The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Quarrying1 man’s rejected hours,
Builds therewith eternal towers;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks2
Makes flame to freeze, and ice to boil;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silver seat of Innocence4.
ESSAY IV Spiritual Laws
When the act of reflection takes place in the mind, when we look at ourselves in the light of thought, we discover that our life is embosomed in beauty. Behind us, as we go, all things assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not only things familiar and stale, but even the tragic5 and terrible, are comely6, as they take their place in the pictures of memory. The river-bank, the weed at the water-side, the old house, the foolish person, — however neglected in the passing, — have a grace in the past. Even the corpse7 that has lain in the chambers8 has added a solemn ornament9 to the house. The soul will not know either deformity or pain. If, in the hours of clear reason, we should speak the severest truth, we should say, that we had never made a sacrifice. In these hours the mind seems so great, that nothing can be taken from us that seems much. All loss, all pain, is particular; the universe remains10 to the heart unhurt. Neither vexations nor calamities11 abate12 our trust. No man ever stated his griefs as lightly as he might. Allow for exaggeration in the most patient and sorely ridden hack13 that ever was driven. For it is only the finite that has wrought14 and suffered; the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose15.
The intellectual life may be kept clean and healthful, if man will live the life of nature, and not import into his mind difficulties which are none of his. No man need be perplexed16 in his speculations17. Let him do and say what strictly18 belongs to him, and, though very ignorant of books, his nature shall not yield him any intellectual obstructions20 and doubts. Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestination, and the like. These never presented a practical difficulty to any man, — never darkened across any man’s road, who did not go out of his way to seek them. These are the soul’s mumps22, and measles23, and whooping-coughs, and those who have not caught them cannot describe their health or prescribe the cure. A simple mind will not know these enemies. It is quite another thing that he should be able to give account of his faith, and expound25 to another the theory of his self-union and freedom. This requires rare gifts. Yet, without this self-knowledge, there may be a sylvan26 strength and integrity in that which he is. “A few strong instincts and a few plain rules” suffice us.
My will never gave the images in my mind the rank they now take. The regular course of studies, the years of academical and professional education, have not yielded me better facts than some idle books under the bench at the Latin School. What we do not call education is more precious than that which we call so. We form no guess, at the time of receiving a thought, of its comparative value. And education often wastes its effort in attempts to thwart27 and balk28 this natural magnetism29, which is sure to select what belongs to it.
In like manner, our moral nature is vitiated by any interference of our will. People represent virtue31 as a struggle, and take to themselves great airs upon their attainments32, and the question is everywhere vexed33, when a noble nature is commended, whether the man is not better who strives with temptation. But there is no merit in the matter. Either God is there, or he is not there. We love characters in proportion as they are impulsive34 and spontaneous. The less a man thinks or knows about his virtues35, the better we like him. Timoleon’s victories are the best victories; which ran and flowed like Homer’s verses, Plutarch said. When we see a soul whose acts are all regal, graceful36, and pleasant as roses, we must thank God that such things can be and are, and not turn sourly on the angel, and say, ‘Crump is a better man with his grunting37 resistance to all his native devils.’
Not less conspicuous38 is the preponderance of nature over will in all practical life. There is less intention in history than we ascribe to it. We impute39 deep-laid, far-sighted plans to Caesar and Napoleon; but the best of their power was in nature, not in them. Men of an extraordinary success, in their honest moments, have always sung, ‘Not unto us, not unto us.’ According to the faith of their times, they have built altars to Fortune, or to Destiny, or to St. Julian. Their success lay in their parallelism to the course of thought, which found in them an unobstructed channel; and the wonders of which they were the visible conductors seemed to the eye their deed. Did the wires generate the galvanism? It is even true that there was less in them on which they could reflect, than in another; as the virtue of a pipe is to be smooth and hollow. That which externally seemed will and immovableness was willingness and self-annihilation. Could Shakspeare give a theory of Shakspeare? Could ever a man of prodigious40 mathematical genius convey to others any insight into his methods? If he could communicate that secret, it would instantly lose its exaggerated value, blending with the daylight and the vital energy the power to stand and to go.
The lesson is forcibly taught by these observations, that our life might be much easier and simpler than we make it; that the world might be a happier place than it is; that there is no need of struggles, convulsions, and despairs, of the wringing41 of the hands and the gnashing of the teeth; that we miscreate our own evils. We interfere30 with the optimism of nature; for, whenever we get this vantage-ground of the past, or of a wiser mind in the present, we are able to discern that we are begirt with laws which execute themselves.
The face of external nature teaches the same lesson. Nature will not have us fret42 and fume43. She does not like our benevolence44 or our learning much better than she likes our frauds and wars. When we come out of the caucus45, or the bank, or the Abolition-convention, or the Temperance-meeting, or the Transcendental club, into the fields and woods, she says to us, ‘So hot? my little Sir.’
We are full of mechanical actions. We must needs intermeddle, and have things in our own way, until the sacrifices and virtues of society are odious46. Love should make joy; but our benevolence is unhappy. Our Sunday-schools, and churches, and pauper-societies are yokes47 to the neck. We pain ourselves to please nobody. There are natural ways of arriving at the same ends at which these aim, but do not arrive. Why should all virtue work in one and the same way? Why should all give dollars? It is very inconvenient48 to us country folk, and we do not think any good will come of it. We have not dollars; merchants have; let them give them. Farmers will give corn; poets will sing; women will sew; laborers50 will lend a hand; the children will bring flowers. And why drag this dead weight of a Sunday-school over the whole Christendom? It is natural and beautiful that childhood should inquire, and maturity51 should teach; but it is time enough to answer questions when they are asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew, and force the children to ask them questions for an hour against their will.
If we look wider, things are all alike; laws, and letters, and creeds52, and modes of living, seem a travestie of truth. Our society is encumbered53 by ponderous54 machinery55, which resembles the endless aqueducts which the Romans built over hill and dale, and which are superseded56 by the discovery of the law that water rises to the level of its source. It is a Chinese wall which any nimble Tartar can leap over. It is a standing57 army, not so good as a peace. It is a graduated, titled, richly appointed empire, quite superfluous58 when town-meetings are found to answer just as well.
Let us draw a lesson from nature, which always works by short ways. When the fruit is ripe, it falls. When the fruit is despatched, the leaf falls. The circuit of the waters is mere59 falling. The walking of man and all animals is a falling forward. All our manual labor49 and works of strength, as prying60, splitting, digging, rowing, and so forth61, are done by dint62 of continual falling, and the globe, earth, moon, comet, sun, star, fall for ever and ever.
The simplicity63 of the universe is very different from the simplicity of a machine. He who sees moral nature out and out, and thoroughly64 knows how knowledge is acquired and character formed, is a pedant65. The simplicity of nature is not that which may easily be read, but is inexhaustible. The last analysis can no wise be made. We judge of a man’s wisdom by his hope, knowing that the perception of the inexhaustibleness of nature is an immortal66 youth. The wild fertility of nature is felt in comparing our rigid67 names and reputations with our fluid consciousness. We pass in the world for sects68 and schools, for erudition and piety70, and we are all the time jejune71 babes. One sees very well how Pyrrhonism grew up. Every man sees that he is that middle point, whereof every thing may be affirmed and denied with equal reason. He is old, he is young, he is very wise, he is altogether ignorant. He hears and feels what you say of the seraphim72, and of the tin-pedler. There is no permanent wise man, except in the figment of the Stoics73. We side with the hero, as we read or paint, against the coward and the robber; but we have been ourselves that coward and robber, and shall be again, not in the low circumstance, but in comparison with the grandeurs possible to the soul.
A little consideration of what takes place around us every day would show us, that a higher law than that of our will regulates events; that our painful labors74 are unnecessary, and fruitless; that only in our easy, simple, spontaneous action are we strong, and by contenting ourselves with obedience75 we become divine. Belief and love, — a believing love will relieve us of a vast load of care. O my brothers, God exists. There is a soul at the centre of nature, and over the will of every man, so that none of us can wrong the universe. It has so infused its strong enchantment77 into nature, that we prosper78 when we accept its advice, and when we struggle to wound its creatures, our hands are glued to our sides, or they beat our own breasts. The whole course of things goes to teach us faith. We need only obey. There is guidance for each of us, and by lowly listening we shall hear the right word. Why need you choose so painfully your place, and occupation, and associates, and modes of action, and of entertainment? Certainly there is a possible right for you that precludes81 the need of balance and wilful82 election. For you there is a reality, a fit place and congenial duties. Place yourself in the middle of the stream of power and wisdom which animates83 all whom it floats, and you are without effort impelled84 to truth, to right, and a perfect contentment. Then you put all gainsayers in the wrong. Then you are the world, the measure of right, of truth, of beauty. If we will not be mar-plots with our miserable85 interferences, the work, the society, letters, arts, science, religion of men would go on far better than now, and the heaven predicted from the beginning of the world, and still predicted from the bottom of the heart, would organize itself, as do now the rose, and the air, and the sun.
I say, do not choose; but that is a figure of speech by which I would distinguish what is commonly called choice among men, and which is a partial act, the choice of the hands, of the eyes, of the appetites, and not a whole act of the man. But that which I call right or goodness is the choice of my constitution; and that which I call heaven, and inwardly aspire86 after, is the state or circumstance desirable to my constitution; and the action which I in all my years tend to do, is the work for my faculties87. We must hold a man amenable88 to reason for the choice of his daily craft or profession. It is not an excuse any longer for his deeds, that they are the custom of his trade. What business has he with an evil trade? Has he not a calling in his character.
Each man has his own vocation89. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting90 him thither91 to endless exertion92. He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that side all obstruction19 is taken away, and he sweeps serenely94 over a deepening channel into an infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the general soul incarnates95 itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him, and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle96 is determined97 by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat unique, and no man has any other call. The pretence98 that he has another call, a summons by name and personal election and outward “signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the roll of common men,” is fanaticism99, and betrays obtuseness100 to perceive that there is one mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.
By doing his work, he makes the need felt which he can supply, and creates the taste by which he is enjoyed. By doing his own work, he unfolds himself. It is the vice79 of our public speaking that it has not abandonment. Somewhere, not only every orator101 but every man should let out all the length of all the reins102; should find or make a frank and hearty103 expression of what force and meaning is in him. The common experience is, that the man fits himself as well as he can to the customary details of that work or trade he falls into, and tends it as a dog turns a spit. Then is he a part of the machine he moves; the man is lost. Until he can manage to communicate himself to others in his full stature104 and proportion, he does not yet find his vocation. He must find in that an outlet105 for his character, so that he may justify106 his work to their eyes. If the labor is mean, let him by his thinking and character make it liberal. Whatever he knows and thinks, whatever in his apprehension107 is worth doing, that let him communicate, or men will never know and honor him aright. Foolish, whenever you take the meanness and formality of that thing you do, instead of converting it into the obedient spiracle of your character and aims.
We like only such actions as have already long had the praise of men, and do not perceive that any thing man can do may be divinely done. We think greatness entailed108 or organized in some places or duties, in certain offices or occasions, and do not see that Paganini can extract rapture109 from a catgut, and Eulenstein from a jews-harp, and a nimble-fingered lad out of shreds110 of paper with his scissors, and Landseer out of swine, and the hero out of the pitiful habitation and company in which he was hidden. What we call obscure condition or vulgar society is that condition and society whose poetry is not yet written, but which you shall presently make as enviable and renowned111 as any. In our estimates, let us take a lesson from kings. The parts of hospitality, the connection of families, the impressiveness of death, and a thousand other things, royalty112 makes its own estimate of, and a royal mind will. To make habitually113 a new estimate, — that is elevation114.
What a man does, that he has. What has he to do with hope or fear? In himself is his might. Let him regard no good as solid, but that which is in his nature, and which must grow out of him as long as he exists. The goods of fortune may come and go like summer leaves; let him scatter115 them on every wind as the momentary116 signs of his infinite productiveness.
He may have his own. A man’s genius, the quality that differences him from every other, the susceptibility to one class of influences, the selection of what is fit for him, the rejection117 of what is unfit, determines for him the character of the universe. A man is a method, a progressive arrangement; a selecting principle, gathering118 his like to him, wherever he goes. He takes only his own out of the multiplicity that sweeps and circles round him. He is like one of those booms which are set out from the shore on rivers to catch drift-wood, or like the loadstone amongst splinters of steel. Those facts, words, persons, which dwell in his memory without his being able to say why, remain, because they have a relation to him not less real for being as yet unapprehended. They are symbols of value to him, as they can interpret parts of his consciousness which he would vainly seek words for in the conventional images of books and other minds. What attracts my attention shall have it, as I will go to the man who knocks at my door, whilst a thousand persons, as worthy119, go by it, to whom I give no regard. It is enough that these particulars speak to me. A few anecdotes120, a few traits of character, manners, face, a few incidents, have an emphasis in your memory out of all proportion to their apparent significance, if you measure them by the ordinary standards. They relate to your gift. Let them have their weight, and do not reject them, and cast about for illustration and facts more usual in literature. What your heart thinks great is great. The soul’s emphasis is always right.
Over all things that are agreeable to his nature and genius, the man has the highest right. Everywhere he may take what belongs to his spiritual estate, nor can he take any thing else, though all doors were open, nor can all the force of men hinder him from taking so much. It is vain to attempt to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it. It will tell itself. That mood into which a friend can bring us is his dominion121 over us. To the thoughts of that state of mind he has a right. All the secrets of that state of mind he can compel. This is a law which statesmen use in practice. All the terrors of the French Republic, which held Austria in awe122, were unable to command her diplomacy123. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M. de Narbonne, one of the old noblesse, with the morals, manners, and name of that interest, saying, that it was indispensable to send to the old aristocracy of Europe men of the same connection, which, in fact, constitutes a sort of free-masonry. M. de Narbonne, in less than a fortnight, penetrated124 all the secrets of the imperial cabinet.
Nothing seems so easy as to speak and to be understood. Yet a man may come to find that the strongest of defences and of ties, — that he has been understood; and he who has received an opinion may come to find it the most inconvenient of bonds.
If a teacher have any opinion which he wishes to conceal125, his pupils will become as fully80 indoctrinated into that as into any which he publishes. If you pour water into a vessel126 twisted into coils and angles, it is vain to say, I will pour it only into this or that; — it will find its level in all. Men feel and act the consequences of your doctrine127, without being able to show how they follow. Show us an arc of the curve, and a good mathematician128 will find out the whole figure. We are always reasoning from the seen to the unseen. Hence the perfect intelligence that subsists129 between wise men of remote ages. A man cannot bury his meanings so deep in his book, but time and like-minded men will find them. Plato had a secret doctrine, had he? What secret can he conceal from the eyes of Bacon? of Montaigne? of Kant? Therefore, Aristotle said of his works, “They are published and not published.”
No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however near to his eyes is the object. A chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall be never the wiser, — the secrets he would not utter to a chemist for an estate. God screens us evermore from premature130 ideas. Our eyes are holden that we cannot see things that stare us in the face, until the hour arrives when the mind is ripened131; then we behold132 them, and the time when we saw them not is like a dream.
Not in nature but in man is all the beauty and worth he sees. The world is very empty, and is indebted to this gilding133, exalting134 soul for all its pride. “Earth fills her lap with splendors” not her own. The vale of Tempe, Tivoli, and Rome are earth and water, rocks and sky. There are as good earth and water in a thousand places, yet how unaffecting!
People are not the better for the sun and moon, the horizon and the trees; as it is not observed that the keepers of Roman galleries, or the valets of painters, have any elevation of thought, or that librarians are wiser men than others. There are graces in the demeanour of a polished and noble person, which are lost upon the eye of a churl135. These are like the stars whose light has not yet reached us.
He may see what he maketh. Our dreams are the sequel of our waking knowledge. The visions of the night bear some proportion to the visions of the day. Hideous136 dreams are exaggerations of the sins of the day. We see our evil affections embodied137 in bad physiognomies. On the Alps, the traveller sometimes beholds138 his own shadow magnified to a giant, so that every gesture of his hand is terrific. “My children,” said an old man to his boys scared by a figure in the dark entry, “my children, you will never see any thing worse than yourselves.” As in dreams, so in the scarcely less fluid events of the world, every man sees himself in colossal139, without knowing that it is himself. The good, compared to the evil which he sees, is as his own good to his own evil. Every quality of his mind is magnified in some one acquaintance, and every emotion of his heart in some one. He is like a quincunx of trees, which counts five, east, west, north, or south; or, an initial, medial, and terminal acrostic. And why not? He cleaves140 to one person, and avoids another, according to their likeness141 or unlikeness to himself, truly seeking himself in his associates, and moreover in his trade, and habits, and gestures, and meats, and drinks; and comes at last to be faithfully represented by every view you take of his circumstances.
He may read what he writes. What can we see or acquire, but what we are? You have observed a skilful142 man reading Virgil. Well, that author is a thousand books to a thousand persons. Take the book into your two hands, and read your eyes out; you will never find what I find. If any ingenious reader would have a monopoly of the wisdom or delight he gets, he is as secure now the book is Englished, as if it were imprisoned143 in the Pelews’ tongue. It is with a good book as it is with good company. Introduce a base person among gentlemen; it is all to no purpose; he is not their fellow. Every society protects itself. The company is perfectly144 safe, and he is not one of them, though his body is in the room.
What avails it to fight with the eternal laws of mind, which adjust the relation of all persons to each other, by the mathematical measure of their havings and beings? Gertrude is enamoured of Guy; how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien145 and manners! to live with him were life indeed, and no purchase is too great; and heaven and earth are moved to that end. Well, Gertrude has Guy; but what now avails how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners, if his heart and aims are in the senate, in the theatre, and in the billiard-room, and she has no aims, no conversation, that can enchant76 her graceful lord?
He shall have his own society. We can love nothing but nature. The most wonderful talents, the most meritorious146 exertions147, really avail very little with us; but nearness or likeness of nature, — how beautiful is the ease of its victory! Persons approach us famous for their beauty, for their accomplishments148, worthy of all wonder for their charms and gifts; they dedicate their whole skill to the hour and the company, with very imperfect result. To be sure, it would be ungrateful in us not to praise them loudly. Then, when all is done, a person of related mind, a brother or sister by nature, comes to us so softly and easily, so nearly and intimately, as if it were the blood in our proper veins149, that we feel as if some one was gone, instead of another having come; we are utterly150 relieved and refreshed; it is a sort of joyful151 solitude152. We foolishly think in our days of sin, that we must court friends by compliance153 to the customs of society, to its dress, its breeding, and its estimates. But only that soul can be my friend which I encounter on the line of my own march, that soul to which I do not decline, and which does not decline to me, but, native of the same celestial154 latitude155, repeats in its own all my experience. The scholar forgets himself, and apes the customs and costumes of the man of the world, to deserve the smile of beauty, and follows some giddy girl, not yet taught by religious passion to know the noble woman with all that is serene93, oracular, and beautiful in her soul. Let him be great, and love shall follow him. Nothing is more deeply punished than the neglect of the affinities156 by which alone society should be formed, and the insane levity157 of choosing associates by others’ eyes.
He may set his own rate. It is a maxim158 worthy of all acceptation, that a man may have that allowance he takes. Take the place and attitude which belong to you, and all men acquiesce159. The world must be just. It leaves every man, with profound unconcern, to set his own rate. Hero or driveller, it meddles160 not in the matter. It will certainly accept your own measure of your doing and being, whether you sneak161 about and deny your own name, or whether you see your work produced to the concave sphere of the heavens, one with the revolution of the stars.
The same reality pervades162 all teaching. The man may teach by doing, and not otherwise. If he can communicate himself, he can teach, but not by words. He teaches who gives, and he learns who receives. There is no teaching until the pupil is brought into the same state or principle in which you are; a transfusion163 takes place; he is you, and you are he; then is a teaching; and by no unfriendly chance or bad company can he ever quite lose the benefit. But your propositions run out of one ear as they ran in at the other. We see it advertised that Mr. Grand will deliver an oration164 on the Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand before the Mechanics’ Association, and we do not go thither, because we know that these gentlemen will not communicate their own character and experience to the company. If we had reason to expect such a confidence, we should go through all inconvenience and opposition165. The sick would be carried in litters. But a public oration is an escapade, a non-committal, an apology, a gag, and not a communication, not a speech, not a man.
A like Nemesis166 presides over all intellectual works. We have yet to learn, that the thing uttered in words is not therefore affirmed. It must affirm itself, or no forms of logic21 or of oath can give it evidence. The sentence must also contain its own apology for being spoken.
The effect of any writing on the public mind is mathematically measurable by its depth of thought. How much water does it draw? If it awaken168 you to think, if it lift you from your feet with the great voice of eloquence169, then the effect is to be wide, slow, permanent, over the minds of men; if the pages instruct you not, they will die like flies in the hour. The way to speak and write what shall not go out of fashion is, to speak and write sincerely. The argument which has not power to reach my own practice, I may well doubt, will fail to reach yours. But take Sidney’s maxim: — “Look in thy heart, and write.” He that writes to himself writes to an eternal public. That statement only is fit to be made public, which you have come at in attempting to satisfy your own curiosity. The writer who takes his subject from his ear, and not from his heart, should know that he has lost as much as he seems to have gained, and when the empty book has gathered all its praise, and half the people say, ‘What poetry! what genius!’ it still needs fuel to make fire. That only profits which is profitable. Life alone can impart life; and though we should burst, we can only be valued as we make ourselves valuable. There is no luck in literary reputation. They who make up the final verdict upon every book are not the partial and noisy readers of the hour when it appears; but a court as of angels, a public not to be bribed170, not to be entreated171, and not to be overawed, decides upon every man’s title to fame. Only those books come down which deserve to last. Gilt172 edges, vellum, and morocco, and presentation-copies to all the libraries, will not preserve a book in circulation beyond its intrinsic date. It must go with all Walpole’s Noble and Royal Authors to its fate. Blackmore, Kotzebue, or Pollok may endure for a night, but Moses and Homer stand for ever. There are not in the world at any one time more than a dozen persons who read and understand Plato: — never enough to pay for an edition of his works; yet to every generation these come duly down, for the sake of those few persons, as if God brought them in his hand. “No book,” said Bentley, “was ever written down by any but itself.” The permanence of all books is fixed173 by no effort friendly or hostile, but by their own specific gravity, or the intrinsic importance of their contents to the constant mind of man. “Do not trouble yourself too much about the light on your statue,” said Michel Angelo to the young sculptor174; “the light of the public square will test its value.”
In like manner the effect of every action is measured by the depth of the sentiment from which it proceeds. The great man knew not that he was great. It took a century or two for that fact to appear. What he did, he did because he must; it was the most natural thing in the world, and grew out of the circumstances of the moment. But now, every thing he did, even to the lifting of his finger or the eating of bread, looks large, all-related, and is called an institution.
These are the demonstrations175 in a few particulars of the genius of nature; they show the direction of the stream. But the stream is blood; every drop is alive. Truth has not single victories; all things are its organs, — not only dust and stones, but errors and lies. The laws of disease, physicians say, are as beautiful as the laws of health. Our philosophy is affirmative, and readily accepts the testimony176 of negative facts, as every shadow points to the sun. By a divine necessity, every fact in nature is constrained177 to offer its testimony.
Human character evermore publishes itself. The most fugitive178 deed and word, the mere air of doing a thing, the intimated purpose, expresses character. If you act, you show character; if you sit still, if you sleep, you show it. You think, because you have spoken nothing when others spoke167, and have given no opinion on the times, on the church, on slavery, on marriage, on socialism, on secret societies, on the college, on parties and persons, that your verdict is still expected with curiosity as a reserved wisdom. Far otherwise; your silence answers very loud. You have no oracle179 to utter, and your fellow-men have learned that you cannot help them; for, oracles180 speak. Doth not wisdom cry, and understanding put forth her voice?
Dreadful limits are set in nature to the powers of dissimulation181. Truth tyrannizes over the unwilling182 members of the body. Faces never lie, it is said. No man need be deceived, who will study the changes of expression. When a man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, his eye is as clear as the heavens. When he has base ends, and speaks falsely, the eye is muddy and sometimes asquint.
I have heard an experienced counsellor say, that he never feared the effect upon a jury of a lawyer who does not believe in his heart that his client ought to have a verdict. If he does not believe it, his unbelief will appear to the jury, despite all his protestations, and will become their unbelief. This is that law whereby a work of art, of whatever kind, sets us in the same state of mind wherein the artist was when he made it. That which we do not believe, we cannot adequately say, though we may repeat the words never so often. It was this conviction which Swedenborg expressed, when he described a group of persons in the spiritual world endeavouring in vain to articulate a proposition which they did not believe; but they could not, though they twisted and folded their lips even to indignation.
A man passes for that he is worth. Very idle is all curiosity concerning other people’s estimate of us, and all fear of remaining unknown is not less so. If a man know that he can do any thing, — that he can do it better than any one else, — he has a pledge of the acknowledgment of that fact by all persons. The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every action he attempts, he is gauged183 and stamped. In every troop of boys that whoop24 and run in each yard and square, a new-comer is as well and accurately184 weighed in the course of a few days, and stamped with his right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial of his strength, speed, and temper. A stranger comes from a distant school, with better dress, with trinkets in his pockets, with airs and pretensions186: an older boy says to himself, ‘It ‘s of no use; we shall find him out to-morrow.’ ‘What has he done?’ is the divine question which searches men, and transpierces every false reputation. A fop may sit in any chair of the world, nor be distinguished187 for his hour from Homer and Washington; but there need never be any doubt concerning the respective ability of human beings. Pretension185 may sit still, but cannot act. Pretension never feigned188 an act of real greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove back Xerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.
As much virtue as there is, so much appears; as much goodness as there is, so much reverence189 it commands. All the devils respect virtue. The high, the generous, the self-devoted sect69 will always instruct and command mankind. Never was a sincere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fell to the ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it unexpectedly. A man passes for that he is worth. What he is engraves190 itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters of light. Concealment191 avails him nothing; boasting nothing. There is confession192 in the glances of our eyes; in our smiles; in salutations; and the grasp of hands. His sin bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men know not why they do not trust him; but they do not trust him. His vice glasses his eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the back of the head, and writes O fool! fool! on the forehead of a king.
If you would not be known to do any thing, never do it. A man may play the fool in the drifts of a desert, but every grain of sand shall seem to see. He may be a solitary193 eater, but he cannot keep his foolish counsel. A broken complexion194, a swinish look, ungenerous acts, and the want of due knowledge, — all blab. Can a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Confucius exclaimed, — “How can a man be concealed195! How can a man be concealed!”
On the other hand, the hero fears not, that, if he withhold196 the avowal197 of a just and brave act, it will go unwitnessed and unloved. One knows it, — himself, — and is pledged by it to sweetness of peace, and to nobleness of aim, which will prove in the end a better proclamation of it than the relating of the incident. Virtue is the adherence198 in action to the nature of things, and the nature of things makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpetual substitution of being for seeming, and with sublime199 propriety200 God is described as saying, I AM.
The lesson which these observations convey is, Be, and not seem. Let us acquiesce. Let us take our bloated nothingness out of the path of the divine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world. Let us lie low in the Lord’s power, and learn that truth alone makes rich and great.
If you visit your friend, why need you apologize for not having visited him, and waste his time and deface your own act? Visit him now. Let him feel that the highest love has come to see him, in thee, its lowest organ. Or why need you torment201 yourself and friend by secret self-reproaches that you have not assisted him or complimented him with gifts and salutations heretofore? Be a gift and a benediction202. Shine with real light, and not with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Common men are apologies for men; they bow the head, excuse themselves with prolix203 reasons, and accumulate appearances, because the substance is not.
We are full of these superstitions204 of sense, the worship of magnitude. We call the poet inactive, because he is not a president, a merchant, or a porter. We adore an institution, and do not see that it is founded on a thought which we have. But real action is in silent moments. The epochs of our life are not in the visible facts of our choice of a calling, our marriage, our acquisition of an office, and the like, but in a silent thought by the way-side as we walk; in a thought which revises our entire manner of life, and says, — ‘Thus hast thou done, but it were better thus.’ And all our after years, like menials, serve and wait on this, and, according to their ability, execute its will. This revisal or correction is a constant force, which, as a tendency, reaches through our lifetime. The object of the man, the aim of these moments, is to make daylight shine through him, to suffer the law to traverse his whole being without obstruction, so that, on what point soever of his doing your eye falls, it shall report truly of his character, whether it be his diet, his house, his religious forms, his society, his mirth, his vote, his opposition. Now he is not homogeneous, but heterogeneous205, and the ray does not traverse; there are no thorough lights: but the eye of the beholder206 is puzzled, detecting many unlike tendencies, and a life not yet at one.
Why should we make it a point with our false modesty207 to disparage208 that man we are, and that form of being assigned to us? A good man is contented209. I love and honor Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be Epaminondas. I hold it more just to love the world of this hour, than the world of his hour. Nor can you, if I am true, excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, ‘He acted, and thou sittest still.’ I see action to be good, when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. Epaminondas, if he was the man I take him for, would have sat still with joy and peace, if his lot had been mine. Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude210. Why should we be busybodies and superserviceable? Action and inaction are alike to the true. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock, and one for the sleeper211 of a bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both.
I desire not to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am here certainly shows me that the soul had need of an organ here. Shall I not assume the post? Shall I skulk212 and dodge213 and duck with my unseasonable apologies and vain modesty, and imagine my being here impertinent? less pertinent214 than Epaminondas or Homer being there? and that the soul did not know its own needs? Besides, without any reasoning on the matter, I have no discontent. The good soul nourishes me, and unlocks new magazines of power and enjoyment215 to me every day. I will not meanly decline the immensity of good, because I have heard that it has come to others in another shape.
Besides, why should we be cowed by the name of Action? ‘T is a trick of the senses, — no more. We know that the ancestor of every action is a thought. The poor mind does not seem to itself to be any thing, unless it have an outside badge, — some Gentoo diet, or Quaker coat, or Calvinistic prayer-meeting, or philanthropic society, or a great donation, or a high office, or, any how, some wild contrasting action to testify that it is somewhat. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think is to act.
Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so. All action is of an infinite elasticity216, and the least admits of being inflated217 with the celestial air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us seek one peace by fidelity218. Let me heed219 my duties. Why need I go gadding220 into the scenes and philosophy of Greek and Italian history, before I have justified221 myself to my benefactors222? How dare I read Washington’s campaigns, when I have not answered the letters of my own correspondents? Is not that a just objection to much of our reading? It is a pusillanimous223 desertion of our work to gaze after our neighbours. It is peeping. Byron says of Jack224 Bunting, —
“He knew not what to say, and so he swore.”
I may say it of our preposterous225 use of books, — He knew not what to do, and so he read. I can think of nothing to fill my time with, and I find the Life of Brant. It is a very extravagant226 compliment to pay to Brant, or to General Schuyler, or to General Washington. My time should be as good as their time, — my facts, my net of relations, as good as theirs, or either of theirs. Rather let me do my work so well that other idlers, if they choose, may compare my texture227 with the texture of these and find it identical with the best.
This over-estimate of the possibilities of Paul and Pericles, this under-estimate of our own, comes from a neglect of the fact of an identical nature. Bonaparte knew but one merit, and rewarded in one and the same way the good soldier, the good astronomer228, the good poet, the good player. The poet uses the names of Caesar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Belisarius; the painter uses the conventional story of the Virgin229 Mary, of Paul, of Peter. He does not, therefore, defer230 to the nature of these accidental men, of these stock heroes. If the poet write a true drama, then he is Caesar, and not the player of Caesar; then the selfsame strain of thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle, motions as swift, mounting, extravagant, and a heart as great, self-sufficing, dauntless, which on the waves of its love and hope can uplift all that is reckoned solid and precious in the world, — palaces, gardens, money, navies, kingdoms, — marking its own incomparable worth by the slight it casts on these gauds of men, — these all are his, and by the power of these he rouses the nations. Let a man believe in God, and not in names and places and persons. Let the great soul incarnated231 in some woman’s form, poor and sad and single, in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambers and scour232 floors, and its effulgent233 daybeams cannot be muffled234 or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme235 and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form, and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of all living nature.
We are the photometers, we the irritable236 goldleaf and tinfoil237 that measure the accumulations of the subtle element. We know the authentic238 effects of the true fire through every one of its million disguises.
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quarrying
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| v.采石；从采石场采得( quarry的现在分词 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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mumps
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| n.腮腺炎 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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caucus
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| n.秘密会议；干部会议；v.（参加）干部开会议 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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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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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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jejune
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| adj.枯燥无味的，贫瘠的 | |
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seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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stoics
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| 禁欲主义者，恬淡寡欲的人，不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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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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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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84
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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86
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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87
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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88
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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89
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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90
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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91
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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92
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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93
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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94
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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95
incarnates
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的第三人称单数 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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96
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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97
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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98
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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99
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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100
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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101
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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102
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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103
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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104
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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105
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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106
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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107
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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108
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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109
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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110
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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111
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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112
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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113
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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114
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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115
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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116
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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117
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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118
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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119
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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120
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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121
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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122
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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123
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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124
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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125
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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126
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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127
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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128
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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129
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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131
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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133
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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134
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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135
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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136
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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137
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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138
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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139
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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140
cleaves
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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142
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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143
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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145
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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146
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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147
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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148
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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149
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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150
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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151
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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152
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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153
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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154
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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155
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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156
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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157
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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158
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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159
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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160
meddles
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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161
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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162
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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163
transfusion
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| n.输血，输液 | |
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164
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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165
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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166
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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167
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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168
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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169
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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170
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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171
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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173
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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174
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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175
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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176
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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177
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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178
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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179
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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180
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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181
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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182
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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183
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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184
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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185
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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186
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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187
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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188
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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189
reverence
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| 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 | |
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190
engraves
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的第三人称单数 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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191
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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192
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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193
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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194
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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195
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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196
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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197
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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198
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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199
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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200
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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201
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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202
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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203
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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204
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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205
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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206
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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207
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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208
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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209
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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210
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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211
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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212
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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215
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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217
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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220
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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221
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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pusillanimous
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| adj.懦弱的，胆怯的 | |
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224
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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225
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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226
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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227
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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229
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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230
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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231
incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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232
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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233
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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234
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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235
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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236
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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237
tinfoil
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| n.锡纸，锡箔 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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