Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals; —
The sower scatters1 broad his seed,
The wheat thou strew’st be souls.
ESSAY XI Intellect
Every substance is negatively electric to that which stands above it in the chemical tables, positively2 to that which stands below it. Water dissolves wood, and iron, and salt; air dissolves water; electric fire dissolves air, but the intellect dissolves fire, gravity, laws, method, and the subtlest unnamed relations of nature, in its resistless menstruum. Intellect lies behind genius, which is intellect constructive3. Intellect is the simple power anterior4 to all action or construction. Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of the intellect, but what man has yet been able to mark the steps and boundaries of that transparent5 essence? The first questions are always to be asked, and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness6 of a child. How can we speak of the action of the mind under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics7, of its works, and so forth8, since it melts will into perception, knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is. Its vision is not like the vision of the eye, but is union with the things known.
Intellect and intellection signify to the common ear consideration of abstract truth. The considerations of time and place, of you and me, of profit and hurt, tyrannize over most men’s minds. Intellect separates the fact considered from you, from all local and personal reference, and discerns it as if it existed for its own sake. Heraclitus looked upon the affections as dense9 and colored mists. In the fog of good and evil affections, it is hard for man to walk forward in a straight line. Intellect is void of affection, and sees an object as it stands in the light of science, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality, and regards it as a fact, and not as I and mine. He who is immersed in what concerns person or place cannot see the problem of existence. This the intellect always ponders. Nature shows all things formed and bound. The intellect pierces the form, overleaps the wall, detects intrinsic likeness10 between remote things, and reduces all things into a few principles.
The making a fact the subject of thought raises it. All that mass of mental and moral phenomena11, which we do not make objects of voluntary thought, come within the power of fortune; they constitute the circumstance of daily life; they are subject to change, to fear, and hope. Every man beholds12 his human condition with a degree of melancholy14. As a ship aground is battered15 by the waves, so man, imprisoned16 in mortal life, lies open to the mercy of coming events. But a truth, separated by the intellect, is no longer a subject of destiny. We behold13 it as a god upraised above care and fear. And so any fact in our life, or any record of our fancies or reflections, disentangled from the web of our unconsciousness, becomes an object impersonal17 and immortal18. It is the past restored, but embalmed19. A better art than that of Egypt has taken fear and corruption20 out of it. It is eviscerated21 of care. It is offered for science. What is addressed to us for contemplation does not threaten us, but makes us intellectual beings.
The growth of the intellect is spontaneous in every expansion. The mind that grows could not predict the times, the means, the mode of that spontaneity. God enters by a private door into every individual. Long prior to the age of reflection is the thinking of the mind. Out of darkness, it came insensibly into the marvellous light of to-day. In the period of infancy22 it accepted and disposed of all impressions from the surrounding creation after its own way. Whatever any mind doth or saith is after a law; and this native law remains23 over it after it has come to reflection or conscious thought. In the most worn, pedantic24, introverted self-tormenter’s life, the greatest part is incalculable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be, until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I? What has my will done to make me that I am? Nothing. I have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection of events, by secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity25 and wilfulness26 have not thwarted27, have not aided to an appreciable28 degree.
Our spontaneous action is always the best. You cannot, with your best deliberation and heed29, come so close to any question as your spontaneous glance shall bring you, whilst you rise from your bed, or walk abroad in the morning after meditating30 the matter before sleep on the previous night. Our thinking is a pious31 reception. Our truth of thought is therefore vitiated as much by too violent direction given by our will, as by too great negligence32. We do not determine what we will think. We only open our senses, clear away, as we can, all obstruction33 from the fact, and suffer the intellect to see. We have little control over our thoughts. We are the prisoners of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their heaven, and so fully34 engage us, that we take no thought for the morrow, gaze like children, without an effort to make them our own. By and by we fall out of that rapture35, bethink us where we have been, what we have seen, and repeat, as truly as we can, what we have beheld36. As far as we can recall these ecstasies37, we carry away in the ineffaceable memory the result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. It is called Truth. But the moment we cease to report, and attempt to correct and contrive38, it is not truth.
If we consider what persons have stimulated39 and profited us, we shall perceive the superiority of the spontaneous or intuitive principle over the arithmetical or logical. The first contains the second, but virtual and latent. We want, in every man, a long logic40; we cannot pardon the absence of it, but it must not be spoken. Logic is the procession or proportionate unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue41 is as silent method; the moment it would appear as propositions, and have a separate value, it is worthless.
In every man’s mind, some images, words, and facts remain, without effort on his part to imprint42 them, which others forget, and afterwards these illustrate43 to him important laws. All our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it. By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen44 into truth, and you shall know why you believe.
Each mind has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules. What you have aggregated45 in a natural manner surprises and delights when it is produced. For we cannot oversee46 each other’s secret. And hence the differences between men in natural endowment are insignificant47 in comparison with their common wealth. Do you think the porter and the cook have no anecdotes48, no experiences, no wonders for you? Every body knows as much as the savant. The walls of rude minds are scrawled49 all over with facts, with thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the inscriptions50. Every man, in the degree in which he has wit and culture, finds his curiosity inflamed51 concerning the modes of living and thinking of other men, and especially of those classes whose minds have not been subdued52 by the drill of school education.
This instinctive53 action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes richer and more frequent in its informations through all states of culture. At last comes the era of reflection, when we not only observe, but take pains to observe; when we of set purpose sit down to consider an abstract truth; when we keep the mind’s eye open, whilst we converse54, whilst we read, whilst we act, intent to learn the secret law of some class of facts.
What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I would put myself in the attitude to look in the eye an abstract truth, and I cannot. I blench55 and withdraw on this side and on that. I seem to know what he meant who said, No man can see God face to face and live. For example, a man explores the basis of civil government. Let him intend his mind without respite56, without rest, in one direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts are flitting before him. We all but apprehend57, we dimly forebode the truth. We say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot find it. It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to seize the thought. But we come in, and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a moment, and unannounced, the truth appears. A certain, wandering light appears, and is the distinction, the principle, we wanted. But the oracle58 comes, because we had previously59 laid siege to the shrine60. It seems as if the law of the intellect resembled that law of nature by which we now inspire, now expire the breath; by which the heart now draws in, then hurls61 out the blood, — the law of undulation. So now you must labor62 with your brains, and now you must forbear your activity, and see what the great Soul showeth.
The immortality63 of man is as legitimately64 preached from the intellections as from the moral volitions. Every intellection is mainly prospective65. Its present value is its least. Inspect what delights you in Plutarch, in Shakspeare, in Cervantes. Each truth that a writer acquires is a lantern, which he turns full on what facts and thoughts lay already in his mind, and behold, all the mats and rubbish which had littered his garret become precious. Every trivial fact in his private biography becomes an illustration of this new principle, revisits the day, and delights all men by its piquancy66 and new charm. Men say, Where did he get this? and think there was something divine in his life. But no; they have myriads67 of facts just as good, would they only get a lamp to ransack68 their attics69 withal.
We are all wise. The difference between persons is not in wisdom but in art. I knew, in an academical club, a person who always deferred70 to me, who, seeing my whim71 for writing, fancied that my experiences had somewhat superior; whilst I saw that his experiences were as good as mine. Give them to me, and I would make the same use of them. He held the old; he holds the new; I had the habit of tacking72 together the old and the new, which he did not use to exercise. This may hold in the great examples. Perhaps if we should meet Shakspeare, we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority; no: but of a great equality, — only that he possessed73 a strange skill of using, of classifying, his facts, which we lacked. For, notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produce any thing like Hamlet and Othello, see the perfect reception this wit, and immense knowledge of life, and liquid eloquence74 find in us all.
If you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay, or hoe corn, and then retire within doors, and shut your eyes, and press them with your hand, you shall still see apples hanging in the bright light, with boughs75 and leaves thereto, or the tasselled grass, or the corn-flags, and this for five or six hours afterwards. There lie the impressions on the retentive76 organ, though you knew it not. So lies the whole series of natural images with which your life has made you acquainted in your memory, though you know it not, and a thrill of passion flashes light on their dark chamber77, and the active power seizes instantly the fit image, as the word of its momentary78 thought.
It is long ere we discover how rich we are. Our history, we are sure, is quite tame: we have nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years still run back to the despised recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up some wonderful article out of that pond; until, by and by, we begin to suspect that the biography of the one foolish person we know is, in reality, nothing less than the miniature paraphrase79 of the hundred volumes of the Universal History.
In the intellect constructive, which we popularly designate by the word Genius, we observe the same balance of two elements as in intellect receptive. The constructive intellect produces thoughts, sentences, poems, plans, designs, systems. It is the generation of the mind, the marriage of thought with nature. To genius must always go two gifts, the thought and the publication. The first is revelation, always a miracle, which no frequency of occurrence or incessant80 study can ever familiarize, but which must always leave the inquirer stupid with wonder. It is the advent81 of truth into the world, a form of thought now, for the first time, bursting into the universe, a child of the old eternal soul, a piece of genuine and immeasurable greatness. It seems, for the time, to inherit all that has yet existed, and to dictate82 to the unborn. It affects every thought of man, and goes to fashion every institution. But to make it available, it needs a vehicle or art by which it is conveyed to men. To be communicable, it must become picture or sensible object. We must learn the language of facts. The most wonderful inspirations die with their subject, if he has no hand to paint them to the senses. The ray of light passes invisible through space, and only when it falls on an object is it seen. When the spiritual energy is directed on something outward, then it is a thought. The relation between it and you first makes you, the value of you, apparent to me. The rich, inventive genius of the painter must be smothered83 and lost for want of the power of drawing, and in our happy hours we should be inexhaustible poets, if once we could break through the silence into adequate rhyme. As all men have some access to primary truth, so all have some art or power of communication in their head, but only in the artist does it descend84 into the hand. There is an inequality, whose laws we do not yet know, between two men and between two moments of the same man, in respect to this faculty85. In common hours, we have the same facts as in the uncommon86 or inspired, but they do not sit for their portraits; they are not detached, but lie in a web. The thought of genius is spontaneous; but the power of picture or expression, in the most enriched and flowing nature, implies a mixture of will, a certain control over the spontaneous states, without which no production is possible. It is a conversion87 of all nature into the rhetoric88 of thought, under the eye of judgment89, with a strenuous90 exercise of choice. And yet the imaginative vocabulary seems to be spontaneous also. It does not flow from experience only or mainly, but from a richer source. Not by any conscious imitation of particular forms are the grand strokes of the painter executed, but by repairing to the fountain-head of all forms in his mind. Who is the first drawing-master? Without instruction we know very well the ideal of the human form. A child knows if an arm or a leg be distorted in a picture, if the attitude be natural or grand, or mean, though he has never received any instruction in drawing, or heard any conversation on the subject, nor can himself draw with correctness a single feature. A good form strikes all eyes pleasantly, long before they have any science on the subject, and a beautiful face sets twenty hearts in palpitation, prior to all consideration of the mechanical proportions of the features and head. We may owe to dreams some light on the fountain of this skill; for, as soon as we let our will go, and let the unconscious states ensue, see what cunning draughtsmen we are! We entertain ourselves with wonderful forms of men, of women, of animals, of gardens, of woods, and of monsters, and the mystic pencil wherewith we then draw has no awkwardness or inexperience, no meagreness or poverty; it can design well, and group well; its composition is full of art, its colors are well laid on, and the whole canvas which it paints is life-like, and apt to touch us with terror, with tenderness, with desire, and with grief. Neither are the artist’s copies from experience ever mere91 copies, but always touched and softened92 by tints93 from this ideal domain94.
The conditions essential to a constructive mind do not appear to be so often combined but that a good sentence or verse remains fresh and memorable95 for a long time. Yet when we write with ease, and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to be assured that nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the kingdom of thought has no inclosures, but the Muse96 makes us free of her city. Well, the world has a million writers. One would think, then, that good thought would be as familiar as air and water, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can count all our good books; nay97, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of the creative, so that there are many competent judges of the best book, and few writers of the best books. But some of the conditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole, and demands integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man’s devotion to a single thought, and by his ambition to combine too many.
Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fasten his attention on a single aspect of truth, and apply himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself, but falsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our natural element, and the breath of our nostrils98, but if a stream of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold, fever, and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or religious fanatic99, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration of a single topic. It is incipient100 insanity101. Every thought is a prison also. I cannot see what you see, because I am caught up by a strong wind, and blown so far in one direction that I am out of the hoop102 of your horizon.
Is it any better, if the student, to avoid this offence, and to liberalize himself, aims to make a mechanical whole of history, or science, or philosophy, by a numerical addition of all the facts that fall within his vision? The world refuses to be analyzed103 by addition and subtraction104. When we are young, we spend much time and pains in filling our note-books with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in the course of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia105 the net value of all the theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.
Neither by detachment, neither by aggregation106, is the integrity of the intellect transmitted to its works, but by a vigilance which brings the intellect in its greatness and best state to operate every moment. It must have the same wholeness which nature has. Although no diligence can rebuild the universe in a model, by the best accumulation or disposition107 of details, yet does the world reappear in miniature in every event, so that all the laws of nature may be read in the smallest fact. The intellect must have the like perfection in its apprehension108 and in its works. For this reason, an index or mercury of intellectual proficiency109 is the perception of identity. We talk with accomplished110 persons who appear to be strangers in nature. The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs, have nothing of them: the world is only their lodging111 and table. But the poet, whose verses are to be spheral and complete, is one whom Nature cannot deceive, whatsoever112 face of strangeness she may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity113, and detects more likeness than variety in all her changes. We are stung by the desire for new thought; but when we receive a new thought, it is only the old thought with a new face, and though we make it our own, we instantly crave114 another; we are not really enriched. For the truth was in us before it was reflected to us from natural objects; and the profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into every product of his wit.
But if the constructive powers are rare, and it is given to few men to be poets, yet every man is a receiver of this descending115 holy ghost, and may well study the laws of its influx116. Exactly parallel is the whole rule of intellectual duty to the rule of moral duty. A self-denial, no less austere117 than the saint’s, is demanded of the scholar. He must worship truth, and forego all things for that, and choose defeat and pain, so that his treasure in thought is thereby118 augmented119.
God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose120. Take which you please, — you can never have both. Between these, as a pendulum121, man oscillates. He in whom the love of repose predominates will accept the first creed122, the first philosophy, the first political party he meets, — most likely his father’s. He gets rest, commodity, and reputation; but he shuts the door of truth. He in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof123 from all moorings, and afloat. He will abstain124 from dogmatism, and recognize all the opposite negations, between which, as walls, his being is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of suspense125 and imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate for truth, as the other is not, and respects the highest law of his being.
The circle of the green earth he must measure with his shoes, to find the man who can yield him truth. He shall then know that there is somewhat more blessed and great in hearing than in speaking. Happy is the hearing man; unhappy the speaking man. As long as I hear truth, I am bathed by a beautiful element, and am not conscious of any limits to my nature. The suggestions are thousandfold that I hear and see. The waters of the great deep have ingress and egress126 to the soul. But if I speak, I define, I confine, and am less. When Socrates speaks, Lysis and Menexenus are afflicted127 by no shame that they do not speak. They also are good. He likewise defers128 to them, loves them, whilst he speaks. Because a true and natural man contains and is the same truth which an eloquent129 man articulates: but in the eloquent man, because he can articulate it, it seems something the less to reside, and he turns to these silent beautiful with the more inclination130 and respect. The ancient sentence said, Let us be silent, for so are the gods. Silence is a solvent131 that destroys personality, and gives us leave to be great and universal. Every man’s progress is through a succession of teachers, each of whom seems at the time to have a superlative influence, but it at last gives place to a new. Frankly132 let him accept it all. Jesus says, Leave father, mother, house and lands, and follow me. Who leaves all, receives more. This is as true intellectually as morally. Each new mind we approach seems to require an abdication133 of all our past and present possessions. A new doctrine134 seems, at first, a subversion135 of all our opinions, tastes, and manner of living. Such has Swedenborg, such has Kant, such has Coleridge, such has Hegel or his interpreter Cousin, seemed to many young men in this country. Take thankfully and heartily136 all they can give. Exhaust them, wrestle137 with them, let them not go until their blessing138 be won, and, after a short season, the dismay will be overpast, the excess of influence withdrawn139, and they will be no longer an alarming meteor, but one more bright star shining serenely140 in your heaven, and blending its light with all your day.
But whilst he gives himself up unreservedly to that which draws him, because that is his own, he is to refuse himself to that which draws him not, whatsoever fame and authority may attend it, because it is not his own. Entire self-reliance belongs to the intellect. One soul is a counterpoise of all souls, as a capillary141 column of water is a balance for the sea. It must treat things, and books, and sovereign genius, as itself also a sovereign. If Aeschylus be that man he is taken for, he has not yet done his office, when he has educated the learned of Europe for a thousand years. He is now to approve himself a master of delight to me also. If he cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him nothing with me. I were a fool not to sacrifice a thousand Aeschyluses to my intellectual integrity. Especially take the same ground in regard to abstract truth, the science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds142 to you a philosophy of the mind, is only a more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness, which you have also your way of seeing, perhaps of denominating. Say, then, instead of too timidly poring into his obscure sense, that he has not succeeded in rendering143 back to you your consciousness. He has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite144, but a simple, natural, common state, which the writer restores to you.
But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the subject might provoke it, speak to the open question between Truth and Love. I shall not presume to interfere145 in the old politics of the skies;—— “The cherubim know most; the seraphim146 love most.” The gods shall settle their own quarrels. But I cannot recite, even thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without remembering that lofty and sequestered147 class of men who have been its prophets and oracles148, the high-priesthood of the pure reason, the Trismegisti, the expounders of the principles of thought from age to age. When, at long intervals149, we turn over their abstruse150 pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these few, these great spiritual lords, who have walked in the world, — these of the old religion, — dwelling151 in a worship which makes the sanctities of Christianity look parvenues and popular; for “persuasion is in soul, but necessity is in intellect.” This band of grandees152, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, and the rest, have somewhat so vast in their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all the ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and literature, and to be at once poetry, and music, and dancing, and astronomy, and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur153 of their thought is proved by its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire schedule and inventory154 of things for its illustration. But what marks its elevation155, and has even a comic look to us, is the innocent serenity156 with which these babe-like Jupiters sit in their clouds, and from age to age prattle157 to each other, and to no contemporary. Well assured that their speech is intelligible158, and the most natural thing in the world, they add thesis to thesis, without a moment’s heed of the universal astonishment159 of the human race below, who do not comprehend their plainest argument; nor do they ever relent so much as to insert a popular or explaining sentence; nor testify the least displeasure or petulance160 at the dulness of their amazed auditory. The angels are so enamoured of the language that is spoken in heaven, that they will not distort their lips with the hissing161 and unmusical dialects of men, but speak their own, whether there be any who understand it or not.
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scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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anterior
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| adj.较早的；在前的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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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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embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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eviscerated
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| v.切除…的内脏( eviscerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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30
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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31
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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32
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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33
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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34
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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35
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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36
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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37
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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38
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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39
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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40
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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41
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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42
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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43
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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44
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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45
aggregated
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| a.聚合的，合计的 | |
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46
oversee
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| vt.监督，管理 | |
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47
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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48
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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49
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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51
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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54
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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55
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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56
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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57
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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58
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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59
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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60
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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61
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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62
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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63
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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64
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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65
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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66
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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67
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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68
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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69
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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70
deferred
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|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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71
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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72
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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73
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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74
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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75
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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76
retentive
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|
| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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77
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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78
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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79
paraphrase
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|
| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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80
incessant
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|
| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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81
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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82
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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83
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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84
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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85
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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86
uncommon
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|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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87
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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88
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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89
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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90
strenuous
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|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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93
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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94
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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95
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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96
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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97
nay
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|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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98
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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99
fanatic
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|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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100
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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101
insanity
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|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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102
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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103
analyzed
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|
| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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104
subtraction
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| n.减法，减去 | |
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105
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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106
aggregation
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| n.聚合，组合；凝聚 | |
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107
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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108
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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109
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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110
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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111
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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112
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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113
consanguinity
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| n.血缘；亲族 | |
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114
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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115
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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116
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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117
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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118
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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119
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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120
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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121
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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122
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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123
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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124
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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125
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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126
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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127
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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128
defers
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的第三人称单数 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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129
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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130
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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131
solvent
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| n.溶剂；adj.有偿付能力的 | |
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132
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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133
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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134
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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135
subversion
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| n.颠覆，破坏 | |
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136
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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137
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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138
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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139
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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140
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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141
capillary
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| n.毛细血管；adj.毛细管道；毛状的 | |
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142
propounds
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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144
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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145
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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146
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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147
sequestered
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|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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148
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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149
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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150
abstruse
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|
| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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151
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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152
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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153
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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154
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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155
elevation
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|
| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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156
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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157
prattle
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|
| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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158
intelligible
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|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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159
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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160
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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161
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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