“Paradise is under the shadow of swords.”
Mahomet
Ruby1 wine is drunk by knaves2,
Sugar spends to fatten3 slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons4;
Thunderclouds are Jove’s festoons,
Drooping5 oft in wreaths of dread6
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers8 of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.
In the elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a constant recognition of gentility, as if a noble behaviour were as easily marked in the society of their age, as color is in our American population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio enters, though he be a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, This is a gentleman, — and proffers12 civilities without end; but all the rest are slag13 and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages, there is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue, — as in Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage, — wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial, and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional incident in the plot, rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts, take the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athens, — all but the invincible14 spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames15 Martius, and he seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask his life, although assured that a word will save him, and the execution of both proceeds.
“Valerius. Bid thy wife farewell.
Soph. No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen,
Yonder, above, ‘bout Ariadne’s crown,
My spirit shall hover16 for thee. Prithee, haste.
Dor. Stay, Sophocles, — with this tie up my sight;
Let not soft nature so transformed be,
And lose her gentler sexed humanity,
To make me see my lord bleed. So, ‘t is well;
Never one object underneath17 the sun
Will I behold18 before my Sophocles:
Farewell; now teach the Romans how to die.
Mar11. Dost know what ‘t is to die?
Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,
And, therefore, not what ‘t is to live; to die
Is to begin to live. It is to end |P372|p1
An old, stale, weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better. ‘T is to leave
Deceitful knaves for the society
Of gods and goodness. Thou thyself must part
At last from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude19 what then ‘t will do.
Val. But art not grieved nor vexed20 to leave thy life thus?
Soph. Why should I grieve or vex21 for being sent
To them I ever loved best? Now I’ll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; ‘t is the last duty
This trunk can do the gods.
Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,
Or Martius’ heart will leap out at his mouth:
This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy lord,
And live with all the freedom you were wont22.
O love! thou doubly hast afflicted23 me
With virtue24 and with beauty. Treacherous25 heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn26,
Ere thou transgress27 this knot of piety28.
Soph. Martius, O Martius,
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.
Dor. O star of Rome! what gratitude30 can speak
Fit words to follow such a deed as this?
Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius,
With his disdain31 of fortune and of death,
Captived himself, has captivated me,
And though my arm hath ta’en his body here,
His soul hath subjugated33 Martius’ soul.
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved;
Then we have vanquished34 nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivity35.”
I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or oration36, that our press vents37 in the last few years, which goes to the same tune32. We have a great many flutes38 and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet, Wordsworth’s Laodamia, and the ode of “Dion,” and some sonnets39, have a certain noble music; and Scott will sometimes draw a stroke like the protrait of Lord Evandale, given by Balfour of Burley. Thomas Carlyle, with his natural taste for what is manly40 and daring in character, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites to drop from his biographical and historical pictures. Earlier, Robert Burns has given us a song or two. In the Harleian Miscellanies, there is an account of the battle of Lutzen, which deserves to be read. And Simon Ockley’s History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies41 of individual valor42 with admiration43, all the more evident on the part of the narrator, that he seems to think that his place in Christian44 Oxford45 requires of him some proper protestations of abhorrence46. But, if we explore the literature of Heroism, we shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and historian. To him we owe the Brasidas, the Dion, the Epaminondas, the Scipio of old, and I must think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers. Each of his “Lives” is a refutation to the despondency and cowardice47 of our religious and political theorists. A wild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools, but of the blood, shines in every anecdote48, and has given that book its immense fame.
We need books of this tart49 cathartic50 virtue, more than books of political science, or of private economy. Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from the nook and chimney-side of prudence51, it wears a ragged52 and dangerous front. The violations53 of the laws of nature by our predecessors55 and our contemporaries are punished in us also. The disease and deformity around us certify56 the infraction57 of natural, intellectual, and moral laws, and often violation54 on violation to breed such compound misery58. A lock-jaw that bends a man’s head back to his heels, hydrophobia, that makes him bark at his wife and babes, insanity59, that makes him eat grass; war, plague, cholera60, famine, indicate a certain ferocity in nature, which, as it had its inlet by human crime, must have its outlet61 by human suffering. Unhappily, no man exists who has not in his own person become, to some amount, a stockholder in the sin, and so made himself liable to a share in the expiation62.
Our culture, therefore, must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season, that he is born into the state of war, and that the commonwealth63 and his own well-being64 require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self-collected, and neither defying nor dreading65 the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and, with perfect urbanity, dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech, and the rectitude of his behaviour.
Towards all this external evil, the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this military attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Its rudest form is the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a self-trust which slights the restraints of prudence, in the plenitude of its energy and power to repair the harms it may suffer. The hero is a mind of such balance that no disturbances66 can shake his will, but pleasantly, and, as it were, merrily, he advances to his own music, alike in frightful67 alarms and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissoluteness. There is somewhat not philosophical68 in heroism; there is somewhat not holy in it; it seems not to know that other souls are of one texture69 with it; it has pride; it is the extreme of individual nature. Nevertheless, we must profoundly revere70 it. There is somewhat in great actions, which does not allow us to go behind them. Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always right; and although a different breeding, different religion, and greater intellectual activity would have modified or even reversed the particular action, yet for the hero that thing he does is the highest deed, and is not open to the censure71 of philosophers or divines. It is the avowal72 of the unschooled man, that he finds a quality in him that is negligent73 of expense, of health, of life, of danger, of hatred74, of reproach, and knows that his will is higher and more excellent than all actual and all possible antagonists75.
Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind, and in contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good. Heroism is an obedience76 to a secret impulse of an individual’s character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as it does to him, for every man must be supposed to see a little farther on his own proper path than any one else. Therefore, just and wise men take umbrage77 at his act, until after some little time be past: then they see it to be in unison78 with their acts. All prudent79 men see that the action is clean contrary to a sensual prosperity; for every heroic act measures itself by its contempt of some external good. But it finds its own success at last, and then the prudent also extol80.
Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last defiance81 of falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can be inflicted82 by evil agents. It speaks the truth, and it is just, generous, hospitable83, temperate84, scornful of petty calculations, and scornful of being scorned. It persists; it is of an undaunted boldness, and of a fortitude not to be wearied out. Its jest is the littleness of common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth is the butt85 and merriment of heroism. Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost ashamed of its body. What shall it say, then, to the sugar-plums and cats’-cradles, to the toilet, compliments, quarrels, cards, and custard, which rack the wit of all society. What joys has kind nature provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no interval86 between greatness and meanness. When the spirit is not master of the world, then it is its dupe. Yet the little man takes the great hoax87 so innocently, works in it so headlong and believing, is born red, and dies gray, arranging his toilet, attending on his own health, laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a horse or a rifle, made happy with a little gossip or a little praise, that the great soul cannot choose but laugh at such earnest nonsense. “Indeed, these humble88 considerations make me out of love with greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to take note how many pairs of silk stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the peach-colored ones; or to bear the inventory89 of thy shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other for use!”
Citizens, thinking after the laws of arithmetic, consider the inconvenience of receiving strangers at their fireside, reckon narrowly the loss of time and the unusual display: the soul of a better quality thrusts back the unseasonable economy into the vaults90 of life, and says, I will obey the God, and the sacrifice and the fire he will provide. Ibn Haukal, the Arabian geographer91, describes a heroic extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in Bukharia. “When I was in Sogd, I saw a great building, like a palace, the gates of which were open and fixed92 back to the wall with large nails. I asked the reason, and was told that the house had not been shut, night or day, for a hundred years. Strangers may present themselves at any hour, and in whatever number; the master has amply provided for the reception of the men and their animals, and is never happier than when they tarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in any other country.” The magnanimous know very well that they who give time, or money, or shelter, to the stranger — so it be done for love, and not for ostentation93 — do, as it were, put God under obligation to them, so perfect are the compensations of the universe. In some way the time they seem to lose is redeemed94, and the pains they seem to take remunerate themselves. These men fan the flame of human love, and raise the standard of civil virtue among mankind. But hospitality must be for service, and not for show, or it pulls down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself by the splendor96 of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, and all it hath, but its own majesty97 can lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water than belong to city feasts.
The temperance of the hero proceeds from the same wish to do no dishonor to the worthiness98 he has. But he loves it for its elegancy, not for its austerity. It seems not worth his while to be solemn, and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or wine-drinking, the use of tobacco, or opium99, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great man scarcely knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision, his living is natural and poetic100. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water, and said of wine, — “It is a noble, generous liquor, and we should be humbly101 thankful for it, but, as I remember, water was made before it.” Better still is the temperance of King David, who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of his warriors102 had brought him to drink, at the peril103 of their lives.
It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword, after the battle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides, — “O virtue! I have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but a shade.” I doubt not the hero is slandered104 by this report. The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to dine nicely, and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament106. It does not need plenty, and can very well abide107 its loss.
But that which takes my fancy most, in the heroic class, is the good-humor and hilarity108 they exhibit. It is a height to which common duty can very well attain109, to suffer and to dare with solemnity. But these rare souls set opinion, success, and life, at so cheap a rate, that they will not soothe110 their enemies by petitions, or the show of sorrow, but wear their own habitual111 greatness. Scipio, charged with peculation112, refuses to do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for justification113, though he had the scroll114 of his accounts in his hands, but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates’s condemnation115 of himself to be maintained in all honor in the Prytaneum, during his life, and Sir Thomas More’s playfulness at the scaffold, are of the same strain. In Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Sea Voyage,” Juletta tells the stout116 captain and his company, —
Jul. Why, slaves, ‘t is in our power to hang ye.
Master. Very likely,
’T is in our powers, then, to be hanged, and scorn ye.”
These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow of a perfect health. The great will not condescend117 to take any thing seriously; all must be as gay as the song of a canary, though it were the building of cities, or the eradication118 of old and foolish churches and nations, which have cumbered the earth long thousands of years. Simple hearts put all the history and customs of this world behind them, and play their own game in innocent defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world; and such would appear, could we see the human race assembled in vision, like little children frolicking together; though, to the eyes of mankind at large, they wear a stately and solemn garb119 of works and influences.
The interest these fine stories have for us, the power of a romance over the boy who grasps the forbidden book under his bench at school, our delight in the hero, is the main fact to our purpose. All these great and transcendent properties are ours. If we dilate120 in beholding121 the Greek energy, the Roman pride, it is that we are already domesticating122 the same sentiment. Let us find room for this great guest in our small houses. The first step of worthiness will be to disabuse123 us of our superstitious124 associations with places and times, with number and size. Why should these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia, and England, so tingle125 in the ear? Where the heart is, there the muses126, there the gods sojourn127, and not in any geography of fame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River, and Boston Bay, you think paltry128 places, and the ear loves names of foreign and classic topography. But here we are; and, if we will tarry a little, we may come to learn that here is best. See to it, only, that thyself is here; — and art and nature, hope and fate, friends, angels, and the Supreme129 Being, shall not be absent from the chamber7 where thou sittest. Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus to die upon, nor the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well where he is. The Jerseys130 were handsome ground enough for Washington to tread, and London streets for the feet of Milton. A great man makes his climate genial131 in the imagination of men, and its air the beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is the fairest, which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which fill the imagination in reading the actions of Pericles, Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us how needlessly mean our life is, that we, by the depth of our living, should deck it with more than regal or national splendor, and act on principles that should interest man and nature in the length of our days.
We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men, who never ripened132, or whose performance in actual life was not extraordinary. When we see their air and mien133, when we hear them speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire their superiority, they seem to throw contempt on our entire polity and social state; theirs is the tone of a youthful giant, who is sent to work revolutions. But they enter an active profession, and the forming Colossus shrinks to the common size of man. The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which always make the Actual ridiculous; but the tough world had its revenge the moment they put their horses of the sun to plough in its furrow134. They found no example and no companion, and their heart fainted. What then? The lesson they gave in their first aspirations135 is yet true; and a better valor and a purer truth shall one day organize their belief. Or why should a woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think, because Sappho, or Sevigne, or De Stael, or the cloistered136 souls who have had genius and cultivation137, do not satisfy the imagination and the serene138 Themis, none can, — certainly not she. Why not? She has a new and unattempted problem to solve, perchance that of the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the maiden139, with erect140 soul, walk serenely141 on her way, accept the hint of each new experience, search in turn all the objects that solicit142 her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her new-born being, which is the kindling143 of a new dawn in the recesses144 of space. The fair girl, who repels145 interference by a decided146 and proud choice of influences, so careless of pleasing, so wilful147 and lofty, inspires every beholder148 with somewhat of her own nobleness. The silent heart encourages her; O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in vain you live, for every passing eye is cheered and refined by the vision.
The characteristic of heroism is its persistency149. All men have wandering impulses, fits, and starts of generosity150. But when you have chosen your part, abide by it, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the sympathy of people in those actions whose excellence151 is that they outrun sympathy, and appeal to a tardy152 justice. If you would serve your brother, because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take back your words when you find that prudent people do not commend you. Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant153, and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, — “Always do what you are afraid to do.” A simple, manly character need never make an apology, but should regard its past action with the calmness of Phocion, when he admitted that the event of the battle was happy, yet did not regret his dissuasion154 from the battle.
There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot find consolation155 in the thought, — this is a part of my constitution, part of my relation and office to my fellow-creature. Has nature covenanted156 with me that I should never appear to disadvantage, never make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity, as well as of our money. Greatness once and for ever has done with opinion. We tell our charities, not because we wish to be praised for them, not because we think they have great merit, but for our justification. It is a capital blunder; as you discover, when another man recites his charities.
To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with some rigor157 of temperance, or some extremes of generosity, seems to be an asceticism158 which common good-nature would appoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign that they feel a brotherhood159 with the great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and exercise the soul by assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude160, of unpopularity, but it behooves161 the wise man to look with a bold eye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade men, and to familiarize himself with disgusting forms of disease, with sounds of execration162, and the vision of violent death.
Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but the day never shines in which this element may not work. The circumstances of man, we say, are historically somewhat better in this country, and at this hour, than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for culture. It will not now run against an axe163 at the first step out of the beaten track of opinion. But whoso is heroic will always find crises to try his edge. Human virtue demands her champions and martyrs164, and the trial of persecution165 always proceeds. It is but the other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob, for the rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was better not to live.
I see not any road of perfect peace which a man can walk, but after the counsel of his own bosom166. Let him quit too much association, let him go home much, and stablish himself in those courses he approves. The unremitting retention167 of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that temper which will work with honor, if need be, in the tumult168, or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages169 have happened to men may befall a man again; and very easily in a republic, if there appear any signs of a decay of religion. Coarse slander105, fire, tar29 and feathers, and the gibbet, the youth may freely bring home to his mind, and with what sweetness of temper he can, and inquire how fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving such penalties, whenever it may please the next newspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbours to pronounce his opinions incendiary.
It may calm the apprehension170 of calamity171 in the most susceptible172 heart to see how quick a bound nature has set to the utmost infliction173 of malice174. We rapidly approach a brink175 over which no enemy can follow us.
Thou art quiet in thy grave.”
In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful endeavour? Who that sees the meanness of our politics, but inly congratulates Washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud176, and for ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave, who are no more to suffer from the tumults177 of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated178 sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal, but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being.
收听单词发音 |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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buffoons
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| n.愚蠢的人( buffoon的名词复数 )；傻瓜；逗乐小丑；滑稽的人 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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slag
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| n.熔渣，铁屑，矿渣；v.使变成熔渣，变熔渣 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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inflames
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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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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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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35
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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36
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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37
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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38
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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39
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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40
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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41
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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42
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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43
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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44
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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46
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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47
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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48
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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49
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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50
cathartic
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| adj.宣泄情绪的；n.泻剂 | |
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51
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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52
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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53
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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54
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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55
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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56
certify
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| vt.证明，证实；发证书(或执照)给 | |
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57
infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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58
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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59
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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60
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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61
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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62
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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63
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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64
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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65
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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66
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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67
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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68
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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69
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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70
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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71
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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72
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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73
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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74
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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75
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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76
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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77
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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78
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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79
prudent
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|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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80
extol
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| v.赞美，颂扬 | |
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81
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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82
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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84
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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85
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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86
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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87
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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88
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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89
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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90
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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91
geographer
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| n.地理学者 | |
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92
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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93
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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94
redeemed
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|
| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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95
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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96
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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97
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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98
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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99
opium
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|
| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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100
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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101
humbly
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|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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102
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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103
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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104
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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106
ornament
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|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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107
abide
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|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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108
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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109
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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110
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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111
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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112
peculation
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| n.侵吞公款[公物] | |
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113
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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114
scroll
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|
| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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115
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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117
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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118
eradication
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| n.根除 | |
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119
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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120
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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121
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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122
domesticating
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| v.驯化( domesticate的现在分词 ) | |
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123
disabuse
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| v.解惑；矫正 | |
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124
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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125
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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126
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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127
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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128
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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129
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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130
jerseys
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| n.运动衫( jersey的名词复数 ) | |
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131
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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132
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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134
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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135
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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136
cloistered
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|
| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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138
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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139
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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140
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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141
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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142
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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143
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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144
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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145
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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146
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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147
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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148
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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149
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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150
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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151
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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152
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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153
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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154
dissuasion
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| n.劝止；谏言 | |
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155
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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156
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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157
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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158
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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159
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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160
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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161
behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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163
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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164
martyrs
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|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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165
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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166
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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167
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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168
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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169
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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170
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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171
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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172
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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173
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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174
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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175
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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176
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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177
tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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178
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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