OF late years the name of Walt Whitman has been a good deal bandied about in books and magazines. It has become familiar both in good and ill repute. His works have been largely bespattered with praise by his admirers, and cruelly mauled and mangled1 by irreverent enemies. Now, whether his poetry is good or bad as poetry, is a matter that may admit of a difference of opinion without alienating2 those who differ. We could not keep the peace with a man who should put forward claims to taste and yet depreciate3 the choruses in SAMSON AGONISTES; but, I think, we may shake hands with one who sees no more in Walt Whitman’s volume, from a literary point of view, than a farrago of incompetent4 essays in a wrong direction. That may not be at all our own opinion. We may think that, when a work contains many unforgettable phrases, it cannot be altogether devoid5 of literary merit. We may even see passages of a high poetry here and there among its eccentric contents. But when all is said, Walt Whitman is neither a Milton nor a Shakespeare; to appreciate his works is not a condition necessary to salvation8; and I would not disinherit a son upon the question, nor even think much the worse of a critic, for I should always have an idea what he meant.
What Whitman has to say is another affair from how he says it. It is not possible to acquit9 any one of defective10 intelligence, or else stiff prejudice, who is not interested by Whitman’s matter and the spirit it represents. Not as a poet, but as what we must call (for lack of a more exact expression) a prophet, he occupies a curious and prominent position. Whether he may greatly influence the future or not, he is a notable symptom of the present. As a sign of the times, it would be hard to find his parallel. I should hazard a large wager12, for instance, that he was not unacquainted with the works of Herbert Spencer; and yet where, in all the history books, shall we lay our hands on two more incongruous contemporaries? Mr. Spencer so decorous - I had almost said, so dandy — in dissent14; and Whitman, like a large shaggy dog, just unchained, scouring15 the beaches of the world and baying at the moon. And when was an echo more curiously16 like a satire17, than when Mr. Spencer found his Synthetic18 Philosophy reverberated19 from the other shores of the Atlantic in the “barbaric yawp” of Whitman?
I.
Whitman, it cannot be too soon explained, writes up to a system. He was a theoriser about society before he was a poet. He first perceived something wanting, and then sat down squarely to supply the want. The reader, running over his works, will find that he takes nearly as much pleasure in critically expounding20 his theory of poetry as in making poems. This is as far as it can be from the case of the spontaneous village minstrel dear to elegy21, who has no theory whatever, although sometimes he may have fully22 as much poetry as Whitman. The whole of Whitman’s work is deliberate and preconceived. A man born into a society comparatively new, full of conflicting elements and interests, could not fail, if he had any thoughts at all, to reflect upon the tendencies around him. He saw much good and evil on all sides, not yet settled down into some more or less unjust compromise as in older nations, but still in the act of settlement. And he could not but wonder what it would turn out; whether the compromise would be very just or very much the reverse, and give great or little scope for healthy human energies. From idle wonder to active speculation23 is but a step; and he seems to have been early struck with the inefficacy of literature and its extreme unsuitability to the conditions. What he calls “Feudal Literature” could have little living action on the tumult24 of American democracy; what he calls the “Literature of Wo,” meaning the whole tribe of Werther and Byron, could have no action for good in any time or place. Both propositions, if art had none but a direct moral influence, would be true enough; and as this seems to be Whitman’s view, they were true enough for him. He conceived the idea of a Literature which was to inhere in the life of the present; which was to be, first, human, and next, American; which was to be brave and cheerful as per contract; to give culture in a popular and poetical26 presentment; and, in so doing, catch and stereotype28 some democratic ideal of humanity which should be equally natural to all grades of wealth and education, and suited, in one of his favourite phrases, to “the average man.” To the formation of some such literature as this his poems are to be regarded as so many contributions, one sometimes explaining, sometimes superseding30, the other: and the whole together not so much a finished work as a body of suggestive hints. He does not profess31 to have built the castle, but he pretends he has traced the lines of the foundation. He has not made the poetry, but he flatters himself he has done something towards making the poets.
His notion of the poetic25 function is ambitious, and coincides roughly with what Schopenhauer has laid down as the province of the metaphysician. The poet is to gather together for men, and set in order, the materials of their existence. He is “The Answerer;” he is to find some way of speaking about life that shall satisfy, if only for the moment, man’s enduring astonishment32 at his own position. And besides having an answer ready, it is he who shall provoke the question. He must shake people out of their indifference33, and force them to make some election in this world, instead of sliding dully forward in a dream. Life is a business we are all apt to mismanage; either living recklessly from day to day, or suffering ourselves to be gulled34 out of our moments by the inanities35 of custom. We should despise a man who gave as little activity and forethought to the conduct of any other business. But in this, which is the one thing of all others, since it contains them all, we cannot see the forest for the trees. One brief impression obliterates36 another. There is something stupefying in the recurrence37 of unimportant things. And it is only on rare provocations38 that we can rise to take an outlook beyond daily concerns, and comprehend the narrow limits and great possibilities of our existence. It is the duty of the poet to induce such moments of clear sight. He is the declared enemy of all living by reflex action, of all that is done betwixt sleep and waking, of all the pleasureless pleasurings and imaginary duties in which we coin away our hearts and fritter invaluable39 years. He has to electrify40 his readers into an instant unflagging activity, founded on a wide and eager observation of the world, and make them direct their ways by a superior prudence41, which has little or nothing in common with the maxims42 of the copy-book. That many of us lead such lives as they would heartily43 disown after two hours’ serious reflection on the subject is, I am afraid, a true, and, I am sure, a very galling45 thought. The Enchanted46 Ground of dead-alive respectability is next, upon the map, to the Beulah of considerate virtue47. But there they all slumber48 and take their rest in the middle of God’s beautiful and wonderful universe; the drowsy49 heads have nodded together in the same position since first their fathers fell asleep; and not even the sound of the last trumpet50 can wake them to a single active thought.
The poet has a hard task before him to stir up such fellows to a sense of their own and other people’s principles in life.
And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an indifferent means to such an end. Language is but a poor bull’s-eye lantern where-with to show off the vast cathedral of the world; and yet a particular thing once said in words is so definite and memorable51, that it makes us forget the absence of the many which remain unexpressed; like a bright window in a distant view, which dazzles and confuses our sight of its surroundings. There are not words enough in all Shakespeare to express the merest fraction of a man’s experience in an hour. The speed of the eyesight and the hearing, and the continual industry of the mind, produce, in ten minutes, what it would require a laborious52 volume to shadow forth53 by comparisons and roundabout approaches. If verbal logic54 were sufficient, life would be as plain sailing as a piece of Euclid. But, as a matter of fact, we make a travesty55 of the simplest process of thought when we put it into words for the words are all coloured and forsworn, apply inaccurately56, and bring with them, from former uses ideas of praise and blame that have nothing to do with the question in hand. So we must always see to it nearly, that we judge by the realities of life and not by the partial terms that represent them in man’s speech; and at times of choice, we must leave words upon one side, and act upon those brute57 convictions, unexpressed and perhaps inexpressible, which cannot be flourished in an argument, but which are truly the sum and fruit of our experience. Words are for communication, not for judgment58. This is what every thoughtful man knows for himself, for only fools and silly schoolmasters push definitions over far into the domain59 of conduct; and the majority of women, not learned in these scholastic60 refinements62, live all-of-a-piece and unconsciously, as a tree grows, without caring to put a name upon their acts or motives63. Hence, a new difficulty for Whitman’s scrupulous64 and argumentative poet; he must do more than waken up the sleepers65 to his words; he must persuade them to look over the book and at life with their own eyes.
This side of truth is very present to Whitman; it is this that he means when he tells us that “To glance with an eye confounds the learning of all times.” But he is not unready. He is never weary of descanting on the undebatable conviction that is forced upon our minds by the presence of other men, of animals, or of inanimate things. To glance with an eye, were it only at a chair or a park railing, is by far a more persuasive66 process, and brings us to a far more exact conclusion, than to read the works of all the logicians extant. If both, by a large allowance, may be said to end in certainty, the certainty in the one case transcends67 the other to an incalculable degree. If people see a lion, they run away; if they only apprehend68 a deduction69, they keep wandering around in an experimental humour. Now, how is the poet to convince like nature, and not like books? Is there no actual piece of nature that he can show the man to his face, as he might show him a tree if they were walking together? Yes, there is one: the man’s own thoughts. In fact, if the poet is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his hearer’s mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that, alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace, or postulate70, before it becomes fully operative. Strange excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but they cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth that we perceive, but the highest that we have been able to assimilate into the very texture71 and method of our thinking. It is not, therefore, by flashing before a man’s eyes the weapons of dialectic; it is not by induction72, deduction, or construction; it is not by forcing him on from one stage of reasoning to another, that the man will be effectually renewed. He cannot be made to believe anything; but he can be made to see that he has always believed it. And this is the practical canon. It is when the reader cries, “Oh, I know!” and is, perhaps, half irritated to see how nearly the author has forestalled73 his own thoughts, that he is on the way to what is called in theology a Saving Faith.
Here we have the key to Whitman’s attitude. To give a certain unity74 of ideal to the average population of America — to gather their activities about some conception of humanity that shall be central and normal, if only for the moment — the poet must portray75 that population as it is. Like human law, human poetry is simply declaratory. If any ideal is possible, it must be already in the thoughts of the people; and, by the same reason, in the thoughts of the poet, who is one of them. And hence Whitman’s own formula: “The poet is individual — he is complete in himself: the others are as good as he; only he sees it, and they do not.” To show them how good they are, the poet must study his fellow-countrymen and himself somewhat like a traveller on the hunt for his book of travels. There is a sense, of course, in which all true books are books of travel; and all genuine poets must run their risk of being charged with the traveller’s exaggeration; for to whom are such books more surprising than to those whose own life is faithfully and smartly pictured? But this danger is all upon one side; and you may judiciously76 flatter the portrait without any likelihood of the sitter’s disowning it for a faithful likeness77. And so Whitman has reasoned: that by drawing at first hand from himself and his neighbours, accepting without shame the inconsistencies and brutalities that go to make up man, and yet treating the whole in a high, magnanimous spirit, he would make sure of belief, and at the same time encourage people forward by the means of praise.
II.
We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of puling over the circumstances in which we are placed. The great refinement61 of many poetical gentlemen has rendered them practically unfit for the jostling and ugliness of life, and they record their unfitness at considerable length. The bold and awful poetry of Job’s complaint produces too many flimsy imitators; for there is always something consolatory78 in grandeur79, but the symphony transposed for the piano becomes hysterically80 sad. This literature of woe81, as Whitman calls it, this MALADIE DE RENE, as we like to call it in Europe, is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly phenomenon. Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year of private means look down from a pinnacle82 of doleful experience on all the grown and hearty83 men who have dared to say a good word for life since the beginning of the world. There is no prophet but the melancholy84 Jacques, and the blue devils dance on all our literary wires.
It would be a poor service to spread culture, if this be its result, among the comparatively innocent and cheerful ranks of men. When our little poets have to be sent to look at the ploughman and learn wisdom, we must be careful how we tamper85 with our ploughmen. Where a man in not the best of circumstances preserves composure of mind, and relishes86 ale and tobacco, and his wife and children, in the intervals87 of dull and unremunerative labour; where a man in this predicament can afford a lesson by the way to what are called his intellectual superiors, there is plainly something to be lost, as well as something to be gained, by teaching him to think differently. It is better to leave him as he is than to teach him whining88. It is better that he should go without the cheerful lights of culture, if cheerless doubt and paralysing sentimentalism are to be the consequence. Let us, by all means, fight against that hide-bound stolidity90 of sensation and sluggishness91 of mind which blurs92 and decolorises for poor natures the wonderful pageant93 of consciousness; let us teach people, as much as we can, to enjoy, and they will learn for themselves to sympathise; but let us see to it, above all, that we give these lessons in a brave, vivacious94 note, and build the man up in courage while we demolish95 its substitute, indifference.
Whitman is alive to all this. He sees that, if the poet is to be of any help, he must testify to the livableness of life. His poems, he tells us, are to be “hymns of the praise of things.” They are to make for a certain high joy in living, or what he calls himself “a brave delight fit for freedom’s athletes.” And he has had no difficulty in introducing his optimism: it fitted readily enough with his system; for the average man is truly a courageous96 person and truly fond of living. One of Whitman’s remarks upon this head is worth quotation97, as he is there perfectly98 successful, and does precisely99 what he designs to do throughout: Takes ordinary and even commonplace circumstances; throws them out, by a happy turn of thinking, into significance and something like beauty; and tacks100 a hopeful moral lesson to the end.
“The passionate101 tenacity102 of hunters, woodmen, early risers, cultivators of gardens and orchards103 and fields, he says, the love of healthy women for the manly104 form, seafaring persons, drivers of horses, the passion for light and the open air, — all is an old unvaried sign of the unfailing perception of beauty, and of a residence of the poetic in outdoor people.”
There seems to me something truly original in this choice of trite105 examples. You will remark how adroitly106 Whitman begins, hunters and woodmen being confessedly romantic. And one thing more. If he had said “the love of healthy men for the female form,” he would have said almost a silliness; for the thing has never been dissembled out of delicacy107, and is so obvious as to be a public nuisance. But by reversing it, he tells us something not unlike news; something that sounds quite freshly in words; and, if the reader be a man, gives him a moment of great self-satisfaction and spiritual aggrandisement. In many different authors you may find passages more remarkable108 for grammar, but few of a more ingenious turn, and none that could be more to the point in our connection. The tenacity of many ordinary people in ordinary pursuits is a sort of standing109 challenge to everybody else. If one man can grow absorbed in delving111 his garden, others may grow absorbed and happy over something else. Not to be upsides in this with any groom112 or gardener, is to be very meanly organised. A man should be ashamed to take his food if he has not alchemy enough in his stomach to turn some of it into intense and enjoyable occupation.
Whitman tries to reinforce this cheerfulness by keeping up a sort of outdoor atmosphere of sentiment. His book, he tells us, should be read “among the cooling influences of external nature;” and this recommendation, like that other famous one which Hawthorne prefixed to his collected tales, is in itself a character of the work. Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, living in the open air, with the body in constant exercise and the mind in fallow, knows true ease and quiet. The irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we think in a plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, and great things no longer portentous113; and the world is smilingly accepted as it is. This is the spirit that Whitman inculcates and parades. He thinks very ill of the atmosphere of parlours or libraries. Wisdom keeps school outdoors. And he has the art to recommend this attitude of mind by simply pluming114 himself upon it as a virtue; so that the reader, to keep the advantage over his author which most readers enjoy, is tricked into professing115 the same view. And this spirit, as it is his chief lesson, is the greatest charm of his work. Thence, in spite of an uneven116 and emphatic117 key of expression, something trenchant118 and straightforward119, something simple and surprising, distinguishes his poems. He has sayings that come home to one like the Bible. We fall upon Whitman, after the works of so many men who write better, with a sense of relief from strain, with a sense of touching120 nature, as when one passes out of the flaring121, noisy thoroughfares of a great city into what he himself has called, with unexcelled imaginative justice of language, “the huge and thoughtful night.” And his book in consequence, whatever may be the final judgment of its merit, whatever may be its influence on the future, should be in the hands of all parents and guardians122 as a specific for the distressing123 malady124 of being seventeen years old. Green-sickness yields to his treatment as to a charm of magic; and the youth, after a short course of reading, ceases to carry the universe upon his shoulders.
III.
Whitman is not one of those who can be deceived by familiarity. He considers it just as wonderful that there are myriads125 of stars, as that one man should rise from the dead. He declares “a hair on the back of his hand just as curious as any special revelation.” His whole life is to him what it was to Sir Thomas Browne, one perpetual miracle. Everything is strange, everything unaccountable, everything beautiful; from a bug126 to the moon, from the sight of the eyes to the appetite for food. He makes it his business to see things as if he saw them for the first time, and professes127 astonishment on principle. But he has no leaning towards mythology128; avows129 his contempt for what he calls “unregenerate poetry;” and does not mean by nature
“The smooth walks, trimmed hedges, butterflies, posies, and nightingales of the English poets, but the whole orb110, with its geologic130 history, the Kosmos, carrying fire and snow, that rolls through the illimitable areas, light as a feather though weighing billions of tons.”
Nor is this exhaustive; for in his character of idealist all impressions, all thoughts, trees and people, love and faith, astronomy, history, and religion, enter upon equal terms into his notion of the universe. He is not against religion; not, indeed, against any religion. He wishes to drag with a larger net, to make a more comprehensive synthesis, than any or than all of them put together. In feeling after the central type of man, he must embrace all eccentricities131; his cosmology must subsume all cosmologies, and the feelings that gave birth to them; his statement of facts must include all religion and all irreligion, Christ and Boodha, God and the devil. The world as it is, and the whole world as it is, physical, and spiritual, and historical, with its good and bad, with its manifold inconsistencies, is what he wishes to set forth, in strong, picturesque132, and popular lineaments, for the understanding of the average man. One of his favourite endeavours is to get the whole matter into a nutshell; to knock the four corners of the universe, one after another, about his readers’ ears; to hurry him, in breathless phrases, hither and thither133, back and forward, in time and space; to focus all this about his own momentary134 personality; and then, drawing the ground from under his feet, as if by some cataclysm135 of nature, to plunge136 him into the unfathomable abyss sown with enormous suns and systems, and among the inconceivable numbers and magnitudes and velocities137 of the heavenly bodies. So that he concludes by striking into us some sense of that disproportion of things which Shelley has illuminated138 by the ironical139 flash of these eight words: The desire of the moth140 for the star.
The same truth, but to what a different purpose! Whitman’s moth is mightily141 at his ease about all the planets in heaven, and cannot think too highly of our sublunary tapers142. The universe is so large that imagination flags in the effort to conceive it; but here, in the meantime, is the world under our feet, a very warm and habitable corner. “The earth, that is sufficient; I do not want the constellations143 any nearer,” he remarks. And again: “Let your soul stand cool and composed,” says he, “before a million universes.” It is the language of a transcendental common sense, such as Thoreau held and sometimes uttered. But Whitman, who has a somewhat vulgar inclination144 for technical talk and the jargon145 of philosophy, is not content with a few pregnant hints; he must put the dots upon his i’s; he must corroborate146 the songs of Apollo by some of the darkest talk of human metaphysic. He tells his disciples148 that they must be ready “to confront the growing arrogance149 of Realism.” Each person is, for himself, the keystone and the occasion of this universal edifice150. “Nothing, not God,” he says, “is greater to one than oneself is;” a statement with an irreligious smack151 at the first sight; but like most startling sayings, a manifest truism on a second. He will give effect to his own character without apology; he sees “that the elementary laws never apologise.” “I reckon,” he adds, with quaint13 colloquial152 arrogance, “I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.” The level follows the law of its being; so, unrelentingly, will he; everything, every person, is good in his own place and way; God is the maker153 of all and all are in one design. For he believes in God, and that with a sort of blasphemous154 security. “No array of terms,” quoth he, “no array of terms can say how much at peace I am about God and about death.” There certainly never was a prophet who carried things with a higher hand; he gives us less a body of dogmas than a series of proclamations by the grace of God; and language, you will observe, positively155 fails him to express how far he stands above the highest human doubts and trepidations.
But next in order of truths to a person’s sublime156 conviction of himself, comes the attraction of one person for another, and all that we mean by the word love:—
“The dear love of man for his comrade — the attraction of friend for friend,
Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,
Of city for city and land for land.”
The solitude157 of the most sublime idealist is broken in upon by other people’s faces; he sees a look in their eyes that corresponds to something in his own heart; there comes a tone in their voices which convicts him of a startling weakness for his fellow-creatures. While he is hymning the EGO158 and commencing with God and the universe, a woman goes below his window; and at the turn of her skirt, or the colour of her eyes, Icarus is recalled from heaven by the run. Love is so startlingly real that it takes rank upon an equal footing of reality with the consciousness of personal existence. We are as heartily persuaded of the identity of those we love as of our own identity. And so sympathy pairs with self-assertion, the two gerents of human life on earth; and Whitman’s ideal man must not only be strong, free, and self-reliant in himself, but his freedom must be bounded and his strength perfected by the most intimate, eager, and long-suffering love for others. To some extent this is taking away with the left hand what has been so generously given with the right. Morality has been ceremoniously extruded159 from the door only to be brought in again by the window. We are told, on one page, to do as we please; and on the next we are sharply upbraided160 for not having done as the author pleases. We are first assured that we are the finest fellows in the world in our own right; and then it appears that we are only fine fellows in so far as we practise a most quixotic code of morals. The disciple147 who saw himself in clear ether a moment before is plunged161 down again among the fogs and complications of duty. And this is all the more overwhelming because Whitman insists not only on love between sex and sex, and between friends of the same sex, but in the field of the less intense political sympathies; and his ideal man must not only be a generous friend but a conscientious162 voter into the bargain.
His method somewhat lessens163 the difficulty. He is not, the reader will remember, to tell us how good we ought to be, but to remind us how good we are. He is to encourage us to be free and kind, by proving that we are free and kind already. He passes our corporate164 life under review, to show that it is upheld by the very virtues165 of which he makes himself the advocate. “There is no object so soft,” he says somewhere in his big, plain way, “there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe.” Rightly understood, it is on the softest of all objects, the sympathetic heart, that the wheel of society turns easily and securely as on a perfect axle. There is no room, of course, for doubt or discussion, about conduct, where every one is to follow the law of his being with exact compliance166. Whitman hates doubt, deprecates discussion, and discourages to his utmost the craving167, carping sensibilities of the conscience. We are to imitate, to use one of his absurd and happy phrases, “the satisfaction and aplomb168 of animals.” If he preaches a sort of ranting169 Christianity in morals, a fit consequent to the ranting optimism of his cosmology, it is because he declares it to be the original deliverance of the human heart; or at least, for he would be honestly historical in method, of the human heart as at present Christianised. His is a morality without a prohibition171; his policy is one of encouragement all round. A man must be a born hero to come up to Whitman’s standard in the practice of any of the positive virtues; but of a negative virtue, such as temperance or chastity, he has so little to say, that the reader need not be surprised if he drops a word or two upon the other side. He would lay down nothing that would be a clog172; he would prescribe nothing that cannot be done ruddily, in a heat. The great point is to get people under way. To the faithful Whitmanite this would be justified173 by the belief that God made all, and that all was good; the prophet, in this doctrine174, has only to cry “Tally-ho,” and mankind will break into a gallop175 on the road to El Dorado. Perhaps, to another class of minds, it may look like the result of the somewhat cynical176 reflection that you will not make a kind man out of one who is unkind by any precepts177 under heaven; tempered by the belief that, in natural circumstances, the large majority is well disposed. Thence it would follow, that if you can only get every one to feel more warmly and act more courageously178, the balance of results will be for good.
So far, you see, the doctrine is pretty coherent as a doctrine; as a picture of man’s life it is incomplete and misleading, although eminently179 cheerful. This he is himself the first to acknowledge; for if he is prophetic in anything, it is in his noble disregard of consistency180. “Do I contradict myself?” he asks somewhere; and then pat comes the answer, the best answer ever given in print, worthy181 of a sage7, or rather of a woman: “Very well, then, I contradict myself!” with this addition, not so feminine and perhaps not altogether so satisfactory: “I am large — I contain multitudes.” Life, as a matter of fact, partakes largely of the nature of tragedy. The gospel according to Whitman, even if it be not so logical, has this advantage over the gospel according to Pangloss, that it does not utterly182 disregard the existence of temporal evil. Whitman accepts the fact of disease and wretchedness like an honest man; and instead of trying to qualify it in the interest of his optimism, sets himself to spur people up to be helpful. He expresses a conviction, indeed, that all will be made up to the victims in the end; that “what is untried and afterward” will fail no one, not even “the old man who has lived without purpose and feels it with bitterness worse than gall44.” But this is not to palliate our sense of what is hard or melancholy in the present. Pangloss, smarting under one of the worst things that ever was supposed to come from America, consoled himself with the reflection that it was the price we have to pay for cochineal. And with that murderous parody183, logical optimism and the praises of the best of possible words went irrevocably out of season, and have been no more heard of in the mouths of reasonable men. Whitman spares us all allusions185 to the cochineal; he treats evil and sorrow in a spirit almost as of welcome; as an old sea-dog might have welcomed the sight of the enemy’s topsails off the Spanish Main. There, at least, he seems to say, is something obvious to be done. I do not know many better things in literature than the brief pictures, — brief and vivid like things seen by lightning, — with which he tries to stir up the world’s heart upon the side of mercy. He braces186 us, on the one hand, with examples of heroic duty and helpfulness; on the other, he touches us with pitiful instances of people needing help. He knows how to make the heart beat at a brave story; to inflame187 us with just resentment27 over the hunted slave; to stop our mouths for shame when he tells of the drunken prostitute. For all the afflicted188, all the weak, all the wicked, a good word is said in a spirit which I can only call one of ultra-Christianity; and however wild, however contradictory189, it may be in parts, this at least may be said for his book, as it may be said of the Christian170 Gospels, that no one will read it, however respectable, but he gets a knock upon his conscience; no one however fallen, but he finds a kindly190 and supporting welcome.
IV.
Nor has he been content with merely blowing the trumpet for the battle of well-doing; he has given to his precepts the authority of his own brave example. Naturally a grave, believing man, with little or no sense of humour, he has succeeded as well in life as in his printed performances. The spirit that was in him has come forth most eloquently191 in his actions. Many who have only read his poetry have been tempted192 to set him down as an ass6, or even as a charlatan193; but I never met any one who had known him personally who did not profess a solid affection and respect for the man’s character. He practises as he professes; he feels deeply that Christian love for all men, that toleration, that cheerful delight in serving others, which he often celebrates in literature with a doubtful measure of success. And perhaps, out of all his writings, the best and the most human and convincing passages are to be found in “these soil’d and creas’d little livraisons, each composed of a sheet or two of paper, folded small to carry in the pocket, and fastened with a pin,” which he scribbled194 during the war by the bedsides of the wounded or in the excitement of great events. They are hardly literature in the formal meaning of the word; he has left his jottings for the most part as he made them; a homely195 detail, a word from the lips of a dying soldier, a business memorandum196, the copy of a letter-short, straightforward to the point, with none of the trappings of composition; but they breathe a profound sentiment, they give us a vivid look at one of the sides of life, and they make us acquainted with a man whom it is an honour to love.
Whitman’s intense Americanism, his unlimited197 belief in the future of These States (as, with reverential capitals, he loves to call them), made the war a period of great trial to his soul. The new virtue, Unionism, of which he is the sole inventor, seemed to have fallen into premature198 unpopularity. All that he loved, hoped, or hated, hung in the balance. And the game of war was not only momentous199 to him in its issues; it sublimated200 his spirit by its heroic displays, and tortured him intimately by the spectacle of its horrors. It was a theatre, it was a place of education, it was like a season of religious revival201. He watched Lincoln going daily to his work; he studied and fraternised with young soldiery passing to the front; above all, he walked the hospitals, reading the Bible, distributing clean clothes, or apples, or tobacco; a patient, helpful, reverend man, full of kind speeches.
His memoranda202 of this period are almost bewildering to read. From one point of view they seem those of a district visitor; from another, they look like the formless jottings of an artist in the picturesque. More than one woman, on whom I tried the experiment, immediately claimed the writer for a fellow-woman. More than one literary purist might identify him as a shoddy newspaper correspondent without the necessary faculty203 of style. And yet the story touches home; and if you are of the weeping order of mankind, you will certainly find your eyes fill with tears, of which you have no reason to be ashamed. There is only one way to characterise a work of this order, and that is to quote. Here is a passage from a letter to a mother, unknown to Whitman, whose son died in hospital:—
“Frank, as far as I saw, had everything requisite204 in surgical205 treatment, nursing, etc. He had watches much of the time. He was so good and well-behaved, and affectionate, I myself liked him very much. I was in the habit of coming in afternoons and sitting by him, and he liked to have me — liked to put out his arm and lay his hand on my knee — would keep it so a long while. Toward the last he was more restless and flighty at night — often fancied himself with his regiment206 — by his talk sometimes seem’d as if his feelings were hurt by being blamed by his officers for something he was entirely207 innocent of — said ‘I never in my life was thought capable of such a thing, and never was.’ At other times he would fancy himself talking as it seem’d to children or such like, his relatives, I suppose, and giving them good advice; would talk to them a long while. All the time he was out of his head not one single bad word, or thought, or idea escaped him. It was remark’d that many a man’s conversation in his senses was not half so good as Frank’s delirium208.
“He was perfectly willing to die — he had become very weak, and had suffer’d a good deal, and was perfectly resign’d, poor boy. I do not know his past life, but I feel as if it must have been good. At any rate what I saw of him here, under the most trying circumstances, with a painful wound, and among strangers, I can say that he behaved so brave, so composed, and so sweet and affectionate, it could not be surpassed. And now, like many other noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service. Such things are gloomy — yet there is a text, ‘God doeth all things well,’ the meaning of which, after due time, appears to the soul.
“I thought perhaps a few words, though from a stranger, about your son, from one who was with him at the last, might be worth while, for I loved the young man, though I but saw him immediately to lose him.”
It is easy enough to pick holes in the grammar of this letter, but what are we to say of its profound goodness and tenderness? It is written as though he had the mother’s face before his eyes, and saw her wincing209 in the flesh at every word. And what, again, are we to say of its sober truthfulness210, not exaggerating, not running to phrases, not seeking to make a hero out of what was only an ordinary but good and brave young man? Literary reticence211 is not Whitman’s stronghold; and this reticence is not literary, but humane212; it is not that of a good artist but that of a good man. He knew that what the mother wished to hear about was Frank; and he told her about her Frank as he was.
V.
Something should be said of Whitman’s style, for style is of the essence of thinking. And where a man is so critically deliberate as our author, and goes solemnly about his poetry for an ulterior end, every indication is worth notice. He has chosen a rough, unrhymed, lyrical verse; sometimes instinct with a fine processional movement; often so rugged213 and careless that it can only be described by saying that he has not taken the trouble to write prose. I believe myself that it was selected principally because it was easy to write, although not without recollections of the marching measures of some of the prose in our English Old Testament214. According to Whitman, on the other hand, “the time has arrived to essentially215 break down the barriers of form between Prose and Poetry . . . for the most cogent216 purposes of those great inland states, and for Texas, and California, and Oregon;” — a statement which is among the happiest achievements of American humour. He calls his verses “recitatives,” in easily followed allusion184 to a musical form. “Easily-written, loose-fingered chords,” he cries, “I feel the thrum of your climax217 and close.” Too often, I fear, he is the only one who can perceive the rhythm; and in spite of Mr. Swinburne, a great part of his work considered as verses is poor bald stuff. Considered, not as verse, but as speech, a great part of it is full of strange and admirable merits. The right detail is seized; the right word, bold and trenchant, is thrust into its place. Whitman has small regard to literary decencies, and is totally free from literary timidities. He is neither afraid of being slangy nor of being dull; nor, let me add, of being ridiculous. The result is a most surprising compound of plain grandeur, sentimental89 affectation, and downright nonsense. It would be useless to follow his detractors and give instances of how bad he can be at his worst; and perhaps it would be not much wiser to give extracted specimens218 of how happily he can write when he is at his best. These come in to most advantage in their own place; owing something, it may be, to the offset219 of their curious surroundings. And one thing is certain, that no one can appreciate Whitman’s excellences220 until he has grown accustomed to his faults. Until you are content to pick poetry out of his pages almost as you must pick it out of a Greek play in Bohn’s translation, your gravity will be continually upset, your ears perpetually disappointed, and the whole book will be no more to you than a particularly flagrant production by the Poet Close.
A writer of this uncertain quality was, perhaps, unfortunate in taking for thesis the beauty of the world as it now is, not only on the hill-tops but in the factory; not only by the harbour full of stately ships, but in the magazine of the hopelessly prosaic221 hatter. To show beauty in common things is the work of the rarest tact222. It is not to be done by the wishing. It is easy to posit11 as a theory, but to bring it home to men’s minds is the problem of literature, and is only accomplished223 by rare talent, and in comparatively rare instances. To bid the whole world stand and deliver, with a dogma in one’s right hand by way of pistol; to cover reams of paper in a galloping224, headstrong vein225; to cry louder and louder over everything as it comes up, and make no distinction in one’s enthusiasm over the most incomparable matters; to prove one’s entire want of sympathy for the jaded226, literary palate, by calling, not a spade a spade, but a hatter a hatter, in a lyrical apostrophe; — this, in spite of all the airs of inspiration, is not the way to do it. It may be very wrong, and very wounding to a respectable branch of industry, but the word “hatter” cannot be used seriously in emotional verse; not to understand this, is to have no literary tact; and I would, for his own sake, that this were the only inadmissible expression with which Whitman had bedecked his pages. The book teems227 with similar comicalities; and, to a reader who is determined228 to take it from that side only, presents a perfect carnival229 of fun.
A good deal of this is the result of theory playing its usual vile230 trick upon the artist. It is because he is a Democrat29 that Whitman must have in the hatter. If you may say Admiral, he reasons, why may you not say Hatter? One man is as good as another, and it is the business of the “great poet” to show poetry in the life of the one as well as the other. A most incontrovertible sentiment surely, and one which nobody would think of controverting231, where — and here is the point — where any beauty has been shown. But how, where that is not the case? where the hatter is simply introduced, as God made him and as his fellow-men have miscalled him, at the crisis of a high-flown rhapsody? And what are we to say, where a man of Whitman’s notable capacity for putting things in a bright, picturesque, and novel way, simply gives up the attempt, and indulges, with apparent exultation232, in an inventory233 of trades or implements234, with no more colour or coherence235 than so many index-words out of a dictionary? I do not know that we can say anything, but that it is a prodigiously236 amusing exhibition for a line or so. The worst of it is, that Whitman must have known better. The man is a great critic, and, so far as I can make out, a good one; and how much criticism does it require to know that capitulation is not description, or that fingering on a dumb keyboard, with whatever show of sentiment and execution, is not at all the same thing as discoursing237 music? I wish I could believe he was quite honest with us; but, indeed, who was ever quite honest who wrote a book for a purpose? It is a flight beyond the reach of human magnanimity.
One other point, where his means failed him, must be touched upon, however shortly. In his desire to accept all facts loyally and simply, it fell within his programme to speak at some length and with some plainness on what is, for I really do not know what reason, the most delicate of subjects. Seeing in that one of the most serious and interesting parts of life, he was aggrieved238 that it should be looked upon as ridiculous or shameful239. No one speaks of maternity240 with his tongue in his cheek; and Whitman made a bold push to set the sanctity of fatherhood beside the sanctity of motherhood, and introduce this also among the things that can be spoken of without either a blush or a wink241. But the Philistines242 have been too strong; and, to say truth, Whitman has rather played the fool. We may be thoroughly243 conscious that his end is improving; that it would be a good thing if a window were opened on these close privacies of life; that on this subject, as on all others, he now and then lets fall a pregnant saying. But we are not satisfied. We feel that he was not the man for so difficult an enterprise. He loses our sympathy in the character of a poet by attracting too much of our attention in that of a Bull in a China Shop. And where, by a little more art, we might have been solemnised ourselves, it is too often Whitman alone who is solemn in the face of an audience somewhat indecorously amused.
VI.
Lastly, as most important, after all, to human beings in our disputable state, what is that higher prudence which was to be the aim and issue of these deliberate productions?
Whitman is too clever to slip into a succinct244 formula. If he could have adequately said his say in a single proverb, it is to be presumed he would not have put himself to the trouble of writing several volumes. It was his programme to state as much as he could of the world with all its contradictions, and leave the upshot with God who planned it. What he has made of the world and the world’s meanings is to be found at large in his poems. These altogether give his answers to the problems of belief and conduct; in many ways righteous and high-spirited, in some ways loose and contradictory. And yet there are two passages from the preface to the LEAVES OF GRASS which do pretty well condense his teaching on all essential points, and yet preserve a measure of his spirit.
“This is what you shall do,” he says in the one, “love the earth, and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labour to others, hate tyrants245, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and mothers of families, read these leaves (his own works) in the open air every season of every year of your life; re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul.”
“The prudence of the greatest poet,” he adds in the other — and the greatest poet is, of course, himself — “knows that the young man who composedly perilled246 his life and lost it, has done exceeding well for himself; while the man who has not perilled his life, and retains it to old age in riches and ease, has perhaps achieved nothing for himself worth mentioning; and that only that person has no great prudence to learn, who has learnt to prefer real long-lived things, and favours body and soul the same, and perceives the indirect surely following the direct, and what evil or good he does leaping onward247 and waiting to meet him again, and who in his spirit, in any emergency whatever, neither hurries nor avoids death.”
There is much that is Christian in these extracts, startlingly Christian. Any reader who bears in mind Whitman’s own advice and “dismisses whatever insults his own soul” will find plenty that is bracing248, brightening, and chastening to reward him for a little patience at first. It seems hardly possible that any being should get evil from so healthy a book as the LEAVES OF GRASS, which is simply comical wherever it falls short of nobility; but if there be any such, who cannot both take and leave, who cannot let a single opportunity pass by without some unworthy and unmanly thought, I should have as great difficulty, and neither more nor less, in recommending the works of Whitman as in lending them Shakespeare, or letting them go abroad outside of the grounds of a private asylum249.
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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alienating
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| v.使疏远( alienate的现在分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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posit
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| v.假定，认为 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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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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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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stereotype
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| n.固定的形象，陈规，老套，旧框框 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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superseding
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| 取代，接替( supersede的现在分词 ) | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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gulled
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| v.欺骗某人( gull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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obliterates
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| v.除去( obliterate的第三人称单数 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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electrify
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| v.使充电；使电气化；使触电；使震惊；使兴奋 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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logic
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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inaccurately
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| 不精密地，不准确地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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motives
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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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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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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70
postulate
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| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
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71
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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72
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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73
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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75
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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76
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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77
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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78
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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79
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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80
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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81
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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82
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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83
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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84
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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85
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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86
relishes
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| n.滋味( relish的名词复数 )；乐趣；（大量的）享受；快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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87
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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88
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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89
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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90
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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91
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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92
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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93
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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94
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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95
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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96
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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97
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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98
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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99
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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100
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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101
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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102
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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103
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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104
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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105
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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106
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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107
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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108
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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109
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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110
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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111
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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112
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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113
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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114
pluming
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| 用羽毛装饰（plume的现在分词形式） | |
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115
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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116
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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117
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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118
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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119
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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120
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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121
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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122
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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123
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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124
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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125
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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126
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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127
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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128
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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129
avows
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
geologic
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| adj.地质的 | |
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131
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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132
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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133
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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134
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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135
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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136
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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137
velocities
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| n.速度( velocity的名词复数 )；高速，快速 | |
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138
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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139
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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140
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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141
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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142
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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143
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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144
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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145
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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146
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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147
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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148
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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149
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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150
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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151
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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152
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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153
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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154
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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155
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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156
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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157
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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158
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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159
extruded
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| v.挤压出( extrude的过去式和过去分词 )；挤压成；突出；伸出 | |
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160
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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162
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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163
lessens
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| 变少( lessen的第三人称单数 )； 减少（某事物） | |
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164
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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165
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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166
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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167
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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168
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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169
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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170
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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171
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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172
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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173
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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174
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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175
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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176
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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177
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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178
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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179
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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180
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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181
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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182
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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183
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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184
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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185
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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186
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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187
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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188
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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189
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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190
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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191
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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192
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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193
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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194
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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195
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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196
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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202
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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203
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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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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211
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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217
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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218
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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controverting
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的现在分词 ) | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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240
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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244
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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246
perilled
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| 置…于危险中（peril的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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248
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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249
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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