Give to barrows, trays, and pans
Grace and glimmer1 of romance;
Bring the moonlight into noon
Hid in gleaming piles of stone;
On the city’s paved street
Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet;
Let spouting2 fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked square;
Let statue, picture, park, and hall,
The past restore, the day adorn4,
And make each morrow a new morn.
So shall the drudge5 in dusty frock
Spy behind the city clock
Skirts of angels, starry7 wings,
His fathers shining in bright fables8,
His children fed at heavenly tables.
’T is the privilege of Art
Thus to play its cheerful part,
And bend the exile to his fate,
And, moulded of one element
With the days and firmament10,
Teach him on these as stairs to climb,
And live on even terms with Time;
Whilst upper life the slender rill
Of human sense doth overfill.
ESSAY XII Art
Because the soul is progressive, it never quite repeats itself, but in every act attempts the production of a new and fairer whole. This appears in works both of the useful and the fine arts, if we employ the popular distinction of works according to their aim, either at use or beauty. Thus in our fine arts, not imitation, but creation is the aim. In landscapes, the painter should give the suggestion of a fairer creation than we know. The details, the prose of nature he should omit, and give us only the spirit and splendor11. He should know that the landscape has beauty for his eye, because it expresses a thought which is to him good: and this, because the same power which sees through his eyes, is seen in that spectacle; and he will come to value the expression of nature, and not nature itself, and so exalt12 in his copy, the features that please him. He will give the gloom of gloom, and the sunshine of sunshine. In a portrait, he must inscribe13 the character, and not the features, and must esteem14 the man who sits to him as himself only an imperfect picture or likeness15 of the aspiring16 original within.
What is that abridgment17 and selection we observe in all spiritual activity, but itself the creative impulse? for it is the inlet of that higher illumination which teaches to convey a larger sense by simpler symbols. What is a man but nature’s finer success in self-explication? What is a man but a finer and compacter landscape than the horizon figures, — nature’s eclecticism18? and what is his speech, his love of painting, love of nature, but a still finer success? all the weary miles and tons of space and bulk left out, and the spirit or moral of it contracted into a musical word, or the most cunning stroke of the pencil?
But the artist must employ the symbols in use in his day and nation, to convey his enlarged sense to his fellow-men. Thus the new in art is always formed out of the old. The Genius of the Hour sets his ineffaceable seal on the work, and gives it an inexpressible charm for the imagination. As far as the spiritual character of the period overpowers the artist, and finds expression in his work, so far it will retain a certain grandeur19, and will represent to future beholders the Unknown, the Inevitable22, the Divine. No man can quite exclude this element of Necessity from his labor23. No man can quite emancipate24 himself from his age and country, or produce a model in which the education, the religion, the politics, usages, and arts, of his times shall have no share. Though he were never so original, never so wilful25 and fantastic, he cannot wipe out of his work every trace of the thoughts amidst which it grew. The very avoidance betrays the usage he avoids. Above his will, and out of his sight, he is necessitated26, by the air he breathes, and the idea on which he and his contemporaries live and toil27, to share the manner of his times, without knowing what that manner is. Now that which is inevitable in the work has a higher charm than individual talent can ever give, inasmuch as the artist’s pen or chisel28 seems to have been held and guided by a gigantic hand to inscribe a line in the history of the human race. This circumstance gives a value to the Egyptian hieroglyphics29, to the Indian, Chinese, and Mexican idols30, however gross and shapeless. They denote the height of the human soul in that hour, and were not fantastic, but sprung from a necessity as deep as the world. Shall I now add, that the whole extant product of the plastic arts has herein its highest value, as history; as a stroke drawn31 in the portrait of that fate, perfect and beautiful, according to whose ordinations32 all beings advance to their beatitude?
Thus, historically viewed, it has been the office of art to educate the perception of beauty. We are immersed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision. It needs, by the exhibition of single traits, to assist and lead the dormant33 taste. We carve and paint, or we behold20 what is carved and painted, as students of the mystery of Form. The virtue34 of art lies in detachment, in sequestering35 one object from the embarrassing variety. Until one thing comes out from the connection of things, there can be enjoyment36, contemplation, but no thought. Our happiness and unhappiness are unproductive. The infant lies in a pleasing trance, but his individual character and his practical power depend on his daily progress in the separation of things, and dealing37 with one at a time. Love and all the passions concentrate all existence around a single form. It is the habit of certain minds to give an all-excluding fulness to the object, the thought, the word, they alight upon, and to make that for the time the deputy of the world. These are the artists, the orators39, the leaders of society. The power to detach, and to magnify by detaching, is the essence of rhetoric40 in the hands of the orator38 and the poet. This rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary41 eminency of an object, — so remarkable42 in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle, — the painter and sculptor43 exhibit in color and in stone. The power depends on the depth of the artist’s insight of that object he contemplates44. For every object has its roots in central nature, and may of course be so exhibited to us as to represent the world. Therefore, each work of genius is the tyrant45 of the hour, and concentrates attention on itself. For the time, it is the only thing worth naming to do that, — be it a sonnet46, an opera, a landscape, a statue, an oration47, the plan of a temple, of a campaign, or of a voyage of discovery. Presently we pass to some other object, which rounds itself into a whole, as did the first; for example, a well-laid garden: and nothing seems worth doing but the laying out of gardens. I should think fire the best thing in the world, if I were not acquainted with air, and water, and earth. For it is the right and property of all natural objects, of all genuine talents, of all native properties whatsoever48, to be for their moment the top of the world. A squirrel leaping from bough49 to bough, and making the wood but one wide tree for his pleasure, fills the eye not less than a lion, — is beautiful, self-sufficing, and stands then and there for nature. A good ballad draws my ear and heart whilst I listen, as much as an epic50 has done before. A dog, drawn by a master, or a litter of pigs, satisfies, and is a reality not less than the frescoes51 of Angelo. From this succession of excellent objects, we learn at last the immensity of the world, the opulence52 of human nature, which can run out to infinitude in any direction. But I also learn that what astonished and fascinated me in the first work astonished me in the second work also; that excellence53 of all things is one.
The office of painting and sculpture seems to be merely initial. The best pictures can easily tell us their last secret. The best pictures are rude draughts54 of a few of the miraculous55 dots and lines and dyes which make up the ever-changing “landscape with figures” amidst which we dwell. Painting seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the limbs. When that has educated the frame to self-possession, to nimbleness, to grace, the steps of the dancing-master are better forgotten; so painting teaches me the splendor of color and the expression of form, and, as I see many pictures and higher genius in the art, I see the boundless56 opulence of the pencil, the indifferency in which the artist stands free to choose out of the possible forms. If he can draw every thing, why draw any thing? and then is my eye opened to the eternal picture which nature paints in the street with moving men and children, beggars, and fine ladies, draped in red, and green, and blue, and gray; long-haired, grizzled, white-faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant, dwarf57, expanded, elfish, — capped and based by heaven, earth, and sea.
A gallery of sculpture teaches more austerely58 the same lesson. As picture teaches the coloring, so sculpture the anatomy59 of form. When I have seen fine statues, and afterwards enter a public assembly, I understand well what he meant who said, “When I have been reading Homer, all men look like giants.” I too see that painting and sculpture are gymnastics of the eye, its training to the niceties and curiosities of its function. There is no statue like this living man, with his infinite advantage over all ideal sculpture, of perpetual variety. What a gallery of art have I here! No mannerist60 made these varied61 groups and diverse original single figures. Here is the artist himself improvising62, grim and glad, at his block. Now one thought strikes him, now another, and with each moment he alters the whole air, attitude, and expression of his clay. Away with your nonsense of oil and easels, of marble and chisels63: except to open your eyes to the masteries of eternal art, they are hypocritical rubbish.
The reference of all production at last to an aboriginal64 Power explains the traits common to all works of the highest art, — that they are universally intelligible65; that they restore to us the simplest states of mind; and are religious. Since what skill is therein shown is the reappearance of the original soul, a jet of pure light, it should produce a similar impression to that made by natural objects. In happy hours, nature appears to us one with art; art perfected, — the work of genius. And the individual, in whom simple tastes and susceptibility to all the great human influences overpower the accidents of a local and special culture, is the best critic of art. Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not. The best of beauty is a finer charm than skill in surfaces, in outlines, or rules of art can ever teach, namely, a radiation from the work of art of human character, — a wonderful expression through stone, or canvas, or musical sound, of the deepest and simplest attributes of our nature, and therefore most intelligible at last to those souls which have these attributes. In the sculptures of the Greeks, in the masonry66 of the Romans, and in the pictures of the Tuscan and Venetian masters, the highest charm is the universal language they speak. A confession67 of moral nature, of purity, love, and hope, breathes from them all. That which we carry to them, the same we bring back more fairly illustrated68 in the memory. The traveller who visits the Vatican, and passes from chamber69 to chamber through galleries of statues, vases, sarcophagi, and candelabra, through all forms of beauty, cut in the richest materials, is in danger of forgetting the simplicity70 of the principles out of which they all sprung, and that they had their origin from thoughts and laws in his own breast. He studies the technical rules on these wonderful remains71, but forgets that these works were not always thus constellated; that they are the contributions of many ages and many countries; that each came out of the solitary72 workshop of one artist, who toiled73 perhaps in ignorance of the existence of other sculpture, created his work without other model, save life, household life, and the sweet and smart of personal relations, of beating hearts, and meeting eyes, of poverty, and necessity, and hope, and fear. These were his inspirations, and these are the effects he carries home to your heart and mind. In proportion to his force, the artist will find in his work an outlet74 for his proper character. He must not be in any manner pinched or hindered by his material, but through his necessity of imparting himself the adamant75 will be wax in his hands, and will allow an adequate communication of himself, in his full stature76 and proportion. He need not cumber77 himself with a conventional nature and culture, nor ask what is the mode in Rome or in Paris, but that house, and weather, and manner of living which poverty and the fate of birth have made at once so odious78 and so dear, in the gray, unpainted wood cabin, on the corner of a New Hampshire farm, or in the log-hut of the backwoods, or in the narrow lodging79 where he has endured the constraints80 and seeming of a city poverty, will serve as well as any other condition as the symbol of a thought which pours itself indifferently through all.
I remember, when in my younger days I had heard of the wonders of Italian painting, I fancied the great pictures would be great strangers; some surprising combination of color and form; a foreign wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the spontoons and standards of the militia81, which play such pranks82 in the eyes and imaginations of school-boys. I was to see and acquire I knew not what. When I came at last to Rome, and saw with eyes the pictures, I found that genius left to novices83 the gay and fantastic and ostentatious, and itself pierced directly to the simple and true; that it was familiar and sincere; that it was the old, eternal fact I had met already in so many forms, — unto which I lived; that it was the plain you and me I knew so well, — had left at home in so many conversations. I had the same experience already in a church at Naples. There I saw that nothing was changed with me but the place, and said to myself, — ‘Thou foolish child, hast thou come out hither, over four thousand miles of salt water, to find that which was perfect to thee there at home?’ — that fact I saw again in the Academmia at Naples, in the chambers84 of sculpture, and yet again when I came to Rome, and to the paintings of Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci. “What, old mole85! workest thou in the earth so fast?” It had travelled by my side: that which I fancied I had left in Boston was here in the Vatican, and again at Milan, and at Paris, and made all travelling ridiculous as a treadmill86. I now require this of all pictures, that they domesticate87 me, not that they dazzle me. Pictures must not be too picturesque88. Nothing astonishes men so much as common-sense and plain dealing. All great actions have been simple, and all great pictures are.
The Transfiguration, by Raphael, is an eminent89 example of this peculiar90 merit. A calm, benignant beauty shines over all this picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost to call you by name. The sweet and sublime91 face of Jesus is beyond praise, yet how it disappoints all florid expectations! This familiar, simple, home-speaking countenance92 is as if one should meet a friend. The knowledge of picture-dealers has its value, but listen not to their criticism when your heart is touched by genius. It was not painted for them, it was painted for you; for such as had eyes capable of being touched by simplicity and lofty emotions.
Yet when we have said all our fine things about the arts, we must end with a frank confession, that the arts, as we know them, are but initial. Our best praise is given to what they aimed and promised, not to the actual result. He has conceived meanly of the resources of man, who believes that the best age of production is past. The real value of the Iliad, or the Transfiguration, is as signs of power; billows or ripples93 they are of the stream of tendency; tokens of the everlasting94 effort to produce, which even in its worst estate the soul betrays. Art has not yet come to its maturity95, if it do not put itself abreast96 with the most potent97 influences of the world, if it is not practical and moral, if it do not stand in connection with the conscience, if it do not make the poor and uncultivated feel that it addresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is higher work for Art than the arts. They are abortive98 births of an imperfect or vitiated instinct. Art is the need to create; but in its essence, immense and universal, it is impatient of working with lame99 or tied hands, and of making cripples and monsters, such as all pictures and statues are. Nothing less than the creation of man and nature is its end. A man should find in it an outlet for his whole energy. He may paint and carve only as long as he can do that. Art should exhilarate, and throw down the walls of circumstance on every side, awakening100 in the beholder21 the same sense of universal relation and power which the work evinced in the artist, and its highest effect is to make new artists.
Already History is old enough to witness the old age and disappearance101 of particular arts. The art of sculpture is long ago perished to any real effect. It was originally a useful art, a mode of writing, a savage’s record of gratitude102 or devotion, and among a people possessed103 of a wonderful perception of form this childish carving104 was refined to the utmost splendor of effect. But it is the game of a rude and youthful people, and not the manly105 labor of a wise and spiritual nation. Under an oak-tree loaded with leaves and nuts, under a sky full of eternal eyes, I stand in a thoroughfare; but in the works of our plastic arts, and especially of sculpture, creation is driven into a corner. I cannot hide from myself that there is a certain appearance of paltriness106, as of toys, and the trumpery107 of a theatre, in sculpture. Nature transcends108 all our moods of thought, and its secret we do not yet find. But the gallery stands at the mercy of our moods, and there is a moment when it becomes frivolous109. I do not wonder that Newton, with an attention habitually110 engaged on the paths of planets and suns, should have wondered what the Earl of Pembroke found to admire in “stone dolls.” Sculpture may serve to teach the pupil how deep is the secret of form, how purely111 the spirit can translate its meanings into that eloquent112 dialect. But the statue will look cold and false before that new activity which needs to roll through all things, and is impatient of counterfeits113, and things not alive. Picture and sculpture are the celebrations and festivities of form. But true art is never fixed114, but always flowing. The sweetest music is not in the oratorio115, but in the human voice when it speaks from its instant life tones of tenderness, truth, or courage. The oratorio has already lost its relation to the morning, to the sun, and the earth, but that persuading voice is in tune116 with these. All works of art should not be detached, but extempore performances. A great man is a new statue in every attitude and action. A beautiful woman is a picture which drives all beholders nobly mad. Life may be lyric117 or epic, as well as a poem or a romance.
A true announcement of the law of creation, if a man were found worthy118 to declare it, would carry art up into the kingdom of nature, and destroy its separate and contrasted existence. The fountains of invention and beauty in modern society are all but dried up. A popular novel, a theatre, or a ball-room makes us feel that we are all paupers119 in the alms-house of this world, without dignity, without skill, or industry. Art is as poor and low. The old tragic120 Necessity, which lowers on the brows even of the Venuses and the Cupids of the antique, and furnishes the sole apology for the intrusion of such anomalous121 figures into nature, — namely, that they were inevitable; that the artist was drunk with a passion for form which he could not resist, and which vented122 itself in these fine extravagances, — no longer dignifies123 the chisel or the pencil. But the artist and the connoisseur124 now seek in art the exhibition of their talent, or an asylum125 from the evils of life. Men are not well pleased with the figure they make in their own imaginations, and they flee to art, and convey their better sense in an oratorio, a statue, or a picture. Art makes the same effort which a sensual prosperity makes; namely, to detach the beautiful from the useful, to do up the work as unavoidable, and, hating it, pass on to enjoyment. These solaces126 and compensations, this division of beauty from use, the laws of nature do not permit. As soon as beauty is sought, not from religion and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker. High beauty is no longer attainable127 by him in canvas or in stone, in sound, or in lyrical construction; an effeminate, prudent128, sickly beauty, which is not beauty, is all that can be formed; for the hand can never execute any thing higher than the character can inspire.
The art that thus separates is itself first separated. Art must not be a superficial talent, but must begin farther back in man. Now men do not see nature to be beautiful, and they go to make a statue which shall be. They abhor129 men as tasteless, dull, and inconvertible, and console themselves with color-bags, and blocks of marble. They reject life as prosaic130, and create a death which they call poetic131. They despatch132 the day’s weary chores, and fly to voluptuous133 reveries. They eat and drink, that they may afterwards execute the ideal. Thus is art vilified134; the name conveys to the mind its secondary and bad senses; it stands in the imagination as somewhat contrary to nature, and struck with death from the first. Would it not be better to begin higher up, — to serve the ideal before they eat and drink; to serve the ideal in eating and drinking, in drawing the breath, and in the functions of life? Beauty must come back to the useful arts, and the distinction between the fine and the useful arts be forgotten. If history were truly told, if life were nobly spent, it would be no longer easy or possible to distinguish the one from the other. In nature, all is useful, all is beautiful. It is therefore beautiful, because it is alive, moving, reproductive; it is therefore useful, because it is symmetrical and fair. Beauty will not come at the call of a legislature, nor will it repeat in England or America its history in Greece. It will come, as always, unannounced, and spring up between the feet of brave and earnest men. It is in vain that we look for genius to reiterate135 its miracles in the old arts; it is its instinct to find beauty and holiness in new and necessary facts, in the field and road-side, in the shop and mill. Proceeding136 from a religious heart it will raise to a divine use the railroad, the insurance office, the joint-stock company, our law, our primary assemblies, our commerce, the galvanic battery, the electric jar, the prism, and the chemist’s retort, in which we seek now only an economical use. Is not the selfish and even cruel aspect which belongs to our great mechanical works, — to mills, railways, and machinery137, — the effect of the mercenary impulses which these works obey? When its errands are noble and adequate, a steamboat bridging the Atlantic between Old and New England, and arriving at its ports with the punctuality of a planet, is a step of man into harmony with nature. The boat at St. Petersburgh, which plies138 along the Lena by magnetism139, needs little to make it sublime. When science is learned in love, and its powers are wielded140 by love, they will appear the supplements and continuations of the material creation.
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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retinues
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| n.一批随员( retinue的名词复数 ) | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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acclimate
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| v.使服水土，使习惯于新环境 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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abridgment
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| n.删节，节本 | |
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eclecticism
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| n.折衷主义 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ordinations
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| n.授予神职( ordination的名词复数 )；授圣职 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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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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sequestering
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| v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的现在分词 )；扣押 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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45
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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46
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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47
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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48
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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49
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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50
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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51
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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52
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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53
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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54
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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55
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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56
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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57
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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58
austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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59
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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60
mannerist
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| n.矫揉造作者 | |
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61
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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62
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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63
chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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64
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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65
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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66
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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67
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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68
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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70
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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71
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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72
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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73
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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74
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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75
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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76
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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77
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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78
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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79
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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80
constraints
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| 强制( constraint的名词复数 )； 限制； 约束 | |
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81
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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82
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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83
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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84
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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85
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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86
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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87
domesticate
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| vt.驯养；使归化，使专注于家务 | |
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88
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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89
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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90
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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91
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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92
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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93
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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94
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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95
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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96
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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97
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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98
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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99
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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100
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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101
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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102
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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103
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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104
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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105
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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106
paltriness
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| n.不足取，无价值 | |
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107
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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108
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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109
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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110
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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111
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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112
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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113
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
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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115
oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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116
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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117
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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118
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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119
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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120
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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121
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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122
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
dignifies
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| 使显得威严( dignify的第三人称单数 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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124
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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125
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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126
solaces
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| n.安慰，安慰物( solace的名词复数 ) | |
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127
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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128
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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129
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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130
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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131
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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132
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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133
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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134
vilified
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| v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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136
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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137
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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138
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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139
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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140
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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