Arrived at my lodgings18, it may be supposed that I lost not a moment in taking the quantity prescribed. I was necessarily ignorant of the whole art and mystery of opium-taking, and what I took I took under every disadvantage. But I took it—and in an hour—oh, heavens! what a revulsion! what an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of inner spirit! what an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished was now a trifle in my eyes: this negative effect was swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before me—in the abyss of divine enjoyment19 thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea20, a φαρμακον for all human woes21; here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages, at once discovered: happiness might now be bought for a penny, and carried in the waistcoat pocket; portable ecstacies might be had corked22 up in a pint23 bottle, and peace of mind could be sent down in gallons by the mail-coach. But if I talk in this way the reader will think I am laughing, and I can assure him that nobody will laugh long who deals much with opium: its pleasures even are of a grave and solemn complexion24, and in his happiest state the opium-eater cannot present himself in the character of L’Allegro: even then he speaks and thinks as becomes Il Penseroso. Nevertheless, I have a very reprehensible25 way of jesting at times in the midst of my own misery26; and unless when I am checked by some more powerful feelings, I am afraid I shall be guilty of this indecent practice even in these annals of suffering or enjoyment. The reader must allow a little to my infirm nature in this respect; and with a few indulgences of that sort I shall endeavour to be as grave, if not drowsy27, as fits a theme like opium, so anti-mercurial as it really is, and so drowsy as it is falsely reputed.
And first, one word with respect to its bodily effects; for upon all that has been hitherto written on the subject of opium, whether by travellers in Turkey (who may plead their privilege of lying as an old immemorial right), or by professors of medicine, writing ex cathedra, I have but one emphatic28 criticism to pronounce—Lies! lies! lies! I remember once, in passing a book-stall, to have caught these words from a page of some satiric29 author: “By this time I became convinced that the London newspapers spoke30 truth at least twice a week, viz., on Tuesday and Saturday, and might safely be depended upon for—the list of bankrupts.” In like manner, I do by no means deny that some truths have been delivered to the world in regard to opium. Thus it has been repeatedly affirmed by the learned that opium is a dusky brown in colour; and this, take notice, I grant. Secondly31, that it is rather dear, which also I grant, for in my time East Indian opium has been three guineas a pound, and Turkey eight. And thirdly, that if you eat a good deal of it, most probably you must—do what is particularly disagreeable to any man of regular habits, viz., die. {12} These weighty propositions are, all and singular, true: I cannot gainsay32 them, and truth ever was, and will be, commendable33. But in these three theorems I believe we have exhausted34 the stock of knowledge as yet accumulated by men on the subject of opium.
And therefore, worthy35 doctors, as there seems to be room for further discoveries, stand aside, and allow me to come forward and lecture on this matter.
First, then, it is not so much affirmed as taken for granted, by all who ever mention opium, formally or incidentally, that it does or can produce intoxication36. Now, reader, assure yourself, meo perieulo, that no quantity of opium ever did or could intoxicate37. As to the tincture of opium (commonly called laudanum) that might certainly intoxicate if a man could bear to take enough of it; but why? Because it contains so much proof spirit, and not because it contains so much opium. But crude opium, I affirm peremptorily38, is incapable39 of producing any state of body at all resembling that which is produced by alcohol, and not in degree only incapable, but even in kind: it is not in the quantity of its effects merely, but in the quality, that it differs altogether. The pleasure given by wine is always mounting and tending to a crisis, after which it declines; that from opium, when once generated, is stationary40 for eight or ten hours: the first, to borrow a technical distinction from medicine, is a case of acute—the second, the chronic41 pleasure; the one is a flame, the other a steady and equable glow. But the main distinction lies in this, that whereas wine disorders42 the mental faculties43, opium, on the contrary (if taken in a proper manner), introduces amongst them the most exquisite44 order, legislation, and harmony. Wine robs a man of his self-possession; opium greatly invigorates it. Wine unsettles and clouds the judgement, and gives a preternatural brightness and a vivid exaltation to the contempts and the admirations, the loves and the hatreds47 of the drinker; opium, on the contrary, communicates serenity48 and equipoise to all the faculties, active or passive, and with respect to the temper and moral feelings in general it gives simply that sort of vital warmth which is approved by the judgment49, and which would probably always accompany a bodily constitution of primeval or antediluvian50 health. Thus, for instance, opium, like wine, gives an expansion to the heart and the benevolent51 affections; but then, with this remarkable52 difference, that in the sudden development of kind-heartedness which accompanies inebriation53 there is always more or less of a maudlin54 character, which exposes it to the contempt of the bystander. Men shake hands, swear eternal friendship, and shed tears, no mortal knows why; and the sensual creature is clearly uppermost. But the expansion of the benigner feelings incident to opium is no febrile access, but a healthy restoration to that state which the mind would naturally recover upon the removal of any deep-seated irritation55 of pain that had disturbed and quarrelled with the impulses of a heart originally just and good. True it is that even wine, up to a certain point and with certain men, rather tends to exalt45 and to steady the intellect; I myself, who have never been a great wine-drinker, used to find that half-a-dozen glasses of wine advantageously affected56 the faculties—brightened and intensified57 the consciousness, and gave to the mind a feeling of being “ponderibus librata suis;” and certainly it is most absurdly said, in popular language, of any man that he is disguised in liquor; for, on the contrary, most men are disguised by sobriety, and it is when they are drinking (as some old gentleman says in Athen?us), that men εαυτου? εμφανιζουσιν οιτινε? εισιν—display themselves in their true complexion of character, which surely is not disguising themselves. But still, wine constantly leads a man to the brink58 of absurdity59 and extravagance, and beyond a certain point it is sure to volatilise and to disperse60 the intellectual energies: whereas opium always seems to compose what had been agitated61, and to concentrate what had been distracted. In short, to sum up all in one word, a man who is inebriated62, or tending to inebriation, is, and feels that he is, in a condition which calls up into supremacy63 the merely human, too often the brutal64 part of his nature; but the opium-eater (I speak of him who is not suffering from any disease or other remote effects of opium) feels that the divines part of his nature is paramount65; that is, the moral affections are in a state of cloudless serenity, and over all is the great light of the majestic66 intellect.
This is the doctrine67 of the true church on the subject of opium: of which church I acknowledge myself to be the only member—the alpha and the omega: but then it is to be recollected69 that I speak from the ground of a large and profound personal experience: whereas most of the unscientific {13} authors who have at all treated of opium, and even of those who have written expressly on the materia medica, make it evident, from the horror they express of it, that their experimental knowledge of its action is none at all. I will, however, candidly70 acknowledge that I have met with one person who bore evidence to its intoxicating71 power, such as staggered my own incredulity; for he was a surgeon, and had himself taken opium largely. I happened to say to him that his enemies (as I had heard) charged him with talking nonsense on politics, and that his friends apologized for him by suggesting that he was constantly in a state of intoxication from opium. Now the accusation72, said I, is not prima facie and of necessity an absurd one; but the defence is. To my surprise, however, he insisted that both his enemies and his friends were in the right. “I will maintain,” said he, “that I do talk nonsense; and secondly, I will maintain that I do not talk nonsense upon principle, or with any view to profit, but solely73 and simply, said he, solely and simply—solely and simply (repeating it three times over), because I am drunk with opium, and that daily.” I replied that, as to the allegation of his enemies, as it seemed to be established upon such respectable testimony74, seeing that the three parties concerned all agree in it, it did not become me to question it; but the defence set up I must demur75 to. He proceeded to discuss the matter, and to lay down his reasons; but it seemed to me so impolite to pursue an argument which must have presumed a man mistaken in a point belonging to his own profession, that I did not press him even when his course of argument seemed open to objection; not to mention that a man who talks nonsense, even though “with no view to profit,” is not altogether the most agreeable partner in a dispute, whether as opponent or respondent. I confess, however, that the authority of a surgeon, and one who was reputed a good one, may seem a weighty one to my prejudice; but still I must plead my experience, which was greater than his greatest by 7,000 drops a-day; and though it was not possible to suppose a medical man unacquainted with the characteristic symptoms of vinous intoxication, it yet struck me that he might proceed on a logical error of using the word intoxication with too great latitude76, and extending it generically77 to all modes of nervous excitement, instead of restricting it as the expression for a specific sort of excitement connected with certain diagnostics. Some people have maintained in my hearing that they had been drunk upon green tea; and a medical student in London, for whose knowledge in his profession I have reason to feel great respect, assured me the other day that a patient in recovering from an illness had got drunk on a beef-steak.
Having dwelt so much on this first and leading error in respect to opium, I shall notice very briefly78 a second and a third, which are, that the elevation79 of spirits produced by opium is necessarily followed by a proportionate depression, and that the natural and even immediate80 consequence of opium is torpor81 and stagnation82, animal and mental. The first of these errors I shall content myself with simply denying; assuring my reader that for ten years, during which I took opium at intervals83, the day succeeding to that on which I allowed myself this luxury was always a day of unusually good spirits.
With respect to the torpor supposed to follow, or rather (if we were to credit the numerous pictures of Turkish opium-eaters) to accompany the practice of opium-eating, I deny that also. Certainly opium is classed under the head of narcotics85, and some such effect it may produce in the end; but the primary effects of opium are always, and in the highest degree, to excite and stimulate86 the system. This first stage of its action always lasted with me, during my noviciate, for upwards87 of eight hours; so that it must be the fault of the opium-eater himself if he does not so time his exhibition of the dose (to speak medically) as that the whole weight of its narcotic84 influence may descend88 upon his sleep. Turkish opium-eaters, it seems, are absurd enough to sit, like so many equestrian89 statues, on logs of wood as stupid as themselves. But that the reader may judge of the degree in which opium is likely to stupefy the faculties of an Englishman, I shall (by way of treating the question illustratively, rather than argumentatively) describe the way in which I myself often passed an opium evening in London during the period between 1804-1812. It will be seen that at least opium did not move me to seek solitude90, and much less to seek inactivity, or the torpid91 state of self-involution ascribed to the Turks. I give this account at the risk of being pronounced a crazy enthusiast92 or visionary; but I regard that little. I must desire my reader to bear in mind that I was a hard student, and at severe studies for all the rest of my time; and certainly I had a right occasionally to relaxations93 as well as other people. These, however, I allowed myself but seldom.
The late Duke of --- used to say, “Next Friday, by the blessing94 of heaven, I purpose to be drunk;” and in like manner I used to fix beforehand how often within a given time, and when, I would commit a debauch95 of opium. This was seldom more than once in three weeks, for at that time I could not have ventured to call every day, as I did afterwards, for “a glass of laudanum negus, warm, and without sugar.” No, as I have said, I seldom drank laudanum, at that time, more than once in three weeks: This was usually on a Tuesday or a Saturday night; my reason for which was this. In those days Grassini sang at the Opera, and her voice was delightful96 to me beyond all that I had ever heard. I know not what may be the state of the Opera-house now, having never been within its walls for seven or eight years, but at that time it was by much the most pleasant place of public resort in London for passing an evening. Five shillings admitted one to the gallery, which was subject to far less annoyance97 than the pit of the theatres; the orchestra was distinguished98 by its sweet and melodious99 grandeur100 from all English orchestras, the composition of which, I confess, is not acceptable to my ear, from the predominance of the clamorous101 instruments and the absolute tyranny of the violin. The choruses were divine to hear, and when Grassini appeared in some interlude, as she often did, and poured forth102 her passionate103 soul as Andromache at the tomb of Hector, &c., I question whether any Turk, of all that ever entered the Paradise of Opium-eaters, can have had half the pleasure I had. But, indeed, I honour the barbarians104 too much by supposing them capable of any pleasures approaching to the intellectual ones of an Englishman. For music is an intellectual or a sensual pleasure according to the temperament105 of him who hears it. And, by-the-bye, with the exception of the fine extravaganza on that subject in “Twelfth Night,” I do not recollect68 more than one thing said adequately on the subject of music in all literature; it is a passage in the Religio Medici {14} of Sir T. Brown, and though chiefly remarkable for its sublimity106, has also a philosophic107 value, inasmuch as it points to the true theory of musical effects. The mistake of most people is to suppose that it is by the ear they communicate with music, and therefore that they are purely108 passive to its effects. But this is not so; it is by the reaction of the mind upon the notices of the ear (the matter coming by the senses, the form from the mind) that the pleasure is constructed, and therefore it is that people of equally good ear differ so much in this point from one another. Now, opium, by greatly increasing the activity of the mind, generally increases, of necessity, that particular mode of its activity by which we are able to construct out of the raw material of organic sound an elaborate intellectual pleasure. But, says a friend, a succession of musical sounds is to me like a collection of Arabic characters; I can attach no ideas to them. Ideas! my good sir? There is no occasion for them; all that class of ideas which can be available in such a case has a language of representative feelings. But this is a subject foreign to my present purposes; it is sufficient to say that a chorus, &c., of elaborate harmony displayed before me, as in a piece of arras work, the whole of my past life—not as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated109 in the music; no longer painful to dwell upon; but the detail of its incidents removed or blended in some hazy110 abstraction, and its passions exalted111, spiritualized, and sublimed112. All this was to be had for five shillings. And over and above the music of the stage and the orchestra, I had all around me, in the intervals of the performance, the music of the Italian language talked by Italian women—for the gallery was usually crowded with Italians—and I listened with a pleasure such as that with which Weld the traveller lay and listened, in Canada, to the sweet laughter of Indian women; for the less you understand of a language, the more sensible you are to the melody or harshness of its sounds. For such a purpose, therefore, it was an advantage to me that I was a poor Italian scholar, reading it but little, and not speaking it at all, nor understanding a tenth part of what I heard spoken.
These were my opera pleasures; but another pleasure I had which, as it could be had only on a Saturday night, occasionally struggled with my love of the Opera; for at that time Tuesday and Saturday were the regular opera nights. On this subject I am afraid I shall be rather obscure, but I can assure the reader not at all more so than Marinus in his Life of Proclus, or many other biographers and autobiographers of fair reputation. This pleasure, I have said, was to be had only on a Saturday night. What, then, was Saturday night to me more than any other night? I had no labours that I rested from, no wages to receive; what needed I to care for Saturday night, more than as it was a summons to hear Grassini? True, most logical reader; what you say is unanswerable. And yet so it was and is, that whereas different men throw their feelings into different channels, and most are apt to show their interest in the concerns of the poor chiefly by sympathy, expressed in some shape or other, with their distresses113 and sorrows, I at that time was disposed to express my interest by sympathising with their pleasures. The pains of poverty I had lately seen too much of, more than I wished to remember; but the pleasures of the poor, their consolations114 of spirit, and their reposes115 from bodily toil117, can never become oppressive to contemplate118. Now Saturday night is the season for the chief, regular, and periodic return of rest of the poor; in this point the most hostile sects119 unite, and acknowledge a common link of brotherhood120; almost all Christendom rests from its labours. It is a rest introductory to another rest, and divided by a whole day and two nights from the renewal121 of toil. On this account I feel always, on a Saturday night, as though I also were released from some yoke122 of labour, had some wages to receive, and some luxury of repose116 to enjoy. For the sake, therefore, of witnessing, upon as large a scale as possible, a spectacle with which my sympathy was so entire, I used often on Saturday nights, after I had taken opium, to wander forth, without much regarding the direction or the distance, to all the markets and other parts of London to which the poor resort of a Saturday night, for laying out their wages. Many a family party, consisting of a man, his wife, and sometimes one or two of his children, have I listened to, as they stood consulting on their ways and means, or the strength of their exchequer123, or the price of household articles. Gradually I became familiar with their wishes, their difficulties, and their opinions. Sometimes there might be heard murmurs124 of discontent, but far oftener expressions on the countenance125, or uttered in words, of patience, hope, and tranquillity126. And taken generally, I must say that, in this point at least, the poor are more philosophic than the rich—that they show a more ready and cheerful submission127 to what they consider as irremediable evils or irreparable losses. Whenever I saw occasion, or could do it without appearing to be intrusive128, I joined their parties, and gave my opinion upon the matter in discussion, which, if not always judicious129, was always received indulgently. If wages were a little higher or expected to be so, or the quartern loaf a little lower, or it was reported that onions and butter were expected to fall, I was glad; yet, if the contrary were true, I drew from opium some means of consoling myself. For opium (like the bee, that extracts its materials indiscriminately from roses and from the soot130 of chimneys) can overrule all feelings into compliance131 with the master-key. Some of these rambles132 led me to great distances, for an opium-eater is too happy to observe the motion of time; and sometimes in my attempts to steer133 homewards, upon nautical134 principles, by fixing my eye on the pole-star, and seeking ambitiously for a north-west passage, instead of circumnavigating all the capes135 and head-lands I had doubled in my outward voyage, I came suddenly upon such knotty136 problems of alleys137, such enigmatical entries, and such sphynx’s riddles138 of streets without thoroughfares, as must, I conceive, baffle the audacity139 of porters and confound the intellects of hackney-coachmen. I could almost have believed at times that I must be the first discoverer of some of these terr? incognit?, and doubted whether they had yet been laid down in the modern charts of London. For all this, however, I paid a heavy price in distant years, when the human face tyrannised over my dreams, and the perplexities of my steps in London came back and haunted my sleep, with the feeling of perplexities, moral and intellectual, that brought confusion to the reason, or anguish140 and remorse141 to the conscience.
Thus I have shown that opium does not of necessity produce inactivity or torpor, but that, on the contrary, it often led me into markets and theatres. Yet, in candour, I will admit that markets and theatres are not the appropriate haunts of the opium-eater when in the divinest state incident to his enjoyment. In that state, crowds become an oppression to him; music even, too sensual and gross. He naturally seeks solitude and silence, as indispensable conditions of those trances, or profoundest reveries, which are the crown and consummation of what opium can do for human nature. I, whose disease it was to meditate142 too much and to observe too little, and who upon my first entrance at college was nearly falling into a deep melancholy143, from brooding too much on the sufferings which I had witnessed in London, was sufficiently144 aware of the tendencies of my own thoughts to do all I could to counteract145 them. I was, indeed, like a person who, according to the old legend, had entered the cave of Trophonius; and the remedies I sought were to force myself into society, and to keep my understanding in continual activity upon matters of science. But for these remedies I should certainly have become hypochondriacally melancholy. In after years, however, when my cheerfulness was more fully146 re-established, I yielded to my natural inclination147 for a solitary148 life. And at that time I often fell into these reveries upon taking opium; and more than once it has happened to me, on a summer night, when I have been at an open window, in a room from which I could overlook the sea at a mile below me, and could command a view of the great town of L---, at about the same distance, that I have sate149 from sunset to sunrise, motionless, and without wishing to move.
I shall be charged with mysticism, Behmenism, quietism, &c., but that shall not alarm me. Sir H. Vane, the younger, was one of our wisest men; and let my reader see if he, in his philosophical150 works, be half as unmystical as I am. I say, then, that it has often struck me that the scene itself was somewhat typical of what took place in such a reverie. The town of L--- represented the earth, with its sorrows and its graves left behind, yet not out of sight, nor wholly forgotten. The ocean, in everlasting151 but gentle agitation152, and brooded over by a dove-like calm, might not unfitly typify the mind and the mood which then swayed it. For it seemed to me as if then first I stood at a distance and aloof153 from the uproar154 of life; as if the tumult155, the fever, and the strife156 were suspended; a respite granted from the secret burthens of the heart; a sabbath of repose; a resting from human labours. Here were the hopes which blossom in the paths of life reconciled with the peace which is in the grave; motions of the intellect as unwearied as the heavens, yet for all anxieties a halcyon157 calm; a tranquillity that seemed no product of inertia158, but as if resulting from mighty159 and equal antagonisms160; infinite activities, infinite repose.
Oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for “the pangs161 that tempt46 the spirit to rebel,” bringest an assuaging162 balm; eloquent163 opium! that with thy potent164 rhetoric165 stealest away the purposes of wrath166; and to the guilty man for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure from blood; and to the proud man a brief oblivion for
Wrongs undress’d and insults unavenged;
that summonest to the chancery of dreams, for the triumphs of suffering innocence167, false witnesses; and confoundest perjury168, and dost reverse the sentences of unrighteous judges;—thou buildest upon the bosom169 of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temples beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles—beyond the splendour of Babylon and Hekatómpylos, and “from the anarchy170 of dreaming sleep” callest into sunny light the faces of long-buried beauties and the blessed household countenances171 cleansed172 from the “dishonours of the grave.” Thou only givest these gifts to man; and thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium!
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1
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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3
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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4
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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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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ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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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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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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33
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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34
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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36
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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37
intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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38
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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39
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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40
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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41
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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42
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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43
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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44
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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45
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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46
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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47
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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48
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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49
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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50
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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51
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
inebriation
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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54
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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55
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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56
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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57
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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59
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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60
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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61
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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62
inebriated
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| adj.酒醉的 | |
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63
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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64
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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65
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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66
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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67
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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68
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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69
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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71
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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72
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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73
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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74
testimony
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|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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75
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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76
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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77
generically
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| adv.一般地 | |
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78
briefly
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|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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79
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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80
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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81
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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82
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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83
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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84
narcotic
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|
| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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85
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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86
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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87
upwards
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|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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88
descend
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|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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89
equestrian
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|
| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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90
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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91
torpid
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|
| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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92
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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93
relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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94
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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95
debauch
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|
| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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96
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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97
annoyance
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|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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98
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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99
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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100
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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101
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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102
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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103
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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104
barbarians
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|
| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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105
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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106
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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107
philosophic
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|
| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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108
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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109
incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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110
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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111
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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112
sublimed
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| 伟大的( sublime的过去式和过去分词 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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113
distresses
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|
| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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114
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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115
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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117
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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118
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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119
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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120
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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121
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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122
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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123
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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124
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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125
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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126
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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127
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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128
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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129
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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130
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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131
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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132
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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133
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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134
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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135
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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136
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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137
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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138
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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139
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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140
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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141
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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142
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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143
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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144
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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145
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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146
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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147
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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148
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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149
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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150
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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151
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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152
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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153
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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154
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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155
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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156
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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157
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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158
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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159
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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160
antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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161
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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162
assuaging
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| v.减轻( assuage的现在分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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163
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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165
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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166
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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167
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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168
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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169
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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170
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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171
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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172
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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