So, for the moment, I will not praise Manchester. I will go even farther than that. I will agree with you that it rains there every day, that it is the ugliest city in Britain, that it is cocksure and conceited4, that its politics are damnable, that its free trade principles are loathsome5, and that its public men are aitchless and gross. I will, I say, agree to all this. You may say anything disagreeable you like about Manchester, and I shall not care. Nevertheless, if I could not live in London, Manchester is the city to which I would go. I have stayed in Athens, and Athens is a marvellous city; I know my Paris, and Paris is not without fascination6; I have been to Cairo, and the bazaars7 of Cairo seemed to me so wonderful that I held my breath as I passed through them; I know Antwerp and some of the half-dead cities of Belgium, and in Bruges I have felt as decadent8 as any nasty Belgian poet. But these places are not Manchester. They are 154not so glorious as Manchester, not so vital, not so romantic, not so adventurous9.... But already I have broken my word: I have begun to praise Manchester in my second paragraph. Let me begin a third.
It might be thought that the centre of Manchester’s intellectual life is the University, but this is not so. Nor is it the Cathedral, nor the big technical schools, nor yet the Gaiety Theatre. These things count, but none of them precisely10 radiates intellectual energy. You do not (unless you wish to be disappointed) go to the Bishop12 for ideas, or to the man of business for culture, nor to Miss Horniman for a wide and generous view of life. For these things, and for many other things besides, you go to The Manchester Guardian13. In The Daily Mail Year Book, against the entry Manchester Guardian, you will find these words: “The best newspaper in the world.” Now, you would imagine that if The Daily Mail really believed that, The Daily Mail would strain every nerve to be as like The Manchester Guardian as possible. But Lord Northcliffe knows better than that. He knows, we all know, that the best newspaper in the world is not going to be the best seller in the world. The word “best,” when applied14 to a newspaper, does not signify a newspaper that shrieks15 louder than any other newspaper, that has the greatest number of “stunts,” that lays reputations low in the dust, that holds Cabinet Ministers in the hollow of its hand. It signifies, among other things, a paper whose editor will not sacrifice a single ideal in order to increase his circulation, who has the power of infusing his staff with his own enthusiasms, and who regards the arts as a necessary part of a decent human existence.
The Daily Mail once upon a time compelled the whole of the British Isles16 to start growing sweet-peas. That is one kind of power. That is the kind of power that The Manchester Guardian does not possess.
Yet, I ask you, is there a more irritating newspaper 155in the whole of Christendom than The Manchester Guardian? How many times have we not all thrown it down in disgust and vowed17 never to read it again, only to buy it faithfully next morning? It would sometimes appear that every crank in England is busily engaged in airing his crazy views in its correspondence columns. It would sometimes appear that the three greatest highbrows in the country had laid their heads together to write the leading article. It would sometimes appear that conscientious18 objectors were really the only generous, manly19 and heroic people left in this mad world.
. . . . . . . .
Let me tell you a true story of a man who for years has been, and still is, on the staff of The Manchester Guardian. I tell this strange story, partly because it is strange, and partly because it illustrates20 so finely the kind of reverence21 that so many citizens of Manchester have for the best paper in the world.
Some thirty years ago a male child was born to a worthy22 and not unprosperous man in Manchester. Now this man had one faith, one gospel, one ambition. His faith was of the Liberal persuasion23. (Why, may I ask in passing, do people refer to Jews as men and women of the Jewish “persuasion”? Can a man, indeed, be persuaded to Jewry?) But to resume. His faith, as I said, was Liberal, his gospel The Manchester Guardian, his ambition to have some close connection with that paper. Being unfitted by the nature of his own talents to join the staff, he resolved that in the fullness of time that distinction should belong to his son. So he wrote to the editor, thus:
Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that last night my wife gave birth to a son. It is my ambition that, when his intellect is ripe and his powers mature, he shall be chosen by you as a member of your staff. His education, 156his whole upbringing, shall be directed to that end. I shall report to you his progress from time to time.
I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant,
—— ——.
I have not this letter before me; indeed, I have never seen it. But I am assured it was couched in those or similar terms.
Years passed. Harry24—we will call him Harry—survived the perils25 of babyhood and was sent to a school for the sons of gentlemen, and the editor was duly apprised26 of the fact. Harry studied hard, for his ambition was even that of his father. Harry took scholarships, Harry had a private tutor, and, eventually, Harry went to the ’varsity. In the meantime, reports passed at regular intervals27 from Harry’s father to the editor of The Manchester Guardian, who now, as nurses say, began to sit up and take notice. He desired to meet Harry. He did meet him. Harry took an honours degree, came back to Manchester, and was duly installed among the blessed, where he still is. Harry’s dream, Harry’s father’s dream, is fulfilled. But are those reports, I wonder, still being written. As, for example:
Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that my son, Harold, contemplates28 marriage. It has always appeared to me that the married state is peculiarly useful in developing....
. . . . . . . .
But not all the members of The Manchester Guardian staff are ’varsity men: for which, indeed, one may be thankful. The men of letters whom they admire most—Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Joseph Conrad and Arnold Bennett—never even dimly espied29 the towers and spires30 of Oxford31 and Cambridge. But the paper has the manner of Oxford, though not Oxford’s intellectual outlook.
157For myself, I have never been on the staff of this paper, though I have written scores of articles for its commercial pages. Some of the most distinguished33 intellects in the country write for it regularly—Allan Monkhouse, whose play, Mary Broome, has not been and scarcely can be sufficiently34 praised; C. E. Montague, now in the Army; Professor C. H. Herford, whose scholarship is in excess of his human feeling; Samuel Langford, whom I have dealt with elsewhere in this book; J. E. Agate35, whose fastidious style is a pure delight. Indeed, nearly every man who can write and who has something definitely new to say will find the columns of this paper open to him.
. . . . . . . .
The drawback to social life in Manchester is that there is no central meeting-place where kindred spirits can foregather. It is true, there is the Arts Club, but when you have said the Arts Club is there, you have said all that it is necessary to say about the Arts Club. It is true, also, that if you stroll into the American bar of the Midland Hotel at almost any hour of the day, you are pretty sure to meet someone amusing; but you really can’t make music, or rehearse plays, or play the fool (at least, not to any great extent) in an American bar. The consequence of this lack of a good democratic club is that all kinds of little coteries36 are formed, and it is about one of these little coteries that I wish to tell you.
Of course, Manchester is not London. You know that. In London, if you don’t like one play, you can go to another. If the music that Sir Henry J. Wood gives you is not to your taste, you can go to hear Mr Landon Ronald, or (if truly desperate) join the Philharmonic Society. But in Manchester this is not so. You have either to like the music or do without it. Well, some years ago we didn’t like it, and Jack37 Kahane, talking to me one day in a mood of disgust, casually38 remarked:
158“I’m going to kick Richter out of Manchester. We’ve had enough of him.”
With Kahane, to think is to act, and within a week he had formed the Manchester Musical Society and begun a Press campaign against the famous old conductor. This Society was Kahane’s new toy, and he played with it to some purpose. We talked a great deal, gave innumerable concerts, hired lecturers, wrote articles, and held enormously thrilling committee meetings. Our programmes consisted almost exclusively of new and very “modern” music, just the kind of music that the guarantors of the Hallé Concerts Society detested39. We were all for the new spirit in music, and some of us in our enthusiasm liked new music just because it was new. In three months Richter began to totter40 on his throne and, later on, he resigned his post, and now Sir Thomas Beecham most fitly reigns41 in his stead.
This little Society was extremely typical of Manchester. It was typical because it was enthusiastic, because every member of it worked hard for no monetary42 reward, and because it had a definite object in view and achieved that object. Above all, it was young; the spirit of it was young. I have never found in London a band of young men and women putting their noses to the grindstone for months on end with the sole object of achieving an artistic43 ideal. People in London exploit art, but they do not work at art for art’s sake. Manchester is England’s musical metropolis44. Elgar said so ten years ago; Beecham echoed his words the other day. I claim for Manchester also that the level of culture is much higher than it is in London. In proportion to its size Manchester has during the last fifty years given to England more writers, musicians, politicians, actors, business men, reformers and social workers of distinction than any other city.... But all this, I think, is a little offensive——
And yet how difficult it is for the stranger to understand 159Manchester!—and difficult in spite of the fact that Manchester loves being understood.
Mr J. Nicol Dunn, who, as editor of The Morning Post and, later, of The Johannesburg Star, did most brilliant work, utterly45 failed to understand Lancashire people when he came to edit The Manchester Courier. I think he regarded them as a peculiar race of savages46. “A wealthy Lancashire manufacturer,” he said to me once, “will ask you to dinner and will order a bumper47 of champagne48. But if you ask him for a half-guinea subscription49 for a political society, he will give you a curt50 refusal. What is to be done with such folk?” Dunn thought us hard and unimaginative, incapable51 of seeing in what direction lay our best interests, and utterly childish in our notions of political economy.
“Cumberland,” he said, unexpectedly, one evening, “is your father a Conservative?”
“He is,” said I.
“What paper does he take?”
“The Manchester Guardian.”
“I knew he did! Of course he would take The Manchester Guardian! Good Lord! To what a strange set of people have I come!”
And he grunted52 and went on with his work.
My native town is young and strenuous53 and guileless. Its vanity is the vanity of the clever youngster who loves “showing off” in his exuberant54 way. So young and guileless is it that it is the easiest thing in the world to deceive it. How easy it is to deceive Manchester is illustrated55 by the case of Captain Schlagintweit, the German consul56 for some years in that city.
Schlagintweit was an enormous German whose mission in life it was to induce Manchester to believe that Germany was our bosom57 friend, that Germany’s first thought was to help Great Britain, and that the two peoples were so closely akin58 in their spiritual aims that a quarrel between 160them, even a temporary misunderstanding, was utterly and for ever impossible. As I have said, he was enormous: a great man with a fair round belly59: a man who talked a lot and ate a lot, and who, when he talked even with a solitary60 companion, spoke61 as though he were addressing a huge audience. He “bounded” beautifully and with so much aplomb62 and zest63 that it seemed right he should bound and do nothing else.
I met him everywhere—in the Press Club, at concerts, at the Schiller Anstalt, in restaurants; and nine times out of ten he was in the company either of a journalist, a member of the City Council, or a Member of Parliament. I never knew any man who worked so hard for his country as he did. He distilled64 sweet poison into our ears and we believed him every time.
I must confess I felt rather flattered by the way in which he constantly sought my company. I thought for a long time that he loved me for my own sweet sake, and it was not until the, for him, tragic65 dénouement came that I realised that it was because I was a journalist, and for that reason alone, he dined and wined me and talked discreetly66 of Germany’s heartache for Great Britain. As I very rarely wrote on international politics, I do not think his evil counsel had any appreciable67 effect on my work, but it is impossible to imagine that his overflowing68 bonhomie, his cleverness, his subtle scheming did not greatly influence the thought of Manchester. He was made much of by more than one member of The Manchester Guardian staff.
His daughter came to sing at a concert I organised, and it was after this concert that he so overwhelmed me with flattery that I looked at him in amazement69. I said to myself: “You are a humbug70.” But on looking at him again, I said: “No; you’re not a humbug: you’re a fool.” A third scrutiny71, however, left me in doubt, and I said: “I’m damned if I know what you are.” Certainly I never 161suspected he was first cousin to a spy, that he was paid handsomely by his Government for his propaganda work in Manchester, and that he secretly despised and hated us.
Shortly after war broke out, many things were discovered about Schlagintweit that had hitherto been unknown, and he was led, handcuffed, to Knutsford gaol72, but not before he had broken through the five-mile radius73 to which, as a German, he was confined, and not before he had motored through a far-off district where tens of thousands of our soldiers were encamped.
I do not believe London would have been deceived by him, and I am sure that Ecclefechan wouldn’t. Yet Manchester was.
Manchester is young, ingenuous74, trusting, guileless.
. . . . . . . .
Have you ever noticed (but you must have done!) that the self-made man—and half the prosperous men in Manchester are self-made—will frequently part with a ten-pound note much more readily than he will with a few pence? The economical habits of his youth still cling to and dominate him, and he counts the halfpence and is careless of the pounds.
One Saturday night in the summer, I was taking a walk with a friend in the country ten or twelve miles from Manchester. Our talk was of County cricket, in which my companion—a most magnificent person, with ships sailing on half the oceans of the world—was greatly interested. For three days Lancashire had been playing Yorkshire a very close match, and we knew that by now the game would be over.
“We sha’n’t know the result till we get The Sunday Chronicle to-morrow,” said X. regretfully.
But, five minutes later, we met, most miraculously75, a newsboy with a bundle of papers under his arm.
X. took a penny from his pocket, handed it to the boy, and received The Evening News in exchange.
162“Very sorry, sir,” said the boy, “but I’ve got no change. I’ve got no halfpennies.”
X. turned to me.
“Oh, I’ve no change either,” said I, amused.
With an exclamation76 of annoyance77, X. handed the paper back to the boy and pocketed his penny.
After we had proceeded a few paces:
“Lancashire has won by two wickets,” he said. “I saw it in the corner in the Stop Press news.”
Now, X. had great riches.
An incredible story, isn’t it? But it is true, and it gives you the self-made Manchester man—at least, one side of him—in a nutshell.
. . . . . . . .
It used to be a great delight to me to see Dr J. Kendrick Pyne walking near the Cathedral or in Albert Square, for he used to suggest to me a bygone age and a remote place. His short, thick-set figure used to move with the utmost precision, unhurried, unperturbed. His plump, clean-shaven face, his well-shaped head, surmounted78 by a new silk hat of old-fashioned shape, his gold-rimmed spectacles with the peering eyes behind them, his inevitable79 umbrella, and his correct dress—all these conspired80 to make a figure of great dignity, a figure that always seemed to carry about with it the atmosphere of the Cathedral whose organ he played for so many smooth years. There hung about him the tradition of the famous Dr Wesley.
In character and disposition81 also he belonged to a different era. He never underestimated the importance of the position he held in the city as Cathedral organist, City organist, and Professor at the Manchester Royal College of Music, and wherever he went and in the execution of whatever work to which he set his mind, his word was law. A very fine type of Englishman. He would brook82 no interference from Bishop or Dean, 163and his combative83, upright spirit fought unceasingly to uphold the dignity of his art.
His childlike vanity was most alluring84, and I used to love him for it and respect him for the way he clung to his belief in himself.
One day he took me to the town hall to look once more at the wonderful series of frescoes85 that Ford32 Madox Brown painted in the great hall. When he came to the fresco86 picturing the Duke of Bridgewater at the ceremonial “opening” of the Bridgewater Canal, he pointed11 to the features of the Duke, and inquired:
“Whom do you think he resembles?”
There was just a note of anxiety in his voice as though he were afraid I should not be able to answer his question. For the life of me I could not think of anyone who resembled Madox Brown’s Duke, and I stood silent. Pyne then turned his face full upon me, and again inquired, somewhat imperiously:
“Whom do you think he resembles?”
“Why,” exclaimed I, guessing wildly, “it is a portrait of you!”
“Yes,” said he, with naïve satisfaction, “it is. I sat to Madox Brown for the great Duke. The portrait is immortal87.”
But whether the portrait was immortal because Kendrick Pyne had sat for it, or Madox Brown had painted it, I did not gather.
On another occasion he again used the word “immortal,” but this time it was in reference to one of his own works.
“You know,” said he, apropos88 of something I have forgotten, “I should have made a name as a writer if I had gone in for literature, but I felt that music had stronger claims upon me. My organ-playing will not, so to speak, live, because the art of the executant necessarily dies with him. But my Mass in A flat is, in itself, enough to keep my name immortal.”
164There was such innocent satisfaction in his tone, such a bland89 look upon his face, that he seemed to me like a delicious grown-up child.
But have not all men of genius this superb confidence in themselves? I am convinced they have. Could they possibly “carry on” without it? But only a few men of genius have the courage, or the artlessness, to speak what is really in their hearts.
. . . . . . . .
One of the “characters” of Manchester, a man who loves being a character, is Mr Charles Rowley, who for an unconscionable number of years has been doing splendid educational and recreative work in Ancoats, a congeries of slums, a district of appalling90 poverty. Here, in the Islington Hall, on most Sunday afternoons, one can hear first-rate chamber91 music and, as a rule, a lecture delivered by some local or London celebrity92. I myself have heard Bernard Shaw and Hilaire Belloc lecture there and, after the lectures, I have gone to the clean little cottage where Mr Rowley occasionally entertains a few chosen friends to tea and talk.
I do not know if Mr Rowley is a Manchester man, but he is of a type that I have found only in that city. He is combative and energetic; he is a little red flame of enthusiasm. Though, no doubt, interested in and pleased with himself, he is equally interested in local public affairs and equally pleased with the people for whom he works. His broad and pungent93 humour is just the kind of humour the so-called lower classes understand, and his energy of mind and readiness of wit are remarkable94. I have seen him on several occasions talking to—or, perhaps, talking with is what I really mean—a huge audience in order to keep them in good humour until the arrival of the lecturer of the afternoon. He bandies jokes with anybody who cares to shout to him, and he has the true democrat’s gift—he never by a look, a word or a gesture implies that 165he is in any way superior to the meanest member of his audience. These rough people love him, admire him and laugh at him. And, of course, he is able to laugh at himself. Perhaps, all things considered, he is the most human man I have met, and I like to think that in him the spirit of Manchester is embodied95. I do not mean you to infer that I think the spirit of Manchester is the finest spirit in the world, but I do believe that it is a spirit that might well be emulated96 by many other towns.
What is that spirit? Well, Manchester has a sincere and very proper respect for success, and particularly for success that has been won in the face of great difficulties. Manchester loves education and knowledge, not only because these things are useful in achieving success, but also for their own sake. Manchester is public-spirited, proud of its traditions, loyal to its principles. It is cultured—not in the super-refined, lily-fingered sense, but in the sense that it loves literature, music, art. It is enthusiastic about these things; it works hard to come by them and treasures them when they are obtained.
One could, of course, say many disagreeable and true things about Manchester, but as these have been said frequently by other people, I refrain from repeating what is already known.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
discoursing
|
|
| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
conceited
|
|
| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
loathsome
|
|
| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
bazaars
|
|
| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
decadent
|
|
| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
adventurous
|
|
| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
guardian
|
|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
shrieks
|
|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
isles
|
|
| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
vowed
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
illustrates
|
|
| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
persuasion
|
|
| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
perils
|
|
| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
apprised
|
|
| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
intervals
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
contemplates
|
|
| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
espied
|
|
| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
spires
|
|
| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
Ford
|
|
| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
agate
|
|
| n.玛瑙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
coteries
|
|
| n.（有共同兴趣的）小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
37
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
casually
|
|
| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
detested
|
|
| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
totter
|
|
| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
reigns
|
|
| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
monetary
|
|
| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
metropolis
|
|
| n.首府；大城市 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
savages
|
|
| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
bumper
|
|
| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
subscription
|
|
| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
curt
|
|
| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
grunted
|
|
| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
exuberant
|
|
| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
consul
|
|
| n.领事；执政官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
akin
|
|
| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
belly
|
|
| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
aplomb
|
|
| n.沉着，镇静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
zest
|
|
| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
distilled
|
|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
discreetly
|
|
| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
appreciable
|
|
| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
overflowing
|
|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
humbug
|
|
| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
scrutiny
|
|
| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
gaol
|
|
| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
radius
|
|
| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
ingenuous
|
|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
miraculously
|
|
| ad.奇迹般地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
surmounted
|
|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
conspired
|
|
| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
brook
|
|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
combative
|
|
| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
alluring
|
|
| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
frescoes
|
|
| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
fresco
|
|
| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
apropos
|
|
| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
bland
|
|
| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
appalling
|
|
| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
celebrity
|
|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
pungent
|
|
| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
embodied
|
|
| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
emulated
|
|
| v.与…竞争( emulate的过去式和过去分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |