I.
THOREAU’S thin, penetrating1, big-nosed face, even in a bad woodcut, conveys some hint of the limitations of his mind and character. With his almost acid sharpness of insight, with his almost animal dexterity2 in act, there went none of that large, unconscious geniality3 of the world’s heroes. He was not easy, not ample, not urbane4, not even kind; his enjoyment5 was hardly smiling, or the smile was not broad enough to be convincing; he had no waste lands nor kitchen-midden in his nature, but was all improved and sharpened to a point. “He was bred to no profession,” says Emerson; “he never married; he lived alone; he never went to church; he never voted; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he ate no flesh, he drank no wine, he never knew the use of tobacco and, though a naturalist7, he used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner what dish he preferred, he answered, ‘the nearest.’” So many negative superiorities begin to smack8 a little of the prig. From his later works he was in the habit of cutting out the humorous passages, under the impression that they were beneath the dignity of his moral muse9; and there we see the prig stand public and confessed. It was “much easier,” says Emerson acutely, much easier for Thoreau to say NO than YES; and that is a characteristic which depicts10 the man. It is a useful accomplishment11 to be able to say NO, but surely it is the essence of amiability12 to prefer to say YES where it is possible. There is something wanting in the man who does not hate himself whenever he is constrained13 to say no. And there was a great deal wanting in this born dissenter14. He was almost shockingly devoid15 of weaknesses; he had not enough of them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call him demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether one of us, for he was not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The world’s heroes have room for all positive qualities, even those which are disreputable, in the capacious theatre of their dispositions16. Such can live many lives; while a Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual foresight17.
He was no ascetic18, rather an Epicurean of the nobler sort; and he had this one great merit, that he succeeded so far as to be happy. “I love my fate to the core and rind,” he wrote once; and even while he lay dying, here is what he dictated19 (for it seems he was already too feeble to control the pen): “You ask particularly after my health. I SUPPOSE that I have not many months to live, but of course know nothing about it. I may say that I am enjoying existence as much as ever, and regret nothing.” It is not given to all to bear so clear a testimony20 to the sweetness of their fate, nor to any without courage and wisdom; for this world in itself is but a painful and uneasy place of residence, and lasting21 happiness, at least to the self-conscious, comes only from within. Now Thoreau’s content and ecstasy22 in living was, we may say, like a plant that he had watered and tended with womanish solicitude23; for there is apt to be something unmanly, something almost dastardly, in a life that does not move with dash and freedom, and that fears the bracing24 contact of the world. In one word, Thoreau was a skulker25. He did not wish virtue26 to go out of him among his fellow-men, but slunk into a corner to hoard27 it for himself. He left all for the sake of certain virtuous28 self-indulgences. It is true that his tastes were noble; that his ruling passion was to keep himself unspotted from the world; and that his luxuries were all of the same healthy order as cold tubs and early rising. But a man may be both coldly cruel in the pursuit of goodness, and morbid29 even in the pursuit of health. I cannot lay my hands on the passage in which he explains his abstinence from tea and coffee, but I am sure I have the meaning correctly. It is this; He thought it bad economy and worthy30 of no true virtuoso31 to spoil the natural rapture32 of the morning with such muddy stimulants33; let him but see the sun rise, and he was already sufficiently34 inspirited for the labours of the day. That may be reason good enough to abstain35 from tea; but when we go on to find the same man, on the same or similar grounds, abstain from nearly everything that his neighbours innocently and pleasurably use, and from the rubs and trials of human society itself into the bargain, we recognise that valetudinarian36 healthfulness which is more delicate than sickness itself. We need have no respect for a state of artificial training. True health is to be able to do without it. Shakespeare, we can imagine, might begin the day upon a quart of ale, and yet enjoy the sunrise to the full as much as Thoreau, and commemorate37 his enjoyment in vastly better verses. A man who must separate himself from his neighbours’ habits in order to be happy, is in much the same case with one who requires to take opium38 for the same purpose. What we want to see is one who can breast into the world, do a man’s work, and still preserve his first and pure enjoyment of existence.
Thoreau’s faculties39 were of a piece with his moral shyness; for they were all delicacies40. He could guide himself about the woods on the darkest night by the touch of his feet. He could pick up at once an exact dozen of pencils by the feeling, pace distances with accuracy, and gauge42 cubic contents by the eye. His smell was so dainty that he could perceive the foetor of dwelling43-houses as he passed them by at night; his palate so unsophisticated that, like a child, he disliked the taste of wine — or perhaps, living in America, had never tasted any that was good; and his knowledge of nature was so complete and curious that he could have told the time of year, within a day or so, by the aspect of the plants. In his dealings with animals, he was the original of Hawthorne’s Donatello. He pulled the woodchuck out of its hole by the tail; the hunted fox came to him for protection; wild squirrels have been seen to nestle in his waistcoat; he would thrust his arm into a pool and bring forth44 a bright, panting fish, lying undismayed in the palm of his hand. There were few things that he could not do. He could make a house, a boat, a pencil, or a book. He was a surveyor, a scholar, a natural historian. He could run, walk, climb, skate, swim, and manage a boat. The smallest occasion served to display his physical accomplishment; and a manufacturer, from merely observing his dexterity with the window of a railway carriage, offered him a situation on the spot. “The only fruit of much living,” he observes, “is the ability to do some slight thing better.” But such was the exactitude of his senses, so alive was he in every fibre, that it seems as if the maxim46 should be changed in his case, for he could do most things with unusual perfection. And perhaps he had an approving eye to himself when he wrote: “Though the youth at last grows indifferent, the laws of the universe are not indifferent, BUT ARE FOR EVER ON THE SIDE OF THE MOST SENSITIVE.”
II.
Thoreau had decided47, it would seem, from the very first to lead a life of self-improvement: the needle did not tremble as with richer natures, but pointed48 steadily49 north; and as he saw duty and inclination50 in one, he turned all his strength in that direction. He was met upon the threshold by a common difficulty. In this world, in spite of its many agreeable features, even the most sensitive must undergo some drudgery51 to live. It is not possible to devote your time to study and meditation52 without what are quaintly53 but happily denominated private means; these absent, a man must contrive55 to earn his bread by some service to the public such as the public cares to pay him for; or, as Thoreau loved to put it, Apollo must serve Admetus. This was to Thoreau even a sourer necessity than it is to most; there was a love of freedom, a strain of the wild man, in his nature, that rebelled with violence against the yoke56 of custom; and he was so eager to cultivate himself and to be happy in his own society, that he could consent with difficulty even to the interruptions of friendship. “SUCH ARE MY ENGAGEMENTS TO MYSELF that I dare not promise,” he once wrote in answer to an invitation; and the italics are his own. Marcus Aurelius found time to study virtue, and between whiles to conduct the imperial affairs of Rome; but Thoreau is so busy improving himself, that he must think twice about a morning call. And now imagine him condemned57 for eight hours a day to some uncongenial and unmeaning business! He shrank from the very look of the mechanical in life; all should, if possible, be sweetly spontaneous and swimmingly progressive. Thus he learned to make lead-pencils, and, when he had gained the best certificate and his friends began to congratulate him on his establishment in life, calmly announced that he should never make another. “Why should I?” said he “I would not do again what I have done once.” For when a thing has once been done as well as it wants to be, it is of no further interest to the self-improver. Yet in after years, and when it became needful to support his family, he returned patiently to this mechanical art — a step more than worthy of himself.
The pencils seem to have been Apollo’s first experiment in the service of Admetus; but others followed. “I have thoroughly58 tried school-keeping,” he writes, “and found that my expenses were in proportion, or rather out of proportion, to my income; for I was obliged to dress and train, not to say think and believe, accordingly, and I lost my time into the bargain. As I did not teach for the benefit of my fellow-men, but simply for a livelihood59, this was a failure. I have tried trade, but I found that it would take ten years to get under way in that, and that then I should probably be on my way to the devil.” Nothing, indeed, can surpass his scorn for all so-called business. Upon that subject gall60 squirts from him at a touch. “The whole enterprise of this nation is not illustrated61 by a thought,” he writes; “it is not warmed by a sentiment; there is nothing in it for which a man should lay down his life, nor even his gloves.” And again: “If our merchants did not most of them fail, and the banks too, my faith in the old laws of this world would be staggered. The statement that ninety-six in a hundred doing such business surely break down is perhaps the sweetest fact that statistics have revealed.” The wish was probably father to the figures; but there is something enlivening in a hatred62 of so genuine a brand, hot as Corsican revenge, and sneering63 like Voltaire.
Pencils, school-keeping, and trade being thus discarded one after another, Thoreau, with a stroke of strategy, turned the position. He saw his way to get his board and lodging64 for practically nothing; and Admetus never got less work out of any servant since the world began. It was his ambition to be an oriental philosopher; but he was always a very Yankee sort of oriental. Even in the peculiar65 attitude in which he stood to money, his system of personal economics, as we may call it, he displayed a vast amount of truly down-East calculation, and he adopted poverty like a piece of business. Yet his system is based on one or two ideas which, I believe, come naturally to all thoughtful youths, and are only pounded out of them by city uncles. Indeed, something essentially66 youthful distinguishes all Thoreau’s knock-down blows at current opinion. Like the posers of a child, they leave the orthodox in a kind of speechless agony. These know the thing is nonsense. They are sure there must be an answer, yet somehow cannot find it. So it is with his system of economy. He cuts through the subject on so new a plane that the accepted arguments apply no longer; he attacks it in a new dialect where there are no catchwords ready made for the defender67; after you have been boxing for years on a polite, gladiatorial convention, here is an assailant who does not scruple68 to hit below the belt.
“The cost of a thing,” says he, “is THE AMOUNT OF WHAT I WILL CALL LIFE which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.” I have been accustomed to put it to myself, perhaps more clearly, that the price we have to pay for money is paid in liberty. Between these two ways of it, at least, the reader will probably not fail to find a third definition of his own; and it follows, on one or other, that a man may pay too dearly for his livelihood, by giving, in Thoreau’s terms, his whole life for it, or, in mine, bartering69 for it the whole of his available liberty, and becoming a slave till death. There are two questions to be considered — the quality of what we buy, and the price we have to pay for it. Do you want a thousand a year, a two thousand a year, or a ten thousand a year livelihood? and can you afford the one you want? It is a matter of taste; it is not in the least degree a question of duty, though commonly supposed so. But there is no authority for that view anywhere. It is nowhere in the Bible. It is true that we might do a vast amount of good if we were wealthy, but it is also highly improbable; not many do; and the art of growing rich is not only quite distinct from that of doing good, but the practice of the one does not at all train a man for practising the other. “Money might be of great service to me,” writes Thoreau; “but the difficulty now is that I do not improve my opportunities, and therefore I am not prepared to have my opportunities increased.” It is a mere45 illusion that, above a certain income, the personal desires will be satisfied and leave a wider margin70 for the generous impulse. It is as difficult to be generous, or anything else, except perhaps a member of Parliament, on thirty thousand as on two hundred a year.
Now Thoreau’s tastes were well defined. He loved to be free, to be master of his times and seasons, to indulge the mind rather than the body; he preferred long rambles71 to rich dinners, his own reflections to the consideration of society, and an easy, calm, unfettered, active life among green trees to dull toiling73 at the counter of a bank. And such being his inclination he determined74 to gratify it. A poor man must save off something; he determined to save off his livelihood. “When a man has attained75 those things which are necessary to life,” he writes, “there is another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; HE MAY ADVENTURE ON LIFE NOW, his vacation from humbler toil72 having commenced.” Thoreau would get shelter, some kind of covering for his body, and necessary daily bread; even these he should get as cheaply as possible; and then, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced, devote himself to oriental philosophers, the study of nature, and the work of self-improvement.
Prudence76, which bids us all go to the ant for wisdom and hoard against the day of sickness, was not a favourite with Thoreau. He preferred that other, whose name is so much misappropriated: Faith. When he had secured the necessaries of the moment, he would not reckon up possible accidents or torment77 himself with trouble for the future. He had no toleration for the man “who ventures to live only by the aid of the mutual78 insurance company, which has promised to bury him decently.” He would trust himself a little to the world. “We may safely trust a good deal more than we do,” says he. “How much is not done by us! or what if we had been taken sick?” And then, with a stab of satire79, he describes contemporary mankind in a phrase: “All the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly80 say our prayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties81.” It is not likely that the public will be much affected82 by Thoreau, when they blink the direct injunctions of the religion they profess6; and yet, whether we will or no, we make the same hazardous83 ventures; we back our own health and the honesty of our neighbours for all that we are worth; and it is chilling to think how many must lose their wager84.
In 1845, twenty-eight years old, an age by which the liveliest have usually declined into some conformity85 with the world, Thoreau, with a capital of something less than five pounds and a borrowed axe86, walked forth into the woods by Walden Pond, and began his new experiment in life. He built himself a dwelling, and returned the axe, he says with characteristic and workman-like pride, sharper than when he borrowed it; he reclaimed87 a patch, where he cultivated beans, peas, potatoes, and sweet corn; he had his bread to bake, his farm to dig, and for the matter of six weeks in the summer he worked at surveying, carpentry, or some other of his numerous dexterities, for hire.
For more than five years, this was all that he required to do for his support, and he had the winter and most of the summer at his entire disposal. For six weeks of occupation, a little cooking and a little gentle hygienic gardening, the man, you may say, had as good as stolen his livelihood. Or we must rather allow that he had done far better; for the thief himself is continually and busily occupied; and even one born to inherit a million will have more calls upon his time than Thoreau. Well might he say, “What old people tell you you cannot do, you try and find you can.” And how surprising is his conclusion: “I am convinced that TO MAINTAIN ONESELF ON THIS EARTH IS NOT A HARDSHIP, BUT A PASTIME, if we will live simply and wisely; AS THE PURSUITS OF SIMPLER NATIONS ARE STILL THE SPORTS OF THE MORE ARTIFICIAL.”
When he had enough of that kind of life, he showed the same simplicity88 in giving it up as in beginning it. There are some who could have done the one, but, vanity forbidding, not the other; and that is perhaps the story of the hermits89; but Thoreau made no fetish of his own example, and did what he wanted squarely. And five years is long enough for an experiment and to prove the success of transcendental Yankeeism. It is not his frugality90 which is worthy of note; for, to begin with, that was inborn91, and therefore inimitable by others who are differently constituted; and again, it was no new thing, but has often been equalled by poor Scotch92 students at the universities. The point is the sanity93 of his view of life, and the insight with which he recognised the position of money, and thought out for himself the problem of riches and a livelihood. Apart from his eccentricities94, he had perceived, and was acting95 on, a truth of universal application. For money enters in two different characters into the scheme of life. A certain amount, varying with the number and empire of our desires, is a true necessary to each one of us in the present order of society; but beyond that amount, money is a commodity to be bought or not to be bought, a luxury in which we may either indulge or stint96 ourselves, like any other. And there are many luxuries that we may legitimately97 prefer to it, such as a grateful conscience, a country life, or the woman of our inclination. Trite98, flat, and obvious as this conclusion may appear, we have only to look round us in society to see how scantily99 it has been recognised; and perhaps even ourselves, after a little reflection, may decide to spend a trifle less for money, and indulge ourselves a trifle more in the article of freedom.
III.
“To have done anything by which you earned money merely,” says Thoreau, “is to be” (have been, he means) “idle and worse.” There are two passages in his letters, both, oddly enough, relating to firewood, which must be brought together to be rightly understood. So taken, they contain between them the marrow100 of all good sense on the subject of work in its relation to something broader than mere livelihood. Here is the first: “I suppose I have burned up a good-sized tree to-night — and for what? I settled with Mr. Tarbell for it the other day; but that wasn’t the final settlement. I got off cheaply from him. At last one will say: ‘Let us see, how much wood did you burn, sir?’ And I shall shudder101 to think that the next question will be, ‘What did you do while you were warm?’” Even after we have settled with Admetus in the person of Mr. Tarbell, there comes, you see, a further question. It is not enough to have earned our livelihood. Either the earning itself should have been serviceable to mankind, or something else must follow. To live is sometimes very difficult, but it is never meritorious102 in itself; and we must have a reason to allege103 to our own conscience why we should continue to exist upon this crowded earth.
If Thoreau had simply dwelt in his house at Walden, a lover of trees, birds, and fishes, and the open air and virtue, a reader of wise books, an idle, selfish self-improver, he would have managed to cheat Admetus, but, to cling to metaphor104, the devil would have had him in the end. Those who can avoid toil altogether and dwell in the Arcadia of private means, and even those who can, by abstinence, reduce the necessary amount of it to some six weeks a year, having the more liberty, have only the higher moral obligation to be up and doing in the interest of man.
The second passage is this: “There is a far more important and warming heat, commonly lost, which precedes the burning of the wood. It is the smoke of industry, which is incense105. I had been so thoroughly warmed in body and spirit, that when at length my fuel was housed, I came near selling it to the ashman, as if I had extracted all its heat.” Industry is, in itself and when properly chosen, delightful106 and profitable to the worker; and when your toil has been a pleasure, you have not, as Thoreau says, “earned money merely,” but money, health, delight, and moral profit, all in one. “We must heap up a great pile of doing for a small diameter of being,” he says in another place; and then exclaims, “How admirably the artist is made to accomplish his self-culture by devotion to his art!” We may escape uncongenial toil, only to devote ourselves to that which is congenial. It is only to transact108 some higher business that even Apollo dare play the truant109 from Admetus. We must all work for the sake of work; we must all work, as Thoreau says again, in any “absorbing pursuit — it does not much matter what, so it be honest;” but the most profitable work is that which combines into one continued effort the largest proportion of the powers and desires of a man’s nature; that into which he will plunge110 with ardour, and from which he will desist with reluctance111; in which he will know the weariness of fatigue112, but not that of satiety113; and which will be ever fresh, pleasing, and stimulating114 to his taste. Such work holds a man together, braced115 at all points; it does not suffer him to doze41 or wander; it keeps him actively116 conscious of himself, yet raised among superior interests; it gives him the profit of industry with the pleasures of a pastime. This is what his art should be to the true artist, and that to a degree unknown in other and less intimate pursuits. For other professions stand apart from the human business of life; but an art has its seat at the centre of the artist’s doings and sufferings, deals directly with his experiences, teaches him the lessons of his own fortunes and mishaps117, and becomes a part of his biography. So says Goethe:
“Spat erklingt was fruh erklang;
Gluck und Ungluck wird Gesang.”
Now Thoreau’s art was literature; and it was one of which he had conceived most ambitiously. He loved and believed in good books. He said well, “Life is not habitually118 seen from any common platform so truly and unexaggerated as in the light of literature.” But the literature he loved was of the heroic order. “Books, not which afford us a cowering119 enjoyment, but in which each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing institutions — such I call good books.” He did not think them easy to be read. “The heroic books,” he says, “even if printed in the character of our mother-tongue, will always be in a language dead to degenerate120 times; and we must laboriously121 seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing122 a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valour and generosity123 we have.” Nor does he suppose that such books are easily written. “Great prose, of equal elevation124, commands our respect more than great verse,” says he, “since it implies a more permanent and level height, a life more pervaded125 with the grandeur126 of the thought. The poet often only makes an irruption, like the Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he retreats; but the prose writer has conquered like a Roman and settled colonies.” We may ask ourselves, almost with dismay, whether such works exist at all but in the imagination of the student. For the bulk of the best of books is apt to be made up with ballast; and those in which energy of thought is combined with any stateliness of utterance127 may be almost counted on the fingers. Looking round in English for a book that should answer Thoreau’s two demands of a style like poetry and sense that shall be both original and inspiriting, I come to Milton’s AREOPAGITICA, and can name no other instance for the moment. Two things at least are plain: that if a man will condescend128 to nothing more commonplace in the way of reading, he must not look to have a large library; and that if he proposes himself to write in a similar vein129, he will find his work cut out for him.
Thoreau composed seemingly while he walked, or at least exercise and composition were with him intimately connected; for we are told that “the length of his walk uniformly made the length of his writing.” He speaks in one place of “plainness and vigour130, the ornaments131 of style,” which is rather too paradoxical to be comprehensively, true.
In another he remarks: “As for style of writing, if one has anything to say it drops from him simply as a stone falls to the ground.” We must conjecture132 a very large sense indeed for the phrase “if one has anything to say.” When truth flows from a man, fittingly clothed in style and without conscious effort, it is because the effort has been made and the work practically completed before he sat down to write. It is only out of fulness of thinking that expression drops perfect like a ripe fruit; and when Thoreau wrote so nonchalantly at his desk, it was because he had been vigorously active during his walk. For neither clearness compression, nor beauty of language, come to any living creature till after a busy and a prolonged acquaintance with the subject on hand. Easy writers are those who, like Walter Scott, choose to remain contented133 with a less degree of perfection than is legitimately within the compass of their powers. We hear of Shakespeare and his clean manuscript; but in face of the evidence of the style itself and of the various editions of HAMLET, this merely proves that Messrs. Hemming134 and Condell were unacquainted with the common enough phenomenon called a fair copy. He who would recast a tragedy already given to the world must frequently and earnestly have revised details in the study. Thoreau himself, and in spite of his protestations, is an instance of even extreme research in one direction; and his effort after heroic utterance is proved not only by the occasional finish, but by the determined exaggeration of his style. “I trust you realise what an exaggerator I am — that I lay myself out to exaggerate,” he writes. And again, hinting at the explanation: “Who that has heard a strain of music feared lest he should speak extravagantly136 any more for ever?” And yet once more, in his essay on Carlyle, and this time with his meaning well in hand: “No truth, we think, was ever expressed but with this sort of emphasis, that for the time there seemed to be no other.” Thus Thoreau was an exaggerative and a parabolical writer, not because he loved the literature of the East, but from a desire that people should understand and realise what he was writing. He was near the truth upon the general question; but in his own particular method, it appears to me, he wandered. Literature is not less a conventional art than painting or sculpture; and it is the least striking, as it is the most comprehensive of the three. To hear a strain of music to see a beautiful woman, a river, a great city, or a starry137 night, is to make a man despair of his Lilliputian arts in language. Now, to gain that emphasis which seems denied to us by the very nature of the medium, the proper method of literature is by selection, which is a kind of negative exaggeration. It is the right of the literary artist, as Thoreau was on the point of seeing, to leave out whatever does not suit his purpose. Thus we extract the pure gold; and thus the well-written story of a noble life becomes, by its very omissions138, more thrilling to the reader. But to go beyond this, like Thoreau, and to exaggerate directly, is to leave the saner139 classical tradition, and to put the reader on his guard. And when you write the whole for the half, you do not express your thought more forcibly, but only express a different thought which is not yours.
Thoreau’s true subject was the pursuit of self-improvement combined with an unfriendly criticism of life as it goes on in our societies; it is there that he best displays the freshness and surprising trenchancy140 of his intellect; it is there that his style becomes plain and vigorous, and therefore, according to his own formula, ornamental141. Yet he did not care to follow this vein singly, but must drop into it by the way in books of a different purport142. WALDEN, OR LIFE IN THE WOODS, A WEEK ON THE CONCORD143 AND MERRIMACK RIVERS, THE MAINE WOODS, — such are the titles he affects. He was probably reminded by his delicate critical perception that the true business of literature is with narrative144; in reasoned narrative, and there alone, that art enjoys all its advantages, and suffers least from its defects. Dry precept145 and disembodied disquisition, as they can only be read with an effort of abstraction, can never convey a perfectly146 complete or a perfectly natural impression. Truth, even in literature, must be clothed with flesh and blood, or it cannot tell its whole story to the reader. Hence the effect of anecdote147 on simple minds; and hence good biographies and works of high, imaginative art, are not only far more entertaining, but far more edifying148, than books of theory or precept. Now Thoreau could not clothe his opinions in the garment of art, for that was not his talent; but he sought to gain the same elbow-room for himself, and to afford a similar relief to his readers, by mingling149 his thoughts with a record of experience.
Again, he was a lover of nature. The quality which we should call mystery in a painting, and which belongs so particularly to the aspect of the external world and to its influence upon our feelings, was one which he was never weary of attempting to reproduce in his books. The seeming significance of nature’s appearances, their unchanging strangeness to the senses, and the thrilling response which they waken in the mind of man, continued to surprise and stimulate150 his spirits. It appeared to him, I think, that if we could only write near enough to the facts, and yet with no pedestrian calm, but ardently151, we might transfer the glamour152 of reality direct upon our pages; and that, if it were once thus captured and expressed, a new and instructive relation might appear between men’s thoughts and the phenomena153 of nature. This was the eagle that he pursued all his life long, like a schoolboy with a butterfly net. Hear him to a friend: “Let me suggest a theme for you — to state to yourself precisely154 and completely what that walk over the mountains amounted to for you, returning to this essay again and again until you are satisfied that all that was important in your experience is in it. Don’t suppose that you can tell it precisely the first dozen times you try, but at ‘em again; especially when, after a sufficient pause you suspect that you are touching155 the heart or summit of the matter, reiterate156 your blows there, and account for the mountain to yourself. Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long while to make it short.” Such was the method, not consistent for a man whose meanings were to “drop from him as a stone falls to the ground.” Perhaps the most successful work that Thoreau ever accomplished157 in this direction is to be found in the passages relating to fish in the WEEK. These are remarkable158 for a vivid truth of impression and a happy suitability of language, not frequently surpassed.
Whatever Thoreau tried to do was tried in fair, square prose, with sentences solidly built, and no help from bastard159 rhythms. Moreover, there is a progression — I cannot call it a progress — in his work towards a more and more strictly160 prosaic161 level, until at last he sinks into the bathos of the prosy. Emerson mentions having once remarked to Thoreau: “Who would not like to write something which all can read, like ROBINSON CRUSOE? and who does not see with regret that his page is not solid with a right materialistic162 treatment which delights everybody?” I must say in passing that it is not the right materialistic treatment which delights the world in ROBINSON, but the romantic and philosophic163 interest of the fable164. The same treatment does quite the reverse of delighting us when it is applied165, in COLONEL JACK166, to the management of a plantation167. But I cannot help suspecting Thoreau to have been influenced either by this identical remark or by some other closely similar in meaning. He began to fall more and more into a detailed168 materialistic treatment; he went into the business doggedly169, as one who should make a guide-book; he not only chronicled what had been important in his own experience, but whatever might have been important in the experience of anybody else; not only what had affected him, but all that he saw or heard. His ardour had grown less, or perhaps it was inconsistent with a right materialistic treatment to display such emotions as he felt; and, to complete the eventful change, he chose, from a sense of moral dignity, to gut170 these later works of the saving quality of humour. He was not one of those authors who have learned, in his own words, “to leave out their dulness.” He inflicts171 his full quantity upon the reader in such books as CAPE107 COD172, or THE YANKEE IN CANADA. Of the latter he confessed that he had not managed to get much of himself into it. Heaven knows he had not, nor yet much of Canada, we may hope. “Nothing,” he says somewhere, “can shock a brave man but dulness.” Well, there are few spots more shocking to the brave than the pages of YANKEE IN CANADA.
There are but three books of his that will be read with much pleasure: the WEEK, WALDEN, and the collected letters. As to his poetry, Emerson’s word shall suffice for us, it is so accurate and so prettily173 said: “The thyme and majoram are not yet honey.” In this, as in his prose, he relied greatly on the goodwill174 of the reader, and wrote throughout in faith. It was an exercise of faith to suppose that many would understand the sense of his best work, or that any could be exhilarated by the dreary175 chronicling of his worst. “But,” as he says, “the gods do not hear any rude or discordant176 sound, as we learn from the echo; and I know that the nature towards which I launch these sounds is so rich that it will modulate177 anew and wonderfully improve my rudest strain.”
IV.
“What means the fact,” he cries, “that a soul which has lost all hope for itself can inspire in another listening soul such an infinite confidence in it, even while it is expressing its despair?” The question is an echo and an illustration of the words last quoted; and it forms the key-note of his thoughts on friendship. No one else, to my knowledge, has spoken in so high and just a spirit of the kindly178 relations; and I doubt whether it be a drawback that these lessons should come from one in many ways so unfitted to be a teacher in this branch. The very coldness and egoism of his own intercourse179 gave him a clearer insight into the intellectual basis of our warm, mutual tolerations; and testimony to their worth comes with added force from one who was solitary180 and obliging, and of whom a friend remarked, with equal wit and wisdom, “I love Henry, but I cannot like him.”
He can hardly be persuaded to make any distinction between love and friendship; in such rarefied and freezing air, upon the mountain-tops of meditation, had he taught himself to breathe. He was, indeed, too accurate an observer not to have remarked that “there exists already a natural disinterestedness181 and liberality” between men and women; yet, he thought, “friendship is no respecter of sex.” Perhaps there is a sense in which the words are true; but they were spoken in ignorance; and perhaps we shall have put the matter most correctly, if we call love a foundation for a nearer and freer degree of friendship than can be possible without it. For there are delicacies, eternal between persons of the same sex, which are melted and disappear in the warmth of love.
To both, if they are to be right, he attributes the same nature and condition. “We are not what we are,” says he, “nor do we treat or esteem182 each other for such, but for what we are capable of being.” “A friend is one who incessantly183 pays us the compliment of expecting all the virtues184 from us, and who can appreciate them in us.” “The friend asks no return but that his friend will religiously accept and wear and not disgrace his apotheosis185 of him.” “It is the merit and preservation186 of friendship that it takes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the parties would seem to warrant.” This is to put friendship on a pedestal indeed; and yet the root of the matter is there; and the last sentence, in particular, is like a light in a dark place, and makes many mysteries plain. We are different with different friends; yet if we look closely we shall find that every such relation reposes187 on some particular apotheosis of oneself; with each friend, although we could not distinguish it in words from any other, we have at least one special reputation to preserve: and it is thus that we run, when mortified188, to our friend or the woman that we love, not to hear ourselves called better, but to be better men in point of fact. We seek this society to flatter ourselves with our own good conduct. And hence any falsehood in the relation, any incomplete or perverted189 understanding, will spoil even the pleasure of these visits. Thus says Thoreau again: “Only lovers know the value of truth.” And yet again: “They ask for words and deeds, when a true relation is word and deed.”
But it follows that since they are neither of them so good as the other hopes, and each is, in a very honest manner, playing a part above his powers, such an intercourse must often be disappointing to both. “We may bid farewell sooner than complain,” says Thoreau, “for our complaint is too well grounded to be uttered.” “We have not so good a right to hate any as our friend.”
“It were treason to our love
And a sin to God above,
Of a pure, impartial192 hate.”
Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. “O yes, believe me,” as the song says, “Love has eyes!” The nearer the intimacy193, the more cuttingly do we feel the unworthiness of those we love; and because you love one, and would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, and you never will forgive, that friend’s misconduct. If you want a person’s faults, go to those who love him. They will not tell you, but they know. And herein lies the magnanimous courage of love, that it endures this knowledge without change.
It required a cold, distant personality like that of Thoreau, perhaps, to recognise and certainly to utter this truth; for a more human love makes it a point of honour not to acknowledge those faults of which it is most conscious. But his point of view is both high and dry. He has no illusions; he does not give way to love any more than to hatred, but preserves them both with care like valuable curiosities. A more bald-headed picture of life, if I may so express myself, has seldom been presented. He is an egoist; he does not remember, or does not think it worth while to remark, that, in these near intimacies194, we are ninety-nine times disappointed in our beggarly selves for once that we are disappointed in our friend; that it is we who seem most frequently undeserving of the love that unites us; and that it is by our friend’s conduct that we are continually rebuked195 and yet strengthened for a fresh endeavour. Thoreau is dry, priggish, and selfish. It is profit he is after in these intimacies; moral profit, certainly, but still profit to himself. If you will be the sort of friend I want, he remarks naively196, “my education cannot dispense197 with your society.” His education! as though a friend were a dictionary. And with all this, not one word about pleasure, or laughter, or kisses, or any quality of flesh and blood. It was not inappropriate, surely, that he had such close relations with the fish. We can understand the friend already quoted, when he cried: “As for taking his arm, I would as soon think of taking the arm of an elm-tree!”
As a matter of fact he experienced but a broken enjoyment in his intimacies. He says he has been perpetually on the brink198 of the sort of intercourse he wanted, and yet never completely attained it. And what else had he to expect when he would not, in a happy phrase of Carlyle’s, “nestle down into it”? Truly, so it will be always if you only stroll in upon your friends as you might stroll in to see a cricket match; and even then not simply for the pleasure of the thing, but with some afterthought of self-improvement, as though you had come to the cricket match to bet. It was his theory that people saw each other too frequently, so that their curiosity was not properly whetted199, nor had they anything fresh to communicate; but friendship must be something else than a society for mutual improvement — indeed, it must only be that by the way, and to some extent unconsciously; and if Thoreau had been a man instead of a manner of elm-tree, he would have felt that he saw his friends too seldom, and have reaped benefits unknown to his philosophy from a more sustained and easy intercourse. We might remind him of his own words about love: “We should have no reserve; we should give the whole of ourselves to that business. But commonly men have not imagination enough to be thus employed about a human being, but must be coopering a barrel, forsooth.” Ay, or reading oriental philosophers. It is not the nature of the rival occupation, it is the fact that you suffer it to be a rival, that renders loving intimacy impossible. Nothing is given for nothing in this world; there can be no true love, even on your own side, without devotion; devotion is the exercise of love, by which it grows; but if you will give enough of that, if you will pay the price in a sufficient “amount of what you call life,” why then, indeed, whether with wife or comrade, you may have months and even years of such easy, natural, pleasurable, and yet improving intercourse as shall make time a moment and kindness a delight.
The secret of his retirement200 lies not in misanthropy, of which he had no tincture, but part in his engrossing201 design of self-improvement and part in the real deficiencies of social intercourse. He was not so much difficult about his fellow human beings as he could not tolerate the terms of their association. He could take to a man for any genuine qualities, as we see by his admirable sketch202 of the Canadian woodcutter in WALDEN; but he would not consent, in his own words, to “feebly fabulate and paddle in the social slush.” It seemed to him, I think, that society is precisely the reverse of friendship, in that it takes place on a lower level than the characters of any of the parties would warrant us to expect. The society talk of even the most brilliant man is of greatly less account than what you will get from him in (as the French say) a little committee. And Thoreau wanted geniality; he had not enough of the superficial, even at command; he could not swoop203 into a parlour and, in the naval204 phrase, “cut out” a human being from that dreary port; nor had he inclination for the task. I suspect he loved books and nature as well and near as warmly as he loved his fellow-creatures, — a melancholy205, lean degeneration of the human character.
“As for the dispute about solitude206 and society,” he thus sums up: “Any comparison is impertinent. It is an idling down on the plain at the base of the mountain instead of climbing steadily to its top. Of course you will be glad of all the society you can get to go up with? Will you go to glory with me? is the burden of the song. It is not that we love to be alone, but that we love to soar, and when we do soar the company grows thinner and thinner till there is none at all. It is either the tribune on the plain, a sermon on the mount, or a very private ecstasy still higher up. Use all the society that will abet207 you.” But surely it is no very extravagant135 opinion that it is better to give than to receive, to serve than to use our companions; and above all, where there is no question of service upon either side, that it is good to enjoy their company like a natural man. It is curious and in some ways dispiriting that a writer may be always best corrected out of his own mouth; and so, to conclude, here is another passage from Thoreau which seems aimed directly at himself: “Do not be too moral; you may cheat yourself out of much life so. . . . ALL FABLES208, INDEED, HAVE THEIR MORALS; BUT THE INNOCENT ENJOY THE STORY.”
V.
“The only obligation,” says he, “which I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think right.” “Why should we ever go abroad, even across the way, to ask a neighbour’s advice?” “There is a nearer neighbour within, who is incessantly telling us how we should behave. BUT WE WAIT FOR THE NEIGHBOUR WITHOUT TO TELL US OF SOME FALSE, EASIER WAY.” “The greater part of what my neighbours call good I believe in my soul to be bad.” To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the only end of life. It is “when we fall behind ourselves” that “we are cursed with duties and the neglect of duties.” “I love the wild,” he says, “not less than the good.” And again: “The life of a good man will hardly improve us more than the life of a freebooter, for the inevitable209 laws appear as plainly in the infringement210 as in the observance, and” (mark this) “OUR LIVES ARE SUSTAINED BY A NEARLY EQUAL EXPENSE OF VIRTUE OF SOME KIND.” Even although he were a prig, it will be owned he could announce a startling doctrine211. “As for doing good,” he writes elsewhere, “that is one of the professions that are full. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my constitution. Probably I should not conscientiously212 and deliberately213 forsake214 my particular calling to do the good which society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely215 greater steadfastness216 elsewhere is all that now preserves it. If you should ever be betrayed into any of these philanthropies, do not let your left hand know what your right hand does, for it is not worth knowing.” Elsewhere he returns upon the subject, and explains his meaning thus: “If I ever DID a man any good in their sense, of course it was something exceptional and insignificant217 compared with the good or evil I am constantly doing by being what I am.”
There is a rude nobility, like that of a barbarian218 king, in this unshaken confidence in himself and indifference219 to the wants, thoughts, or sufferings of others. In his whole works I find no trace of pity. This was partly the result of theory, for he held the world too mysterious to be criticised, and asks conclusively220: “What right have I to grieve who have not ceased to wonder?” But it sprang still more from constitutional indifference and superiority; and he grew up healthy, composed, and unconscious from among life’s horrors, like a green bay-tree from a field of battle. It was from this lack in himself that he failed to do justice to the spirit of Christ; for while he could glean221 more meaning from individual precepts222 than any score of Christians223, yet he conceived life in such a different hope, and viewed it with such contrary emotions, that the sense and purport of the doctrine as a whole seems to have passed him by or left him unimpressed. He could understand the idealism of the Christian224 view, but he was himself so unaffectedly unhuman that he did not recognise the human intention and essence of that teaching. Hence he complained that Christ did not leave us a rule that was proper and sufficient for this world, not having conceived the nature of the rule that was laid down; for things of that character that are sufficiently unacceptable become positively225 non-existent to the mind. But perhaps we shall best appreciate the defect in Thoreau by seeing it supplied in the case of Whitman. For the one, I feel confident, is the disciple226 of the other; it is what Thoreau clearly whispered that Whitman so uproariously bawls227; it is the same doctrine, but with how immense a difference! the same argument, but used to what a new conclusion! Thoreau had plenty of humour until he tutored himself out of it, and so forfeited228 that best birthright of a sensible man; Whitman, in that respect, seems to have been sent into the world naked and unashamed; and yet by a strange consummation, it is the theory of the former that is arid229, abstract, and claustral. Of these two philosophies so nearly identical at bottom, the one pursues Self-improvement — a churlish, mangy dog; the other is up with the morning, in the best of health, and following the nymph Happiness, buxom230, blithe231, and debonair232. Happiness, at least, is not solitary; it joys to communicate; it loves others, for it depends on them for its existence; it sanctions and encourages to all delights that are not unkind in themselves; if it lived to a thousand, it would not make excision233 of a single humorous passage; and while the self-improver dwindles234 towards the prig, and, if he be not of an excellent constitution may even grow deformed235 into an Obermann, the very name and appearance of a happy man breathe of good-nature, and help the rest of us to live.
In the case of Thoreau, so great a show of doctrine demands some outcome in the field of action. If nothing were to be done but build a shanty236 beside Walden Pond, we have heard altogether too much of these declarations of independence. That the man wrote some books is nothing to the purpose, for the same has been done in a suburban237 villa238. That he kept himself happy is perhaps a sufficient excuse, but it is disappointing to the reader. We may be unjust, but when a man despises commerce and philanthropy alike, and has views of good so soaring that he must take himself apart from mankind for their cultivation239, we will not be content without some striking act. It was not Thoreau’s fault if he were not martyred; had the occasion come, he would have made a noble ending. As it is, he did once seek to interfere240 in the world’s course; he made one practical appearance on the stage of affairs; and a strange one it was, and strangely characteristic of the nobility and the eccentricity241 of the man. It was forced on him by his calm but radical242 opposition243 to negro slavery. “Voting for the right is doing nothing for it,” he saw; “it is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should prevail.” For his part, he would not “for an instant recognise that political organisation244 for HIS government which is the SLAVE’S government also.” “I do not hesitate to say,” he adds, “that those who call themselves Abolitionists should at once effectually withdraw their support, both in person and property, from the government of Massachusetts.” That is what he did: in 1843 he ceased to pay the poll-tax. The highway-tax he paid, for he said he was as desirous to be a good neighbour as to be a bad subject; but no more poll-tax to the State of Massachusetts. Thoreau had now seceded246, and was a polity unto himself; or, as he explains it with admirable sense, “In fact, I quietly declare war with the State after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get what advantage of her I can, as is usual in such cases.” He was put in prison; but that was a part of his design. “Under a government which imprisons247 any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison. I know this well, that if one thousand, if one hundred, if ten men whom I could name — ay, if ONE HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts, CEASING TO HOLD SLAVES, were actually to withdraw from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county gaol248 therefor, it would be the abolition245 of slavery in America. For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be; what is once well done is done for ever.” Such was his theory of civil disobedience.
And the upshot? A friend paid the tax for him; continued year by year to pay it in the sequel; and Thoreau was free to walk the woods unmolested. It was a FIASCO, but to me it does not seem laughable; even those who joined in the laughter at the moment would be insensibly affected by this quaint54 instance of a good man’s horror for injustice249. We may compute250 the worth of that one night’s imprisonment251 as outweighing252 half a hundred voters at some subsequent election: and if Thoreau had possessed253 as great a power of persuasion254 as (let us say) Falstaff, if he had counted a party however small, if his example had been followed by a hundred or by thirty of his fellows, I cannot but believe it would have greatly precipitated255 the era of freedom and justice. We feel the misdeeds of our country with so little fervour, for we are not witnesses to the suffering they cause; but when we see them wake an active horror in our fellow-man, when we see a neighbour prefer to lie in prison rather than be so much as passively implicated256 in their perpetration, even the dullest of us will begin to realise them with a quicker pulse.
Not far from twenty years later, when Captain John Brown was taken at Harper’s Ferry, Thoreau was the first to come forward in his defence. The committees wrote to him unanimously that his action was premature257. “I did not send to you for advice,” said he, “but to announce that I was to speak.” I have used the word “defence;” in truth he did not seek to defend him, even declared it would be better for the good cause that he should die; but he praised his action as I think Brown would have liked to hear it praised.
Thus this singularly eccentric and independent mind, wedded258 to a character of so much strength, singleness, and purity, pursued its own path of self-improvement for more than half a century, part gymnosophist, part backwoodsman; and thus did it come twice, though in a subaltern attitude, into the field of political history.
NOTE. — For many facts in the above essay, among which I may mention the incident of the squirrel, I am indebted to THOREAU: HIS LIFE AND AIMS, by J. A. Page, or, as is well known, Dr. Japp.
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penetrating
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dexterity
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geniality
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urbane
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enjoyment
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profess
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naturalist
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smack
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muse
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depicts
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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amiability
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constrained
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dissenter
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devoid
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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foresight
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ascetic
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dictated
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testimony
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lasting
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ecstasy
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solicitude
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bracing
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skulker
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virtue
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hoard
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virtuous
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worthy
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virtuoso
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rapture
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stimulants
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sufficiently
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abstain
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commemorate
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opium
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faculties
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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41
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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42
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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43
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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47
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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48
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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49
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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50
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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51
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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52
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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53
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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54
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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55
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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56
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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57
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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60
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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61
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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63
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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64
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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65
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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66
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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67
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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68
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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69
bartering
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的现在分词 ) | |
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70
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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71
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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72
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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73
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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76
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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77
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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78
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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79
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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80
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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81
uncertainties
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|
| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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82
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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83
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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84
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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85
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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86
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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87
reclaimed
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|
| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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88
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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89
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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90
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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91
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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92
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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93
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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94
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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95
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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96
stint
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|
| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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97
legitimately
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|
| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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98
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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99
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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100
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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101
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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102
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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103
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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104
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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105
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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106
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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107
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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108
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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109
truant
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|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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110
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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111
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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112
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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113
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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114
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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115
braced
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|
| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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116
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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117
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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118
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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119
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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120
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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121
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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122
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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123
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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124
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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125
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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127
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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128
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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129
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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130
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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131
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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132
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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133
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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134
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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135
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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136
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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137
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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138
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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139
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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140
trenchancy
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| n.锐利，鲜明，有力 | |
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141
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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142
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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143
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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144
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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145
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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146
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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147
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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148
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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149
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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150
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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151
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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152
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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153
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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154
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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155
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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156
reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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157
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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158
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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159
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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160
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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161
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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162
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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163
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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164
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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165
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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166
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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167
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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168
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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169
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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170
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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171
inflicts
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的第三人称单数 ) | |
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172
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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173
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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174
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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175
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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176
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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177
modulate
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| v.调整，调节(音的强弱)；变调 | |
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178
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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179
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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180
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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181
disinterestedness
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182
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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183
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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184
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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185
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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186
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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187
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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188
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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189
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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190
iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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191
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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192
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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193
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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194
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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195
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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197
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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198
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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199
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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200
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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201
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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202
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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203
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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204
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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205
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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206
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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207
abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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208
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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209
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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210
infringement
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| n.违反；侵权 | |
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211
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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212
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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213
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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214
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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215
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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216
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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217
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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218
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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219
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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220
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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221
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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222
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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223
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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224
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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225
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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226
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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227
bawls
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的第三人称单数 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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228
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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230
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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231
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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232
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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233
excision
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| n.删掉；除去 | |
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234
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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235
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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236
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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237
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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238
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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239
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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240
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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241
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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242
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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243
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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244
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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245
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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246
seceded
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
imprisons
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的第三人称单数 ) | |
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248
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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249
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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250
compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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251
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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252
outweighing
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的现在分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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253
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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254
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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255
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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256
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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257
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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258
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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