What is it that makes us, almost as a matter of course, number Ben Jonson among the great? Why should we expect him to be an early candidate for immortality4, or why, indeed, should he be admitted to the “English Men of Letters” series at all? These are difficult questions to answer; for when we come to consider the matter we find ourselves unable to give any very glowing account of Ben or his greatness. It is 178hard to say that one likes his work; one cannot honestly call him a good poet or a supreme5 dramatist. And yet, unsympathetic as he is, uninteresting as he often can be, we still go on respecting and admiring him, because, in spite of everything, we are conscious, obscurely but certainly, that he was a great man.
He had little influence on his successors; the comedy of humours died without any but an abortive6 issue. Shadwell, the mountain-bellied “Og, from a treason tavern7 rolling home,” is not a disciple8 that any man would have much pride in claiming. No raking up of literary history will make Ben Jonson great as a founder9 of a school or an inspirer of others. His greatness is a greatness of character. There is something almost alarming in the spectacle of this formidable figure advancing with tank-like irresistibility10 towards the goal he had set himself to attain11. No sirens of romance can seduce12 him, no shock of opposition13 unseat him in his career. He proceeds along the course theoretically mapped out at the inception14 of his literary life, never deviating15 from this narrow way till the very end—till the time when, in his old age, he wrote that exquisite16 pastoral, The Sad Shepherd, which is so complete and absolute a denial of all his lifelong principles. 179But The Sad Shepherd is a weakness, albeit17 a triumphant18 weakness. Ben, as he liked to look upon himself, as he has again and again revealed himself to us, is the artist with principles, protesting against the anarchic absence of principle among the geniuses and charlatans19, the poets and ranters of his age.
The true artificer will not run away from nature as he were afraid of her; or depart from life and the likeness21 of truth; but speak to the capacity of his hearers. And though his language differ from the vulgar somewhat, it shall not fly from all humanity, with the Tamerlanes and Tamer-Chams of the late age, which had nothing in them but the scenical strutting22 and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers. He knows it is his only art, so to carry it as none but artificers perceive it. In the meantime, perhaps, he is called barren, dull, lean, a poor writer, or by what contumelious word can come in their cheeks, by these men who without labour, judgment23, knowledge, or almost sense, are received or preferred before him.
In these sentences from Discoveries Ben Jonson paints his own picture—portrait of the artist as a true artificer—setting forth24, in its most general form, and with no distracting details of the humours or the moral purpose of art, his own theory of the artist’s true function and nature. Jonson’s theory was no idle speculation25, no mere26 thing of words and air, but a creed27, a principle, a 180categorical imperative28, conditioning and informing his whole work. Any study of the poet must, therefore, begin with the formulation of his theory, and must go on, as Professor Gregory Smith’s excellent essay does indeed proceed, to show in detail how the theory was applied29 and worked out in each individual composition.
A good deal of nonsense has been talked at one time or another about artistic30 theories. The artist is told that he should have no theories, that he should warble native wood-notes wild, that he should “sing,” be wholly spontaneous, should starve his brain and cultivate his heart and spleen; that an artistic theory cramps31 the style, stops up the Helicons of inspiration, and so on, and so on. The foolish and sentimental32 conception of the artist, to which these anti-intellectual doctrines33 are a corollary, dates from the time of romanticism and survives among the foolish and sentimental of to-day. A consciously practised theory of art has never spoiled a good artist, has never dammed up inspiration, but rather, and in most cases profitably, canalized it. Even the Romantics had theories and were wild and emotional on principle.
Theories are above all necessary at moments when old traditions are breaking up, 181when all is chaos34 and in flux35. At such moments an artist formulates36 his theory and clings to it through thick and thin; clings to it as the one firm raft of security in the midst of the surrounding unrest. Thus, when the neo-Classicism, of which Ben was one of the remote ancestors, was crumbling37 into the nothingness of The Loves of the Plants and The Triumphs of Temper, Wordsworth found salvation38 by the promulgation39 of a new theory of poetry, which he put into practice systematically40 and to the verge41 of absurdity42 in Lyrical Ballads44. Similarly in the shipwreck45 of the old tradition of painting we find the artists of the present day clinging desperately46 to intellectual formulas as their only hope in the chaos. The only occasions, in fact, when the artist can afford entirely47 to dispense48 with theory occur in periods when a well-established tradition reigns49 supreme and unquestioned. And then the absence of theory is more apparent than real; for the tradition in which he is working is a theory, originally formulated50 by someone else, which he accepts unconsciously and as though it were the law of Nature itself.
The beginning of the seventeenth century was not one of these periods of placidity51 and calm acceptance. It was a moment of growth and decay together, of fermentation. The 182fabulous efflorescence of the Renaissance52 had already grown rank. With that extravagance of energy which characterized them in all things, the Elizabethans had exaggerated the traditions of their literature into insincerity. All artistic traditions end, in due course, by being reduced to the absurd; but the Elizabethans crammed53 the growth and decline of a century into a few years. One after another they transfigured and then destroyed every species of art they touched. Euphuism, Petrarchism, Spenserism, the sonnet54, the drama—some lasted a little longer than others, but they all exploded in the end, these beautiful iridescent55 bubbles blown too big by the enthusiasm of their makers56.
But in the midst of this unstable57 luxuriance voices of protest were to be heard, reactions against the main romantic current were discernible. Each in his own way and in his own sphere, Donne and Ben Jonson protested aganst the exaggerations of the age. At a time when sonneteers in legions were quibbling about the blackness of their ladies’ eyes or the golden wires of their hair, when Platonists protested in melodious58 chorus that they were not in love with “red and white” but with the ideal and divine beauty of which peach-blossom complexions59 were but inadequate60 shadows, at a time when love-poetry 183had become, with rare exceptions, fantastically unreal, Donne called it back, a little grossly perhaps, to facts with the dry remark:
Love’s not so pure and abstract as they use
There have been poets who have written more lyrically than Donne, more fervently62 about certain amorous63 emotions, but not one who has formulated so rational a philosophy of love as a whole, who has seen all the facts so clearly and judged them so soundly. Donne laid down no literary theory. His followers64 took from him all that was relatively65 unimportant—the harshness, itself a protest against Spenserian facility, the conceits66, the sensuality tempered by mysticism—but the important and original quality of Donne’s work, the psychological realism, they could not, through sheer incapacity, transfer into their own poetry. Donne’s immediate67 influence was on the whole bad. Any influence for good he may have had has been on poets of a much later date.
The other great literary Protestant of the time was the curious subject of our examination, Ben Jonson. Like Donne he was a realist. He had no use for claptrap, or rant20, or romanticism. His aim was to give his 184audiences real facts flavoured with sound morality. He failed to be a great realist, partly because he lacked the imaginative insight to perceive more than the most obvious and superficial reality, and partly because he was so much preoccupied68 with the sound morality that he was prepared to sacrifice truth to satire69; so that in place of characters he gives us humours, not minds, but personified moral qualities.
Ben hated romanticism; for, whatever may have been his bodily habits, however infinite his capacity for drinking sack, he belonged intellectually to the party of sobriety. In all ages the drunks and the sobers have confronted one another, each party loud in derision and condemnation70 of the defects which it observes in the other. “The Tamerlanes and Tamer-Chams of the late age” accuse the sober Ben of being “barren, dull, lean, a poor writer.” Ben retorts that they “have nothing in them but the scenical strutting and furious vociferation to warrant them to the ignorant gapers.” At another period it is the Hernanis and the Rollas who reproach that paragon71 of dryness, the almost fiendishly sober Stendhal, with his grocer’s style. Stendhal in his turn remarks: “En paraissant, vers 1803, le Génie de Chateaubriand m’a semblé ridicule72.” And to-day? We have 185our sobers and our drunks, our Hardy73 and our Belloc, our Santayana and our Chesterton. The distinction is eternally valid74. Our personal sympathies may lie with one or the other; but it is obvious that we could dispense with neither. Ben, then, was one of the sobers, protesting with might and main against the extravagant75 behaviour of the drunks, an intellectual insisting that there was no way of arriving at truth except by intellectual processes, an apotheosis76 of the Plain Man determined77 to stand no nonsense about anything. Ben’s poetical78 achievement, such as it is, is the achievement of one who relied on no mysterious inspiration, but on those solid qualities of sense, perseverance79, and sound judgment which any decent citizen of a decent country may be expected to possess. That he himself possessed80, hidden somewhere in the obscure crypts and recesses81 of his mind, other rarer spiritual qualities is proved by the existence of his additions to The Spanish Tragedy—if, indeed, they are his, which there is no cogent82 reason to doubt—and his last fragment of a masterpiece, The Sad Shepherd. But these qualities, as Professor Gregory Smith points out, he seems deliberately83 to have suppressed; locked them away, at the bidding of his imperious theory, in the strange dark places from which, at the 186beginning and the very end of his career, they emerged. He might have been a great romantic, one of the sublime84 inebriates85; he chose rather to be classical and sober. Working solely86 with the logical intellect and rejecting as dangerous the aid of those uncontrolled illogical elements of imagination, he produced work that is in its own way excellent. It is well-wrought, strong, heavy with learning and what the Chaucerians would call “high sentence.” The emotional intensity87 and brevity excepted, it possesses all the qualities of the French classical drama. But the quality which characterizes the best Elizabethan and indeed the best English poetry of all periods, the power of moving in two worlds at once, it lacks. Jonson, like the French dramatists of the seventeenth century, moves on a level, directly towards some logical goal. The road over which his great contemporaries take us is not level; it is, as it were, tilted88 and uneven89, so that as we proceed along it we are momently shot off at a tangent from the solid earth of logical meaning into superior regions where the intellectual laws of gravity have no control. The mistake of Jonson and the classicists in general consists in supposing that nothing is of value that is not susceptible90 of logical analysis; whereas the truth is that 187the greatest triumphs of art take place in a world that is not wholly of the intellect, but lies somewhere between it and the inenarrable, but, to those who have penetrated91 it, supremely92 real, world of the mystic. In his fear and dislike of nonsense, Jonson put away from himself not only the Tamer-Chams and the fustian93 of the late age, but also most of the beauty it had created.
With the romantic emotions of his predecessors94 and contemporaries Jonson abandoned much of the characteristically Elizabethan form of their poetry. That extraordinary melodiousness95 which distinguishes the Elizabethan lyric43 is not to be found in any of Ben’s writing. The poems by which we remember him—“Cynthia,” “Drink to Me Only,” “It is Not Growing Like a Tree”—are classically well made (though the cavalier lyrists were to do better in the same style); but it is not for any musical qualities that we remember them. One can understand Ben’s critical contempt for those purely96 formal devices for producing musical richness in which the Elizabethans delighted.
Eyes, why did you bring unto me these graces,
Grac’d to yield wonder out of her true measure,
Measure of all joyes’ stay to phansie traces
188The device is childish in its formality, the words, in their obscurity, almost devoid98 of significance. But what matter, since the stanza99 is a triumph of sonorous100 beauty? The Elizabethans devised many ingenuities101 of this sort; the minor102 poets exploited them until they became ridiculous; the major poets employed them with greater discretion103, playing subtle variations (as in Shakespeare’s sonnets) on the crude theme. When writers had something to say, their thoughts, poured into these copiously104 elaborate forms, were moulded to the grandest, poetical eloquence105. A minor poet, like Lord Brooke, from whose works we have just quoted a specimen106 of pure formalism, could produce, in his moments of inspiration, such magnificent lines as:
The mind of Man is this world’s true dimension,
And knowledge is the measure of the mind;
or these, of the nethermost107 hell:
A place there is upon no centre placed,
Deepe under depthes, as farre as is the skie
Above the earth; darke, infinitely108 spaced:
189Tee-hee, tee-hee! Oh sweet delight
Call Tullia’s ape a marmosite
And Leda’s goose a swan,
knew the secret of that rich, facile music which all those who wrote in the grand Elizabethan tradition could produce. Jonson, like Donne, reacted against the facility and floridity of this technique, but in a different way. Donne’s protest took the form of a conceited112 subtlety113 of thought combined with a harshness of metre. Jonson’s classical training inclined him towards clarity, solidity of sense, and economy of form. He stands, as a lyrist, half-way between the Elizabethans and the cavalier song-writers; he has broken away from the old tradition, but has not yet made himself entirely at home in the new. At the best he achieves a minor perfection of point and neatness. At the worst he falls into that dryness and dulness with which he knew he could be reproached.
We have seen from the passage concerning the true artificer that Jonson fully114 realized the risk he was running. He recurs115 more than once in Discoveries to the same theme, “Some men to avoid redundancy run into that [a “thin, flagging, poor, starved” style]; and while they strive to have no ill-blood 190or juice, they lose their good.” The good that Jonson lost was a great one. And in the same way we see to-day how a fear of becoming sentimental, or “chocolate-boxy,” drives many of the younger poets and artists to shrink from treating of the great emotions or the obvious lavish116 beauty of the earth. But to eschew117 a good because the corruption118 of it is very bad is surely a sign of weakness and a folly119.
Having lost the realm of romantic beauty—lost it deliberately and of set purpose—Ben Jonson devoted120 the whole of his immense energy to portraying121 and reforming the ugly world of fact. But his reforming satiric122 intentions interfered123, as we have already shown, with his realistic intentions, and instead of recreating in his art the actual world of men, he invented the wholly intellectual and therefore wholly unreal universe of Humours. It is an odd new world, amusing to look at from the safe distance that separates stage from stalls; but not a place one could ever wish to live in—one’s neighbours, fools, knaves124, hypocrites, and bears would make the most pleasing prospect125 intolerable. And over it all is diffused126 the atmosphere of Jonson’s humour. It is a curious kind of humour, very different from anything that passes under that name to-day, 191from the humour of Punch, or A Kiss for Cinderella. One has only to read Volpone—or, better still, go to see it when it is acted this year by the Ph?nix Society for the revival127 of old plays—to realize that Ben’s conception of a joke differed materially from ours. Humour has never been the same since Rousseau invented humanitarianism128. Syphilis and broken legs were still a great deal more comic in Smollett’s day than in our own. There is a cruelty, a heartlessness about much of the older humour which is sometimes shocking, sometimes, in its less extreme forms, pleasantly astringent129 and stimulating130 after the orgies of quaint131 pathos132 and sentimental comedy in which we are nowadays forced to indulge. There is not a pathetic line in Volpone; all the characters are profoundly unpleasant, and the fun is almost as grim as fun can be. Its heartlessness is not the brilliant, cynical133 heartlessness of the later Restoration comedy, but something ponderous134 and vast. It reminds us of one of those enormous, painful jokes which fate sometimes plays on humanity. There is no alleviation135, no purging136 by pity and terror. It requires a very hearty137 sense of humour to digest it. We have reason to admire our ancestors for their ability to enjoy this kind of comedy as it should be enjoyed. 192It would get very little appreciation138 from a London audience of to-day.
In the other comedies the fun is not so grim; but there is a certain hardness and brutality139 about them all—due, of course, ultimately to the fact that the characters are not human, but rather marionettes of wood and metal that collide and belabour one another, like the ferocious140 puppets of the Punch and Judy show, without feeling the painfulness of the proceeding141. Shakespeare’s comedy is not heartless, because the characters are human and sensitive. Our modern sentimentality is a corruption, a softening142 of genuine humanity. We need a few more Jonsons and Congreves, some more plays like Volpone, or that inimitable Marriage à la Mode of Dryden, in which the curtain goes up on a lady singing the outrageously143 cynical song that begins:
That long ago was made,
When pleasure is decayed?
Too much heartlessness is intolerable (how soon one turns, revolted, from the literature of the Restoration!), but a little of it now and then is bracing146, a tonic147 for relaxed sensibilities. A little ruthless laughter clears 193the air as nothing else can do; it is good for us, every now and then, to see our ideals laughed at, our conception of nobility caricatured; it is good for solemnity’s nose to be tweaked, it is good for human pomposity148 to be made to look mean and ridiculous. It should be the great social function—as Marinetti has pointed149 out—of the music halls, to provide this cruel and unsparing laughter, to make a buffoonery of all the solemnly accepted grandeurs and nobilities. A good dose of this mockery, administered twice a year at the equinoxes, should purge150 our minds of much waste matter, make nimble our spirits and brighten the eye to look more clearly and truthfully on the world about us.
Ben’s reduction of human beings to a series of rather unpleasant Humours is sound and medicinal. Humours do not, of course, exist in actuality; they are true only as caricatures are true. There are times when we wonder whether a caricature is not, after all, truer than a photograph; there are others when it seems a stupid lie. But at all times a caricature is disquieting151; and it is very good for most of us to be made uncomfortable.
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1
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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definitively
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| adv.决定性地，最后地 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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irresistibility
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| n.不能抵抗，难敌 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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inception
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| n.开端，开始，取得学位 | |
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deviating
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的现在分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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formulates
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| v.构想出( formulate的第三人称单数 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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promulgation
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| n.颁布 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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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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54
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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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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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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60
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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61
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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63
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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64
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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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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66
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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67
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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68
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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69
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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70
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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71
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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72
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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73
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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74
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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75
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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76
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
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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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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80
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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81
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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82
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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83
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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84
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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85
inebriates
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| vt.使酒醉，灌醉（inebriate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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86
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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88
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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89
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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90
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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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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95
melodiousness
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| n.melodious（音调悦耳的）的变形 | |
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96
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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module
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| n.组件，模块，模件；(航天器的)舱 | |
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98
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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99
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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100
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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101
ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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102
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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103
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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104
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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105
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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106
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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108
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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109
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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110
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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111
tickles
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| （使）发痒( tickle的第三人称单数 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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112
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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113
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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114
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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115
recurs
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| 再发生，复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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117
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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118
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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119
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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120
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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121
portraying
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| v.画像( portray的现在分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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122
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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123
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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124
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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125
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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126
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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127
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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128
humanitarianism
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| n.博爱主义；人道主义；基督凡人论 | |
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129
astringent
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| adj.止血的，收缩的，涩的；n.收缩剂，止血剂 | |
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130
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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131
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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132
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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133
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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134
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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135
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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136
purging
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| 清洗； 清除； 净化； 洗炉 | |
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137
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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138
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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139
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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140
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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141
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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142
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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143
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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144
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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145
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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146
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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147
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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148
pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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149
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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150
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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151
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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