I have been twice in England. In 1833, on my return from a short tour in Sicily, Italy, and France, I crossed from Boulogne, and landed in London at the Tower stairs. It was a dark Sunday morning; there were few people in the streets; and I remember the pleasure of that first walk on English ground, with my companion, an American artist, from the Tower up through Cheapside and the Strand1, to a house in Russell Square, whither we had been recommended to good chambers2. For the first time for many months we were forced to check the saucy3 habit of travellers’ criticism, as we could no longer speak aloud in the streets without being understood. The shop-signs spoke4 our language; our country names were on the door-plates; and the public and private buildings wore a more native and wonted front.
Like most young men at that time, I was much indebted to the men of Edinburgh, and of the Edinburgh Review, — to Jeffrey, Mackintosh, Hallam, and to Scott, Playfair, and De Quincey; and my narrow and desultory6 reading had inspired the wish to see the faces of three or four writers, — Coleridge, Wordsworth, Landor, De Quincey, and the latest and strongest contributor to the critical journals, Carlyle; and I suppose if I had sifted7 the reasons that led me to Europe, when I was ill and was advised to travel, it was mainly the attraction of these persons. If Goethe had been still living, I might have wandered into Germany also. Besides those I have named, (for Scott was dead,) there was not in Britain the man living whom I cared to behold8, unless it were the Duke of Wellington, whom I afterwards saw at Westminster Abbey, at the funeral of Wilberforce. The young scholar fancies it happiness enough to live with people who can give an inside to the world; without reflecting that they are prisoners, too, of their own thought, and cannot apply themselves to yours. The conditions of literary success are almost destructive of the best social power, as they do not leave that frolic liberty which only can encounter a companion on the best terms. It is probable you left some obscure comrade at a tavern9, or in the farms, with right mother-wit, and equality to life, when you crossed sea and land to play bo-peep with celebrated10 scribes. I have, however, found writers superior to their books, and I cling to my first belief, that a strong head will dispose fast enough of these impediments, and give one the satisfaction of reality, the sense of having been met, and a larger horizon.
On looking over the diary of my journey in 1833, I find nothing to publish in my memoranda11 of visits to places. But I have copied the few notes I made of visits to persons, as they respect parties quite too good and too transparent12 to the whole world to make it needful to affect any prudery of suppression about a few hints of those bright personalities13.
At Florence, chief among artists I found Horatio Greenough, the American sculptor14. His face was so handsome, and his person so well formed, that he might be pardoned, if, as was alleged15, the face of his Medora, and the figure of a colossal16 Achilles in clay, were idealizations of his own. Greenough was a superior man, ardent17 and eloquent18, and all his opinions had elevation19 and magnanimity. He believed that the Greeks had wrought20 in schools or fraternities, — the genius of the master imparting his design to his friends, and inflaming21 them with it, and when his strength was spent, a new hand, with equal heat, continued the work; and so by relays, until it was finished in every part with equal fire. This was necessary in so refractory22 a material as stone; and he thought art would never prosper23 until we left our shy jealous ways, and worked in society as they. All his thoughts breathed the same generosity24. He was an accurate and a deep man. He was a votary25 of the Greeks, and impatient of Gothic art. His paper on Architecture, published in 1843, announced in advance the leading thoughts of Mr. Ruskin on the morality in architecture, notwithstanding the antagonism27 in their views of the history of art. I have a private letter from him, — later, but respecting the same period, — in which he roughly sketches28 his own theory. “Here is my theory of structure: A scientific arrangement of spaces and forms to functions and to site; an emphasis of features proportioned to their gradated importance in function; color and ornament29 to be decided30 and arranged and varied31 by strictly32 organic laws, having a distinct reason for each decision; the entire and immediate33 banishment34 of all make-shift and make-believe.”
Greenough brought me, through a common friend, an invitation from Mr. Landor, who lived at San Domenica di Fiesole. On the 15th May I dined with Mr. Landor. I found him noble and courteous35, living in a cloud of pictures at his Villa36 Gherardesca, a fine house commanding a beautiful landscape. I had inferred from his books, or magnified from some anecdotes37, an impression of Achillean wrath39, — an untamable petulance40. I do not know whether the imputation41 were just or not, but certainly on this May day his courtesy veiled that haughty42 mind, and he was the most patient and gentle of hosts. He praised the beautiful cyclamen which grows all about Florence; he admired Washington; talked of Wordsworth, Byron, Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher. To be sure, he is decided in his opinions, likes to surprise, and is well content to impress, if possible, his English whim43 upon the immutable44 past. No great man ever had a great son, if Philip and Alexander be not an exception; and Philip he calls the greater man. In art, he loves the Greeks, and in sculpture, them only. He prefers the Venus to every thing else, and, after that, the head of Alexander, in the gallery here. He prefers John of Bologna to Michael Angelo; in painting, Raffaelle; and shares the growing taste for Perugino and the early masters. The Greek histories he thought the only good; and after them, Voltaire’s. I could not make him praise Mackintosh, nor my more recent friends; Montaigne very cordially, — and Charron also, which seemed undiscriminating. He thought Degerando indebted to “Lucas on Happiness” and “Lucas on Holiness”! He pestered45 me with Southey; but who is Southey?
He invited me to breakfast on Friday. On Friday I did not fail to go, and this time with Greenough. He entertained us at once with reciting half a dozen hexameter lines of Julius Caesar’s! — from Donatus, he said. He glorified46 Lord Chesterfield more than was necessary, and undervalued Burke, and undervalued Socrates; designated as three of the greatest of men, Washington, Phocion, and Timoleon; much as our pomologists, in their lists, select the three or the six best pears “for a small orchard;” and did not even omit to remark the similar termination of their names. “A great man,” he said, “should make great sacrifices, and kill his hundred oxen, without knowing whether they would be consumed by gods and heroes, or whether the flies would eat them.” I had visited Professor Amici, who had shown me his microscopes, magnifying (it was said) two thousand diameters; and I spoke of the uses to which they were applied47. Landor despised entomology, yet, in the same breath, said, “the sublime48 was in a grain of dust.” I suppose I teased him about recent writers, but he professed49 never to have heard of Herschel, not even by name. One room was full of pictures, which he likes to show, especially one piece, standing26 before which, he said “he would give fifty guineas to the man that would swear it was a Domenichino.” I was more curious to see his library, but Mr. H——, one of the guests, told me that Mr. Landor gives away his books, and has never more than a dozen at a time in his house.
Mr. Landor carries to its height the love of freak which the English delight to indulge, as if to signalize their commanding freedom. He has a wonderful brain, despotic, violent, and inexhaustible, meant for a soldier, by what chance converted to letters, in which there is not a style nor a tint50 not known to him, yet with an English appetite for action and heroes. The thing done avails, and not what is said about it. An original sentence, a step forward, is worth more than all the censures51. Landor is strangely undervalued in England; usually ignored; and sometimes savagely52 attacked in the Reviews. The criticism may be right, or wrong, and is quickly forgotten; but year after year the scholar must still go back to Landor for a multitude of elegant sentences — for wisdom, wit, and indignation that are unforgetable.
From London, on the 5th August, I went to Highgate, and wrote a note to Mr. Coleridge, requesting leave to pay my respects to him. It was near noon. Mr. Coleridge sent a verbal message, that he was in bed, but if I would call after one o’clock, he would see me. I returned at one, and he appeared, a short, thick old man, with bright blue eyes and fine clear complexion53, leaning on his cane54. He took snuff freely, which presently soiled his cravat55 and neat black suit. He asked whether I knew Allston, and spoke warmly of his merits and doings when he knew him in Rome; what a master of the Titianesque he was, &c., &c. He spoke of Dr. Channing. It was an unspeakable misfortune that he should have turned out a Unitarian after all. On this, he burst into a declamation56 on the folly57 and ignorance of Unitarianism, — its high unreasonableness58; and taking up Bishop59 Waterland’s book, which lay on the table, he read with vehemence60 two or three pages written by himself in the fly-leaves, — passages, too, which, I believe, are printed in the “Aids to Reflection.” When he stopped to take breath, I interposed, that, “whilst I highly valued all his explanations, I was bound to tell him that I was born and bred a Unitarian.” “Yes,” he said, “I supposed so;” and continued as before. ‘It was a wonder, that after so many ages of unquestioning acquiescence61 in the doctrine62 of St. Paul, — the doctrine of the Trinity, which was also, according to Philo Judaeus, the doctrine of the Jews before Christ, — this handful of Priestleians should take on themselves to deny it, &c., &c. He was very sorry that Dr. Channing, — a man to whom he looked up, — no, to say that he looked up to him would be to speak falsely; but a man whom he looked at with so much interest, — should embrace such views. When he saw Dr. Channing, he had hinted to him that he was afraid he loved Christianity for what was lovely and excellent, — he loved the good in it, and not the true; and I tell you, sir, that I have known ten persons who loved the good, for one person who loved the true; but it is a far greater virtue63 to lovethe true for itself alone, than to love the good for itself alone. He (Coleridge) knew all about Unitarianism perfectly64 well, because he had once been a Unitarian, and knew what quackery65 it was. He had been called “the rising star of Unitarianism.”’ He went on defining, or rather refining: ‘The Trinitarian doctrine was realism; the idea of God was not essential, but superessential;’ talked of trinism and tetrakism, and much more, of which I only caught this, ‘that the will was that by which a person is a person; because, if one should push me in the street, and so I should force the man next me into the kennel66, I should at once exclaim, “I did not do it, sir,” meaning it was not my will.’ And this also, ‘that if you should insist on your faith here in England, and I on mine, mine would be the hotter side of the fagot.’
I took advantage of a pause to say, that he had many readers of all religious opinions in America, and I proceeded to inquire if the “extract” from the Independent’s pamphlet, in the third volume of the Friend, were a veritable quotation67. He replied, that it was really taken from a pamphlet in his possession, entitled “A Protest of one of the Independents,” or something to that effect. I told him how excellent I thought it, and how much I wished to see the entire work. “Yes,” he said, “the man was a chaos68 of truths, but lacked the knowledge that God was a God of order. Yet the passage would no doubt strike you more in the quotation than in the original, for I have filtered it.”
When I rose to go, he said, “I do not know whether you care about poetry, but I will repeat some verses I lately made on my baptismal anniversary,” and he recited with strong emphasis, standing, ten or twelve lines, beginning,
“Born unto God in Christ ——”
He inquired where I had been travelling; and on learning that I had been in Malta and Sicily, he compared one island with the other, ‘repeating what he had said to the Bishop of London when he returned from that country, that Sicily was an excellent school of political economy; for, in any town there, it only needed to ask what the government enacted69, and reverse that to know what ought to be done; it was the most felicitously70 opposite legislation to any thing good and wise. There were only three things which the government had brought into that garden of delights, namely, itch71, pox, and famine. Whereas, in Malta, the force of law and mind was seen, in making that barren rock of semi-Saracen inhabitants the seat of population and plenty.’ Going out, he showed me in the next apartment a picture of Allston’s, and told me ‘that Montague, a picture-dealer, once came to see him, and, glancing towards this, said, “Well, you have got a picture!” thinking it the work of an old master; afterwards, Montague, still talking with his back to the canvas, put up his hand and touched it, and exclaimed, “By Heaven! this picture is not ten years old:” — so delicate and skilful72 was that man’s touch.’
I was in his company for about an hour, but find it impossible to recall the largest part of his discourse73, which was often like so many printed paragraphs in his book, — perhaps the same, — so readily did he fall into certain commonplaces. As I might have foreseen, the visit was rather a spectacle than a conversation, of no use beyond the satisfaction of my curiosity. He was old and preoccupied74, and could not bend to a new companion and think with him.
From Edinburgh I went to the Highlands. On my return, I came from Glasgow to Dumfries, and being intent on delivering a letter which I had brought from Rome, inquired for Craigenputtock. It was a farm in Nithsdale, in the parish of Dunscore, sixteen miles distant. No public coach passed near it, so I took a private carriage from the inn. I found the house amid desolate75 heathery hills, where the lonely scholar nourished his mighty76 heart. Carlyle was a man from his youth, an author who did not need to hide from his readers, and as absolute a man of the world, unknown and exiled on that hill-farm, as if holding on his own terms what is best in London. He was tall and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow, self-possessed, and holding his extraordinary powers of conversation in easy command; clinging to his northern accent with evident relish77; full of lively anecdote38, and with a streaming humor, which floated every thing he looked upon. His talk playfully exalting78 the familiar objects, put the companion at once into an acquaintance with his Lars and Lemurs, and it was very pleasant to learn what was predestined to be a pretty mythology79. Few were the objects and lonely the man, “not a person to speak to within sixteen miles except the minister of Dunscore;” so that books inevitably80 made his topics.
He had names of his own for all the matters familiar to his discourse. “Blackwood’s” was the “sand magazine;” “Fraser’s” nearer approach to possibility of life was the “mud magazine;” a piece of road near by that marked some failed enterprise was the “grave of the last sixpence.” When too much praise of any genius annoyed him, he professed hugely to admire the talent shown by his pig. He had spent much time and contrivance in confining the poor beast to one enclosure in his pen, but pig, by great strokes of judgment81, had found out how to let a board down, and had foiled him. For all that, he still thought man the most plastic little fellow in the planet, and he liked Nero’s death, “Qualis artifex pereo!” better than most history. He worships a man that will manifest any truth to him. At one time he had inquired and read a good deal about America. Landor’s principle was mere82 rebellion, and that he feared was the American principle. The best thing he knew of that country was, that in it a man can have meat for his labor83. He had read in Stewart’s book, that when he inquired in a New York hotel for the Boots, he had been shown across the street and had found Mungo in his own house dining on roast turkey.
We talked of books. Plato he does not read, and he disparaged84 Socrates; and, when pressed, persisted in making Mirabeau a hero. Gibbon he called the splendid bridge from the old world to the new. His own reading had been multifarious. Tristram Shandy was one of his first books after Robinson Crusoe, and Robertson’s America an early favorite. Rousseau’s Confessions85 had discovered to him that he was not a dunce; and it was now ten years since he had learned German, by the advice of a man who told him he would find in that language what he wanted.
He took despairing or satirical views of literature at this moment; recounted the incredible sums paid in one year by the great booksellers for puffing86. Hence it comes that no newspaper is trusted now, no books are bought, and the booksellers are on the eve of bankruptcy87.
He still returned to English pauperism88, the crowded country, the selfish abdication89 by public men of all that public persons should perform. ‘Government should direct poor men what to do. Poor Irish folk come wandering over these moors91. My dame92 makes it a rule to give to every son of Adam bread to eat, and supplies his wants to the next house. But here are thousands of acres which might give them all meat, and nobody to bid these poor Irish go to the moor90 and till it. They burned the stacks, and so found a way to force the rich people to attend to them.’
We went out to walk over long hills, and looked at Criffel then without his cap, and down into Wordsworth’s country. There we sat down, and talked of the immortality93 of the soul. It was not Carlyle’s fault that we talked on that topic, for he had the natural disinclination of every nimble spirit to bruise94 itself against walls, and did not like to place himself where no step can be taken. But he was honest and true, and cognizant of the subtile links that bind95 ages together, and saw how every event affects all the future. ‘Christ died on the tree: that built Dunscore kirk yonder: that brought you and me together. Time has only a relative existence.’
He was already turning his eyes towards London with a scholar’s appreciation96. London is the heart of the world, he said, wonderful only from the mass of human beings. He liked the huge machine. Each keeps its own round. The baker’s boy brings muffins to the window at a fixed97 hour every day, and that is all the Londoner knows or wishes to know on the subject. But it turned out good men. He named certain individuals, especially one man of letters, his friend, the best mind he knew, whom London had well served.
On the 28th August, I went to Rydal Mount, to pay my respects to Mr. Wordsworth. His daughters called in their father, a plain, elderly, white-haired man, not prepossessing, and disfigured by green goggles98. He sat down, and talked with great simplicity99. He had just returned from a journey. His health was good, but he had broken a tooth by a fall, when walking with two lawyers, and had said, that he was glad it did not happen forty years ago; whereupon they had praised his philosophy.
He had much to say of America, the more that it gave occasion for his favorite topic, — that society is being enlightened by a superficial tuition, out of all proportion to its being restrained by moral culture. Schools do no good. Tuition is not education. He thinks more of the education of circumstances than of tuition. ‘Tis not question whether there are offences of which the law takes cognizance, but whether there are offences of which the law does not take cognizance. Sin is what he fears, and how society is to escape without gravest mischiefs100 from this source —? He has even said, what seemed a paradox101, that they needed a civil war in America, to teach the necessity of knitting the social ties stronger. ‘There may be,’ he said, ‘in America some vulgarity in manner, but that’s not important. That comes of the pioneer state of things. But I fear they are too much given to the making of money; and secondly102, to politics; that they make political distinction the end, and not the means. And I fear they lack a class of men of leisure, — in short, of gentlemen, — to give a tone of honor to the community. I am told that things are boasted of in the second class of society there, which, in England, — God knows, are done in England every day, — but would never be spoken of. In America I wish to know not how many churches or schools, but what newspapers? My friend, Colonel Hamilton, at the foot of the hill, who was a year in America, assures me that the newspapers are atrocious, and accuse members of Congress of stealing spoons!’ He was against taking off the tax on newspapers in England, which the reformers represent as a tax upon knowledge, for this reason, that they would be inundated103 with base prints. He said, he talked on political aspects, for he wished to impress on me and all good Americans to cultivate the moral, the conservative, &c., &c., and never to call into action the physical strength of the people, as had just now been done in England in the Reform Bill, — a thing prophesied104 by Delolme. He alluded105 once or twice to his conversation with Dr. Channing, who had recently visited him, (laying his hand on a particular chair in which the Doctor had sat.)
The conversation turned on books. Lucretius he esteems106 a far higher poet than Virgil: not in his system, which is nothing, but in his power of illustration. Faith is necessary to explain any thing, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil. Of Cousin, (whose lectures we had all been reading in Boston,) he knew only the name.
I inquired if he had read Carlyle’s critical articles and translations. He said, he thought him sometimes insane. He proceeded to abuse Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister heartily107. It was full of all manner of fornication. It was like the crossing of flies in the air. He had never gone farther than the first part; so disgusted was he that he threw the book across the room. I deprecated this wrath, and said what I could for the better parts of the book; and he courteously108 promised to look at it again. Carlyle, he said, wrote most obscurely. He was clever and deep, but he defied the sympathies of every body. Even Mr. Coleridge wrote more clearly, though he had always wished Coleridge would write more to be understood. He led me out into his garden, and showed me the gravel109 walk in which thousands of his lines were composed. His eyes are much inflamed110. This is no loss, except for reading, because he never writes prose, and of poetry he carries even hundreds of lines in his head before writing them. He had just returned from a visit to Staffa, and within three days had made three sonnets112 on Fingal’s Cave, and was composing a fourth, when he was called in to see me. He said, “If you are interested in my verses, perhaps you will like to hear these lines.” I gladly assented113; and he recollected114 himself for a few moments, and then stood forth115 and repeated, one after the other, the three entire sonnets with great animation116. I fancied the second and third more beautiful than his poems are wont5 to be. The third is addressed to the flowers, which, he said, especially the oxeye daisy, are very abundant on the top of the rock. The second alludes117 to the name of the cave, which is “Cave of Music;” the first to the circumstance of its being visited by the promiscuous118 company of the steamboat.
This recitation was so unlooked for and surprising, — he, the old Wordsworth, standing apart, and reciting to me in a garden-walk, like a schoolboy declaiming, — that I at first was near to laugh; but recollecting119 myself, that I had come thus far to see a poet, and he was chanting poems to me, I saw that he was right and I was wrong, and gladly gave myself up to hear. I told him how much the few printed extracts had quickened the desire to possess his unpublished poems. He replied, he never was in haste to publish; partly, because he corrected a good deal, and every alteration120 is ungraciously received after printing; but what he had written would be printed, whether he lived or died. I said, “Tintern Abbey” appeared to be the favorite poem with the public, but more contemplative readers preferred the first books of the “Excursion,” and the Sonnets. He said, “Yes, they are better.” He preferred such of his poems as touched the affections, to any others; for whatever is didactic, — what theories of society, and so on, — might perish quickly; but whatever combined a truth with an affection was {ktema es aei}, good to-day and good forever. He cited the sonnet111 “On the feelings of a high-minded Spaniard,” which he preferred to any other, (I so understood him,) and the “Two Voices;” and quoted, with evident pleasure, the verses addressed “To the Skylark.” In this connection, he said of the Newtonian theory, that it might yet be superseded121 and forgotten; and Dalton’s atomic theory.
When I prepared to depart, he said he wished to show me what a common person in England could do, and he led me into the enclosure of his clerk, a young man, to whom he had given this slip of ground, which was laid out, or its natural capabilities122 shown, with much taste. He then said he would show me a better way towards the inn; and he walked a good part of a mile, talking, and ever and anon stopping short to impress the word or the verse, and finally parted from me with great kindness, and returned across the fields.
Wordsworth honored himself by his simple adherence123 to truth, and was very willing not to shine; but he surprised by the hard limits of his thought. To judge from a single conversation, he made the impression of a narrow and very English mind; of one who paid for his rare elevation by general tameness and conformity124. Off his own beat, his opinions were of no value. It is not very rare to find persons loving sympathy and ease, who expiate125 their departure from the common, in one direction, by their conformity in every other.
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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behold
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tavern
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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votary
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standing
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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sketches
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29
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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30
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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32
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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33
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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34
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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35
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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36
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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37
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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39
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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40
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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41
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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42
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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43
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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44
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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45
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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47
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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48
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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50
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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51
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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53
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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54
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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56
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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57
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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58
unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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59
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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60
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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61
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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62
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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63
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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66
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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67
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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69
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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71
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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72
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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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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75
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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76
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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77
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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78
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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79
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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81
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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84
disparaged
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| v.轻视( disparage的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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85
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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86
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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87
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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88
pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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89
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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90
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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91
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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93
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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94
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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95
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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98
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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99
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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100
mischiefs
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| 损害( mischief的名词复数 )； 危害； 胡闹； 调皮捣蛋的人 | |
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101
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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102
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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103
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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104
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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107
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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108
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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109
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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110
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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112
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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113
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
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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115
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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116
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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117
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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119
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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120
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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121
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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122
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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123
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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124
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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125
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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