In so far as any formal or systematic15 discipline of thought was concerned, I think I may say my education was a complete failure. For this I had only my own smattering and desultory16 habit of mind to blame and also a vivid troublesome sense of the beauty of it all. The charm of the prismatic fringe round the edges made juggling17 with the lens too tempting18, and a clear persistent19 focus was never attained21. Considered (oddly enough) by my mates as the pattern of a diligent22 scholar, I was in reality as idle as the idlest of them, which is saying much; though I confess that my dilettantism23 was not wholly disreputable. My mind excellently exhibited the Heraclitean doctrine24: a constant flux25 of information passed through it, but nothing remained. Indeed, my senses were so continually crammed26 with new enchanting27 impressions, and every field of knowledge seemed so [7]alluring, it was not strange I made little progress in any.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that both in America and in England I found myself in a college atmosphere of extraordinary pictorial28 charm. The Arcadian loveliness of the Haverford campus and the comfortable simplicity29 of its routine; and then the hypnotizing beauty and curiosity and subtle flavour of Oxford30 life (with its long, footloose, rambling31 vacations)—these were aptly devised for the exercise of the imagination, which is often a gracious phrase for loafing. But these surroundings were too richly entertaining, and I was too green and soft and humorous (in the Shakespearean sense) to permit any rational continuous plan of study. Like the young man to whom Coleridge addressed a poem of rebuke32, I was abandoned, a greater part of the time, to "an Indolent and Causeless Melancholy33"; or to its partner, an excessive and not always tasteful mirth. I spent hours upon hours, with little profit, in libraries, flitting aimlessly from book to book. With something between terror and hunger I contemplated34 the opposite sex. In short, I was discreditable and harmless and unlovely as the young Yahoo can be. It fills me with amazement35 to think that my preceptors must have seen, in that ill-conditioned creature, some shadow of human semblance36, or how could they have been so uniformly kind?
Our education—such of it as is of durable37 importance—comes haphazard38. It is tinged39 by the enthusiasms of our teachers, gleaned40 by suggestions from our [8]friends, prompted by glimpses and footnotes and margins41. There was a time, I think, when I hung in tender equilibrium42 among various possibilities. I was enamoured of mathematics and physics: I went far enough in the latter to be appointed undergraduate assistant in the college laboratory. I had learned, by my junior year, exploring the charms of integral calculus43, that there is no imaginable mental felicity more serenely44 pure than suspended happy absorption in a mathematical problem. Of course I attained no higher than the dregs of the subject; on that grovelling45 level I would still (in Billy Sunday's violent trope) have had to climb a tree to look a snake in the eye; but I could see that for the mathematician46, if for any one, Time stands still withal; he is winnowed47 of vanity and sin. French, German, and Latin, and a hasty tincture of Xenophon and Homer (a mere lipwash of Helicon) gave me a zeal48 for philology49 and the tongues. I was a member in decent standing2 of the college classical club, and visions of life as a professor of languages seemed to me far from unhappy. A compulsory50 course in philosophy convinced me that there was still much to learn; and I had a delicious hallucination in which I saw myself compiling a volume of commentaries on the various systems of this queen of sciences. "The Grammar of Agnostics," I think it was to be called: it would be written in a neat and comely51 hand on thousands of pages of pure white foolscap: I saw myself adding to it night by night, working ohne Hast, ohne Rast. And there were other careers, too, as statesman, philanthropist, diplomat52, that I considered not beneath my horoscope. [9]I spare myself the careful delineation53 of these projects, though they would be amusing enough.
But beneath these preoccupations another influence was working its inward way. My paramount54 interest had always been literary, though regarded as a gentle diversion, not degraded to a bread-and-butter concern. Ever since I had fallen under the superlative spell of R.L.S., in whom the cunning enchantment55 of the written word first became manifest, I had understood that books did not grow painlessly for our amusement, but were the issue of dexterous56 and intentional57 skill. I had thus made a stride from Conan Doyle, Cutcliffe Hyne, Anthony Hope, and other great loves of my earliest teens; those authors' delicious mysteries and picaresques I took for granted, not troubling over their method; but in Stevenson, even to a schoolboy the conscious artifice58 and nicety of phrase were puzzingly apparent. A taste for literature, however, is a very different thing from a determination to undertake the art in person as a means of livelihood59. It takes brisk stimulus60 and powerful internal fevers to reduce a healthy youth to such a contemplation. All this is a long story, and I telescope it rigorously, thus setting the whole matter, perhaps, in a false proportion. But the central and operative factor is now at hand.
There was a certain classmate of mine (from Chicago) whose main devotion was to scientific and engineering studies. But since his plan embraced only two years at college before "going to work," he was (in the fashion traditionally ascribed to Chicago) speeding up the [10]cultural knick-knacks of his education. So, in our freshman year, he was attending a course on "English Poets of the Nineteenth Century," which was, in the regular schedule of things, reserved for sophomores62 (supposedly riper for matters of feeling). Now I was living in a remote dormitory on the outskirts63 of the wide campus (that other Eden, demi-paradise, that happy breed of men, that little world!) some distance from the lecture halls and busy heart of college doings. It was the custom of those quartered in this colonial and sequestered64 outpost to make the room of some central classmate a base for the day, where books might be left between lectures, and so on. With the Chicagoan, whom we will call "J——," I had struck up a mild friendship; mostly charitable on his part, I think, as he was from the beginning one of the most popular and influential65 men in the class, whereas I was one of the rabble66. So it was, at any rate; and often in the evening, returning from library or dining hall on the way to my distant Boeotia, I would drop in at his room, in a lofty corner of old Barclay Hall, to pick up note-books or anything else I might have left there.
What a pleasant place is a college dormitory at night! The rooms with their green-hooded lights and boyish similarity of decoration, the amiable68 buzz and stir of a game of cards under festoons of tobacco smoke, the wiry tinkle69 of a mandolin distantly heard, sudden clatter70 subsiding71 again into a general humming quiet, the happy sense of solitude72 in multitude, these are the partial ingredients of that feeling no alumnus ever forgets. In his pensive73 citadel74, my friend J—— would be sitting, [11]with his pipe (one of those new "class pipes" with inlaid silver numerals, which appear among every college generation toward Christmas time of freshman year). In his lap would be the large green volume ("British Poets of the Nineteenth Century," edited by Professor Curtis Hidden Page) which was the textbook of that sophomore61 course. He was reading Keats. And his eyes were those of one who has seen a new planet swim into his ken8. I don't know how many evenings we spent there together. Probably only a few. I don't recall just how we communed, or imparted to one another our juvenile75 speculations77. But I plainly remember how he would sit beside his desk-lamp and chuckle78 over the Ode to a Nightingale. He was a quizzical and quickly humorous creature, and Keats's beauties seemed to fill him not with melancholy or anguish79, but with a delighted prostration80 of laughter. The "wormy circumstance" of the Pot of Basil, the Indian Maid nursing her luxurious81 sorrow, the congealing82 Beads-man and the palsied beldame Angela—these and a thousand quaintnesses of phrase moved him to a gush83 of glorious mirth. It was not that he did not appreciate the poet, but the unearthly strangeness of it all, the delicate contradiction of laws and behaviours known to freshmen84, tickled85 his keen wits and emotions until they brimmed into puzzled laughter. "Away! Away!" he would cry—
For I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards—
[12]and he would shout with merriment. Beaded bubbles winking86 at the brim; Throbbing87 throats' long, long melodious88 moan; Curious conscience burrowing89 like a mole90; Emprison her soft hand and let her rave91; Men slugs and human serpentry; Bade her steep her hair in weird92 syrops; Poor weak palsy-stricken churchyard thing; Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim—such lines were to him a constant and exhilarating excitement. In the very simplicity and unsophistication of his approach to the poet was a virgin93 na?veté of discernment that an Edinburgh Reviewer would rarely attain20. Here, he dimly felt, was the great key
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,
... aye, to all the mazy world
Of silvery enchantment.
And in line after line of Endymion, as we pored over them together, he found the clear happiness of a magic that dissolved everything into lightness and freedom. It is agreeable to remember this man, preparing to be a building contractor94, who loved Keats because he made him laugh. I wonder if the critics have not too insistently95 persuaded us to read our poet in a black-edged mood? After all, his nickname was "Junkets."
So it was that I first, in any transcending96 sense, fell under the empire of a poet. Here was an endless fountain of immortal97 drink: here was a history potent98 to send a young mind from its bodily tenement99. The pleasure was too personal to be completely shared; for [13]the most part J—— and I read not together, but each by each, he sitting in his morris chair by the desk, I sprawled100 upon his couch, reading, very likely, different poems, but communicating, now and then, a sudden discovery. Probably I exaggerate the subtlety101 of our enjoyment102, for it is hard to review the unself-scrutinizing moods of freshmanhood. It would be hard, too, to say which enthusiast103 had the greater enjoyment: he, because these glimpses through magic casements104 made him merry; I, because they made me sad. Outside, the snow sparkled in the pure winter night; the long lance windows of the college library shone yellow-panelled through the darkness, and there would be the occasional interruption of light-hearted classmates. How perfectly105 it all chimed into the mood of St. Agnes' Eve! The opening door would bring a gust106 of lively sound from down the corridor, a swelling107 jingle108 of music, shouts from some humorous "rough-house" (probably those sophomores on the floor below)—
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone—
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
It did not take very long for J—— to work through the fifty pages of Keats reprinted in Professor Hidden Page's anthology; and then he, a lone112 and laughing faun among that pack of stern sophomores—so flewed, so sanded, out of the Spartan113 kind, crook-knee'd and [14]dewlapped like Thessalian bulls—sped away into thickets114 of Landor, Tennyson, the Brownings. There I, an unprivileged and unsuspected hanger-on, lost their trail, returning to my own affairs. For some reason—I don't know just why—I never "took" that course in Nineteenth Century Poets, in the classroom at any rate. But just as Mr. Chesterton, in his glorious little book, "The Victorian Age in Literature," asserts that the most important event in English history was the event that never happened at all (you yourself may look up his explanation) so perhaps the college course that meant most to me was the one I never attended. What it meant to those sophomores of the class of 1909 is another gentle speculation76. Three years later, when I was a senior, and those sophomores had left college, another youth and myself were idly prowling about a dormitory corridor where some of those same sophomores had previously115 lodged116. An unsuspected cupboard appeared to us, and rummaging117 in it we found a pile of books left there, forgotten, by a member of that class. It was a Saturday afternoon, and my companion and I had been wondering how we could raise enough cash to go to town for dinner and a little harmless revel118. To shove those books into a suitcase and hasten to Philadelphia by trolley119 was the obvious caper120; and Leary's famous old bookstore ransomed121 the volumes for enough money to provide an excellent dinner at Lauber's, where, in those days, the thirty-cent bottle of sour claret was considered the true, the blushful Hippocrene. But among the volumes was a copy of Professor Page's anthology [15]which had been used by one of J——'s companions in that poetry course. This seemed to me too precious to part with, so I retained it; still have it; and have occasionally studied the former owner's marginal memoranda122. At the head of The Eve of St. Agnes he wrote: "Middle Ages. N. Italy. Guelph, Guibilline." At the beginning of Endymion he recorded: "Keats tries to be spiritualized by love for celestials123." Against Sleep and Poetry: "Desultory. Genius in the larval state." The Ode on a Grecian Urn67, he noted124: "Crystallized philosophy of idealism. Embalmed125 anticipation126." The Ode on Melancholy: "Non-Gothic. Not of intellect or disease. Emotions."
Darkling I listen to these faint echoes from a vanished lecture room, and ponder. Did J—— keep his copy of the book, I wonder, and did he annotate127 it with lively commentary of his own? He left college at the end of our second year, and I have not seen or heard from him these thirteen years. The last I knew—six years ago—he was a contractor in an Ohio city; and (is this not significant?) in a letter written then to another classmate, recalling some waggishness128 of our own sophomore days, he used the phrase "Like Ruth among the alien corn."
In so far as one may see turning points in a tangle129 of yarn130, or count dewdrops on a morning cobweb, I may say that a few evenings with my friend J—— were the decisive vibration131 that moved one more minor132 poet toward the privilege and penalty of Parnassus. One cannot nicely decipher such fragile causes and effects. It was a year later before the matter became serious [16]enough to enforce abandoning library copies of Keats and buying an edition of my own. And this, too, may have been not unconnected with the gracious influence of the other sex as exhibited in a neighbouring athen?um; and was accompanied by a gruesome spate133 of florid lyrics134: some (happily) secret, and some exposed with needless hardihood in a college magazine. The world, which has looked leniently135 upon many poetical136 minorities, regards such frenzies137 with tolerant charity and forgetfulness. But the wretch138 concerned may be pardoned for looking back in a mood of lingering enlargement. As Sir Philip Sidney put it, "Self-love is better than any gilding139 to make that seem gorgeous wherein ourselves be parties."
There is a vast deal of nonsense written and uttered about poetry. In an age when verses are more noisily and fluently circulated than ever before, it might seem absurd to plead in the Muse's defence. Yet poetry and the things poets love are pitifully weak to-day. In essence, poetry is the love of life—not mere brutish tenacity140 of sensation, but a passion for all the honesties that make life free and generous and clean. For two thousand years poets have mocked and taunted141 the cruelties and follies142 of men, but to what purpose? Wordsworth said: "In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds143 together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time." [17]Sometimes it seems as though "things violently destroyed," and the people who destroy them, are too strong for the poets. Where, now, do we see any cohesive144 binding145 together of humanity? Are we nearer these things than when Wordsworth and Coleridge walked and talked on the Quantock Hills or on that immortal road "between Porlock and Linton"? Hardy146 writes "The Dynasts," Joseph Conrad writes his great preface to "The Nigger of the Narcissus," but do the destroyers hear them? Have you read again, since the War, Gulliver's "Voyage to the Houyhnhnms," or Herman Melville's "Moby Dick"? These men wrote, whether in verse or prose, in the true spirit of poets; and Swift's satire147, which the text-book writers all tell you is so gross and savage148 as to suggest the author's approaching madness, seems tender and suave149 by comparison with what we know to-day.
Poetry is the log of man's fugitive150 castaway soul upon a doomed151 and derelict planet. The minds of all men plod152 the same rough roads of sense; and in spite of much knavery153, all win at times "an ampler ether, a diviner air." The great poets, our masters, speak out of that clean freshness of perception. We hear their voices—
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,
So it is not vain, perhaps, to try clumsily to tell how this delicious uneasiness first captured the spirit of one [18]who, if not a poet, is at least a lover of poetry. Thus he first looked beyond the sunset; stood, if not on Parnassus, tiptoe upon a little hill. And overhead a great wind was blowing.
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1
trudges
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| n.跋涉，长途疲劳的步行( trudge的名词复数 ) | |
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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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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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9
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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13
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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14
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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15
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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17
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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18
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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21
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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22
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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dilettantism
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| n.业余的艺术爱好，浅涉文艺，浅薄涉猎 | |
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24
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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25
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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26
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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27
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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32
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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39
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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40
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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41
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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42
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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43
calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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44
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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45
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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46
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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47
winnowed
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| adj.扬净的，风选的v.扬( winnow的过去式和过去分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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48
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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49
philology
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| n.语言学；语文学 | |
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50
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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51
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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52
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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53
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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54
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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55
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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56
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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57
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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58
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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59
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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60
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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61
sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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62
sophomores
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| n.（中等、专科学校或大学的）二年级学生( sophomore的名词复数 ) | |
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63
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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64
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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65
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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66
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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67
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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68
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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69
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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70
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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71
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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72
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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73
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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74
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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75
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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76
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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77
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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78
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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79
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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80
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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81
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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82
congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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83
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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84
freshmen
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| n.（中学或大学的）一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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85
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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86
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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87
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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88
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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89
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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90
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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91
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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92
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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93
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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94
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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95
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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96
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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97
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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98
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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99
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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100
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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101
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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102
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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103
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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104
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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105
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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106
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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107
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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108
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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109
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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110
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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111
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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112
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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113
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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114
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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115
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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116
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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117
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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118
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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119
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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120
caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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121
ransomed
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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123
celestials
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| n.天的，天空的( celestial的名词复数 ) | |
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124
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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125
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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126
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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127
annotate
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| v.注解 | |
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128
waggishness
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129
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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130
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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131
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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132
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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133
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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134
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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135
leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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136
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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137
frenzies
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| 狂乱( frenzy的名词复数 )； 极度的激动 | |
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138
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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139
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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140
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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141
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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142
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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143
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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144
cohesive
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| adj.有粘着力的；有结合力的；凝聚性的 | |
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145
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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146
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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147
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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148
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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149
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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150
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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151
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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152
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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153
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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154
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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