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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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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impedes
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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picturesqueness
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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46
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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48
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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49
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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50
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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51
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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52
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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53
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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54
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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58
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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63
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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64
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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68
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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72
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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81
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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83
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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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88
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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90
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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moulders
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| v.腐朽( moulder的第三人称单数 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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101
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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102
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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103
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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104
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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105
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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106
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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107
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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108
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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109
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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110
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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111
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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112
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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