The Morality of the Profession of Letters 11
The profession of letters has been lately debated in the public prints; and it has been debated, to put the matter mildly, from a point of view that was calculated to surprise high-minded men, and bring a general contempt on books and reading. Some time ago, in particular, a lively, pleasant, popular writer 12 devoted2 an essay, lively and pleasant like himself, to a very encouraging view of the profession. We may be glad that his experience is so cheering, and we may hope that all others, who deserve it, shall be as handsomely rewarded; but I do not think we need be at all glad to have this question, so important to the public and ourselves, debated solely3 on the ground of money. The salary in any business under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the first, question. That you should continue to exist is a matter for your own consideration; but that your business should be first honest, and second useful, are points in which honour and morality are concerned. If the writer to whom I refer succeeds in persuading a number of young persons to adopt this way of life with an eye set singly on the livelihood4, we must expect them in their works to follow profit only, and we must expect in consequence, if he will pardon me the epithets5, a slovenly6, base, untrue, and empty literature. Of that writer himself I am not speaking: he is diligent7, clean, and pleasing; we all owe him periods of entertainment, and he has achieved an amiable8 popularity which he has adequately deserved. But the truth is, he does not, or did not when he first embraced it, regard his profession from this purely9 mercenary side. He went into it, I shall venture to say, if not with any noble design, at least in the ardour of a first love; and he enjoyed its practice long before he paused to calculate the wage. The other day an author was complimented on a piece of work, good in itself and exceptionally good for him, and replied, in terms unworthy of a commercial traveller that as the book was not briskly selling he did not give a copper10 farthing for its merit. It must not be supposed that the person to whom this answer was addressed received it as a profession of faith; he knew, on the other hand, that it was only a whiff of irritation11; just as we know, when a respectable writer talks of literature as a way of life, like shoemaking, but not so useful, that he is only debating one aspect of a question, and is still clearly conscious of a dozen others more important in themselves and more central to the matter in hand. But while those who treat literature in this penny-wise and virtue-foolish spirit are themselves truly in possession of a better light, it does not follow that the treatment is decent or improving, whether for themselves or others. To treat all subjects in the highest, the most honourable12, and the pluckiest spirit, consistent with the fact, is the first duty of a writer. If he be well paid, as I am glad to hear he is, this duty becomes the more urgent, the neglect of it the more disgraceful. And perhaps there is no subject on which a man should speak so gravely as that industry, whatever it may be, which is the occupation or delight of his life; which is his tool to earn or serve with; and which, if it be unworthy, stamps himself as a mere13 incubus14 of dumb and greedy bowels15 on the shoulders of labouring humanity. On that subject alone even to force the note might lean to virtue’s side. It is to be hoped that a numerous and enterprising generation of writers will follow and surpass the present one; but it would be better if the stream were stayed, and the roll of our old, honest English books were closed, than that esurient book-makers should continue and debase a brave tradition, and lower, in their own eyes, a famous race. Better that our serene16 temples were deserted17 than filled with trafficking and juggling18 priests.
There are two just reasons for the choice of any way of life: the first is inbred taste in the chooser; the second some high utility in the industry selected. Literature, like any other art, is singularly interesting to the artist; and, in a degree peculiar19 to itself among the arts, it is useful to mankind. These are the sufficient justifications21 for any young man or woman who adopts it as the business of his life. I shall not say much about the wages. A writer can live by his writing. If not so luxuriously22 as by other trades, then less luxuriously. The nature of the work he does all day will more affect his happiness than the quality of his dinner at night. Whatever be your calling, and however much it brings you in the year, you could still, you know, get more by cheating. We all suffer ourselves to be too much concerned about a little poverty; but such considerations should not move us in the choice of that which is to be the business and justification20 of so great a portion of our lives; and like the missionary23, the patriot24, or the philosopher, we should all choose that poor and brave career in which we can do the most and best for mankind. Now Nature, faithfully followed, proves herself a careful mother. A lad, for some liking25 to the jingle26 of words, betakes himself to letters for his life; by-and-by, when he learns more gravity, he finds that he has chosen better than he knew; that if he earns little, he is earning it amply; that if he receives a small wage, he is in a position to do considerable services; that it is in his power, in some small measure, to protect the oppressed and to defend the truth. So kindly27 is the world arranged, such great profit may arise from a small degree of human reliance on oneself, and such, in particular, is the happy star of this trade of writing, that it should combine pleasure and profit to both parties, and be at once agreeable, like fiddling28, and useful, like good preaching.
This is to speak of literature at its highest; and with the four great elders who are still spared to our respect and admiration29, with Carlyle, Ruskin, Browning, and Tennyson before us, it would be cowardly to consider it at first in any lesser30 aspect. But while we cannot follow these athletes, while we may none of us, perhaps, be very vigorous, very original, or very wise, I still contend that, in the humblest sort of literary work, we have it in our power either to do great harm or great good. We may seek merely to please; we may seek, having no higher gift, merely to gratify the idle nine days’ curiosity of our contemporaries; or we may essay, however feebly, to instruct. In each of these we shall have to deal with that remarkable31 art of words which, because it is the dialect of life, comes home so easily and powerfully to the minds of men; and since that is so, we contribute, in each of these branches, to build up the sum of sentiments and appreciations32 which goes by the name of Public Opinion or Public Feeling. The total of a nation’s reading, in these days of daily papers, greatly modifies the total of the nation’s speech; and the speech and reading, taken together, form the efficient educational medium of youth. A good man or woman may keep a youth some little while in clearer air; but the contemporary atmosphere is all-powerful in the end on the average of mediocre33 characters. The copious34 Corinthian baseness of the American reporter or the Parisian chroniquear, both so lightly readable, must exercise an incalculable influence for ill; they touch upon all subjects, and on all with the same ungenerous hand; they begin the consideration of all, in young and unprepared minds, in an unworthy spirit; on all, they supply some pungency35 for dull people to quote. The mere body of this ugly matter overwhelms the rare utterances36 of good men; the sneering37, the selfish, and the cowardly are scattered38 in broad sheets on every table, while the antidote39, in small volumes, lies unread upon the shelf. I have spoken of the American and the French, not because they are so much baser, but so much more readable, than the English; their evil is done more effectively, in America for the masses, in French for the few that care to read; but with us as with them, the duties of literature are daily neglected, truth daily perverted40 and suppressed, and grave subjects daily degraded in the treatment. The journalist is not reckoned an important officer; yet judge of the good he might do, the harm he does; judge of it by one instance only: that when we find two journals on the reverse sides of politics each, on the same day, openly garbling41 a piece of news for the interest of its own party, we smile at the discovery (no discovery now!) as over a good joke and pardonable stratagem42. Lying so open is scarce lying, it is true; but one of the things that we profess1 to teach our young is a respect for truth; and I cannot think this piece of education will be crowned with any great success, so long as some of us practise and the rest openly approve of public falsehood.
There are two duties incumbent43 upon any man who enters on the business of writing: truth to the fact and a good spirit in the treatment. In every department of literature, though so low as hardly to deserve the name, truth to the fact is of importance to the education and comfort of mankind, and so hard to preserve, that the faithful trying to do so will lend some dignity to the man who tries it. Our judgments44 are based upon two things: first, upon the original preferences of our soul; but, second, upon the mass of testimony45 to the nature of God, man, and the universe which reaches us, in divers46 manners, from without. For the most part these divers manners are reducible to one, all that we learn of past times and much that we learn of our own reaching us through the medium of books or papers, and even he who cannot read learning from the same source at second-hand47 and by the report of him who can. Thus the sum of the contemporary knowledge or ignorance of good and evil is, in large measure, the handiwork of those who write. Those who write have to see that each man’s knowledge is, as near as they can make it, answerable to the facts of life; that he shall not suppose himself an angel or a monster; nor take this world for a hell; nor be suffered to imagine that all rights are concentred in his own caste or country, or all veracities48 in his own parochial creed49. Each man should learn what is within him, that he may strive to mend; he must be taught what is without him, that he may be kind to others. It can never be wrong to tell him the truth; for, in his disputable state, weaving as he goes his theory of life, steering50 himself, cheering or reproving others, all facts are of the first importance to his conduct; and even if a fact shall discourage or corrupt51 him, it is still best that he should know it; for it is in this world as it is, and not in a world made easy by educational suppressions, that he must win his way to shame or glory. In one word, it must always be foul52 to tell what is false; and it can never be safe to suppress what is true. The very fact that you omit may be the fact which somebody was wanting, for one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and I have known a person who was cheered by the perusal53 of Candide. Every fact is a part of that great puzzle we must set together; and none that comes directly in a writer’s path but has some nice relations, unperceivable by him, to the totality and bearing of the subject under hand. Yet there are certain classes of fact eternally more necessary than others, and it is with these that literature must first bestir itself. They are not hard to distinguish, nature once more easily leading us; for the necessary, because the efficacious, facts are those which are most interesting to the natural mind of man. Those which are coloured, picturesque54, human, and rooted in morality, and those, on the other hand, which are clear, indisputable, and a part of science, are alone vital in importance, seizing by their interest, or useful to communicate. So far as the writer merely narrates55, he should principally tell of these. He should tell of the kind and wholesome56 and beautiful elements of our life; he should tell unsparingly of the evil and sorrow of the present, to move us with instances: he should tell of wise and good people in the past, to excite us by example; and of these he should tell soberly and truthfully, not glossing57 faults, that we may neither grow discouraged with ourselves nor exacting58 to our neighbours. So the body of contemporary literature, ephemeral and feeble in itself, touches in the minds of men the springs of thought and kindness, and supports them (for those who will go at all are easily supported) on their way to what is true and right. And if, in any degree, it does so now, how much more might it do so if the writers chose! There is not a life in all the records of the past but, properly studied, might lend a hint and a help to some contemporary. There is not a juncture59 in to-day’s affairs but some useful word may yet be said of it. Even the reporter has an office, and, with clear eyes and honest language, may unveil injustices60 and point the way to progress. And for a last word: in all narration61 there is only one way to be clever, and that is to be exact. To be vivid is a secondary quality which must presuppose the first; for vividly62 to convey a wrong impression is only to make failure conspicuous63.
But a fact may be viewed on many sides; it may be chronicled with rage, tears, laughter, indifference64, or admiration, and by each of these the story will be transformed to something else. The newspapers that told of the return of our representatives from Berlin, even if they had not differed as to the facts, would have sufficiently65 differed by their spirits; so that the one description would have been a second ovation66, and the other a prolonged insult. The subject makes but a trifling67 part of any piece of literature, and the view of the writer is itself a fact more important because less disputable than the others. Now this spirit in which a subject is regarded, important in all kinds of literary work, becomes all-important in works of fiction, meditation68, or rhapsody; for there it not only colours but itself chooses the facts; not only modifies but shapes the work. And hence, over the far larger proportion of the field of literature, the health or disease of the writer’s mind or momentary69 humour forms not only the leading feature of his work, but is, at bottom, the only thing he can communicate to others. In all works of art, widely speaking, it is first of all the author’s attitude that is narrated70, though in the attitude there be implied a whole experience and a theory of life. An author who has begged the question and reposes71 in some narrow faith cannot, if he would, express the whole or even many of the sides of this various existence; for, his own life being maim72, some of them are not admitted in his theory, and were only dimly and unwillingly73 recognised in his experience. Hence the smallness, the triteness74, and the inhumanity in works of merely sectarian religion; and hence we find equal although unsimilar limitation in works inspired by the spirit of the flesh or the despicable taste for high society. So that the first duty of any man who is to write is intellectual. Designedly or not, he has so far set himself up for a leader of the minds of men; and he must see that his own mind is kept supple76, charitable, and bright. Everything but prejudice should find a voice through him; he should see the good in all things; where he has even a fear that he does not wholly understand, there he should be wholly silent; and he should recognise from the first that he has only one tool in his workshop, and that tool is sympathy. 13
The second duty, far harder to define, is moral. There are a thousand different humours in the mind, and about each of them, when it is uppermost, some literature tends to be deposited. Is this to be allowed? Not certainly in every case, and yet perhaps in more than rigourists would fancy. It were to be desired that all literary work, and chiefly works of art, issued from sound, human, healthy, and potent77 impulses, whether grave or laughing, humorous, romantic, or religious.
Yet it cannot be denied that some valuable books are partially78 insane; some, mostly religious, partially inhuman75; and very many tainted80 with morbidity82 and impotence. We do not loathe83 a masterpiece although we gird against its blemishes84. We are not, above all, to look for faults, but merits. There is no book perfect, even in design; but there are many that will delight, improve, or encourage the reader. On the one hand, the Hebrew psalms86 are the only religious poetry on earth; yet they contain sallies that savour rankly of the man of blood. On the other hand, Alfred de Musset had a poisoned and a contorted nature; I am only quoting that generous and frivolous87 giant, old Dumas, when I accuse him of a bad heart; yet, when the impulse under which he wrote was purely creative, he could give us works like Carmosine or Fantasio, in which the last note of the romantic comedy seems to have been found again to touch and please us. When Flaubert wrote Madame Bovary, I believe he thought chiefly of a somewhat morbid81 realism; and behold88! the book turned in his hands into a masterpiece of appalling89 morality. But the truth is, when books are conceived under a great stress, with a soul of ninefold power, nine times heated and electrified90 by effort, the conditions of our being are seized with such an ample grasp, that, even should the main design be trivial or base, some truth and beauty cannot fail to be expressed. Out of the strong comes forth91 sweetness; but an ill thing poorly done is an ill thing top and bottom. And so this can be no encouragement to knock-kneed, feeble-wristed scribes, who must take their business conscientiously92 or be ashamed to practise it.
Man is imperfect; yet, in his literature, he must express himself and his own views and preferences; for to do anything else is to do a far more perilous93 thing than to risk being immoral94: it is to be sure of being untrue. To ape a sentiment, even a good one, is to travesty95 a sentiment; that will not be helpful. To conceal96 a sentiment, if you are sure you hold it, is to take a liberty with truth. There is probably no point of view possible to a sane79 man but contains some truth and, in the true connection, might be profitable to the race. I am not afraid of the truth, if any one could tell it me, but I am afraid of parts of it impertinently uttered. There is a time to dance and a time to mourn; to be harsh as well as to be sentimental97; to be ascetic98 as well as to glorify99 the appetites; and if a man were to combine all these extremes into his work, each in its place and proportion, that work would be the world’s masterpiece of morality as well as of art. Partiality is immorality100; for any book is wrong that gives a misleading picture of the world and life. The trouble is that the weakling must be partial; the work of one proving dank and depressing; of another, cheap and vulgar; of a third, epileptically sensual; of a fourth, sourly ascetic. In literature as in conduct, you can never hope to do exactly right. All you can do is to make as sure as possible; and for that there is but one rule. Nothing should be done in a hurry that can be done slowly. It is no use to write a book and put it by for nine or even ninety years; for in the writing you will have partly convinced yourself; the delay must precede any beginning; and if you meditate101 a work of art, you should first long roll the subject under the tongue to make sure you like the flavour, before you brew85 a volume that shall taste of it from end to end; or if you propose to enter on the field of controversy102, you should first have thought upon the question under all conditions, in health as well as in sickness, in sorrow as well as in joy. It is this nearness of examination necessary for any true and kind writing, that makes the practice of the art a prolonged and noble education for the writer.
There is plenty to do, plenty to say, or to say over again, in the meantime. Any literary work which conveys faithful facts or pleasing impressions is a service to the public. It is even a service to be thankfully proud of having rendered. The slightest novels are a blessing103 to those in distress104, not chloroform itself a greater. Our fine old sea-captain’s life was justified105 when Carlyle soothed106 his mind with The King’s Own or Newton Forster. To please is to serve; and so far from its being difficult to instruct while you amuse, it is difficult to do the one thoroughly107 without the other. Some part of the writer or his life will crop out in even a vapid108 book; and to read a novel that was conceived with any force is to multiply experience and to exercise the sympathies.
Every article, every piece of verse, every essay, every entre- filet109, is destined110 to pass, however swiftly, through the minds of some portion of the public, and to colour, however transiently, their thoughts. When any subject falls to be discussed, some scribbler on a paper has the invaluable111 opportunity of beginning its discussion in a dignified112 and human spirit; and if there were enough who did so in our public press, neither the public nor the Parliament would find it in their minds to drop to meaner thoughts. The writer has the chance to stumble, by the way, on something pleasing, something interesting, something encouraging, were it only to a single reader. He will be unfortunate, indeed, if he suit no one. He has the chance, besides, to stumble on something that a dull person shall be able to comprehend; and for a dull person to have read anything and, for that once, comprehended it, makes a marking epoch113 in his education.
Here, then, is work worth doing and worth trying to do well. And so, if I were minded to welcome any great accession to our trade, it should not be from any reason of a higher wage, but because it was a trade which was useful in a very great and in a very high degree; which every honest tradesman could make more serviceable to mankind in his single strength; which was difficult to do well and possible to do better every year; which called for scrupulous114 thought on the part of all who practised it, and hence became a perpetual education to their nobler natures; and which, pay it as you please, in the large majority of the best cases will still be underpaid. For surely, at this time of day in the nineteenth century, there is nothing that an honest man should fear more timorously115 than getting and spending more than he deserves.
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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justifications
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| 正当的理由，辩解的理由( justification的名词复数 ) | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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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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appreciations
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| n.欣赏( appreciation的名词复数 )；感激；评定；（尤指土地或财产的）增值 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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garbling
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| v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的现在分词 ) | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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veracities
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| n.诚实，真实( veracity的名词复数 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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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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narrates
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| v.故事( narrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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glossing
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| v.注解( gloss的现在分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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100
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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101
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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102
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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103
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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106
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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108
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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109
filet
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| n.肉片；鱼片 | |
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110
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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111
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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112
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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113
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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114
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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115
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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