Sunday, July 1st
Yesterday the month dedicated1 to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romans ended. To-day we enter on July.
In ancient Rome this latter month was called Quintiles (the fifth), because the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began in March. When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this name of Quintiles was preserved, as well as those that followed — Sexteles, September, October, November, December — although these designations did not accord with the newly arranged order of the months. At last, after a time the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was called Julius, whence we have July. Thus this name, placed in the calendar, is become the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal2 epitaph on Time’s highway, engraved3 by the admiration4 of man.
How many similar inscriptions5 are there! Seas, continents, mountains, stars, and monuments, have all in succession served the same purpose! We have turned the whole world into a Golden Book, like that in which the state of Venice used to enroll6 its illustrious names and its great deeds. It seems that mankind feels a necessity for honoring itself in its elect ones, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosing heroes from among its own race. The human family love to preserve the memory; of the parvenus7 of glory, as we cherish that of a great ancestor, or of a benefactor8.
In fact, the talents granted to a single individual do not benefit himself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, for everyone suffers or benefits by his actions. Genius is a lighthouse, meant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock upon which this lighthouse is built.
I love to dwell upon these thoughts; they explain to me in what consists our admiration for glory. When glory has benefited men, that admiration is gratitude9; when it is only remarkable10 in itself, it is the pride of race; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples of humanity.
Who knows whether we do not obey the same instinct in submitting to the hand of power? Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, or the consequences of a conquest, the multitude delight to surround their chiefs with privileges — whether it be that their vanity makes them thus to aggrandize11 one of their own creations, or whether they try to conceal12 the humiliation13 of subjection by exaggerating the importance of those who rule them. They wish to honor themselves through their master; they elevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround him with a halo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon themselves. It is still the fable14 of the dog who contents himself with the chain and collar, so that they are of gold.
This servile vanity is not less natural or less common than the vanity of dominion15. Whoever feels himself incapable16 of command, at least desires to obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to consider themselves dishonored when they became the property of a mere17 count after having been that of a prince, and Saint-Simon mentions a valet who would only wait upon marquises.
July 7th, seven o’clock P. M. — I have just now been up the Boulevards; it was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in the Rue18 Lepelletier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossing recognized the persons in some of these as we went by, and mentioned their names; they were those of celebrated19 or powerful men, the successful ones of the day.
Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes, whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious20 looks these possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on his lips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind.
“Look at them, the lucky fellows!” thought he; “all the pleasures of wealth, all the enjoyments21 of pride, are theirs. Their names are renowned22, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sovereigns of the world, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor and unknown, toil24 painfully along the road below, they wing their way over the mountain-tops gilded25 by the broad sunshine of prosperity.”
I have come home in deep thought. Is it true that there are these inequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men? Do genius and authority really wear life as a crown, while the greater part of mankind receive it as a yoke26? Is the difference of rank but a different use of men’s dispositions27 and talents, or a real inequality in their destinies? A solemn question, as it regards the verification of God’s impartiality28.
July 8th, noon. — I went this morning to call upon a friend from the same province as myself, who is the first usher29-in-waiting to one of our ministers. I took him some letters from his family, left for him by a traveller just come from Brittany. He wished me to stay.
“To-day,” said he, “the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day of rest with his family. His younger sisters are arrived; he will take them this morning to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friends to a private ball. I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of the day. We can dine together; read the news while you are waiting for me.”
I sat down at a table covered with newspapers, all of which I looked over by turns. Most of them contained severe criticisms on the last political acts of the minister; some of them added suspicions as to the honor of the minister himself.
Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take them to his master.
He was then about to read these accusations31, to suffer silently the abuse of all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation or to scorn! Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to endure the insults of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies32, his ignorance, or his vices33.
But, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be found poisoned? Would not one reach some spot in his heart where the wound would be incurable34? What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacks of envious hatred35 or furious conviction? The Christians36 yielded only the fragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man in power gives up his peace, his affections, his honor, to the cruel bites of the pen.
While I was musing37 upon these dangers of greatness, the usher entered hastily. Important news had been received: the minister is just summoned to the council; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud.
I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at the door, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to the council. The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much family happiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesman in it.
The usher came back discontented and disappointed. The more or less of liberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer39 of the political atmosphere. If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at his post, the country is in danger. His opinion on public affairs is but a calculation of his own interest. My friend is almost a statesman.
I had some conversation with him, and he told me several curious particulars of public life.
The new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though he still retains his personal regard for them. Though separated from them by the colors he fights under, they remain united by old associations; but the exigencies40 of party forbid him to meet them. If their intercourse41 continued, it would awaken42 suspicion; people would imagine that some dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be held to be traitors43 desirous to sell themselves, and he the corrupt44 minister prepared to buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to break off friendships of twenty years’ standing45, and to sacrifice attachments46 which had become a second nature.
Sometimes, however, the minister still gives way to his old feelings; he receives or visits his friends privately47; he shuts himself up with them, and talks of the times when they could be open friends. By dint48 of precautions they have hitherto succeeded in concealing49 this blot50 of friendship against policy; but sooner or later the newspapers will be informed of it, and will denounce him to the country as an object of distrust.
For whether hatred be honest or dishonest, it never shrinks from any accusation30. Sometimes it even proceeds to crime. The usher assured me that several warnings had been given the minister which had made him fear the vengeance51 of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out on foot.
Then, from one thing to another, I learned what temptations came in to mislead or overcome his judgment52; how he found himself fatally led into obliquities which he could not but deplore53. Misled by passion, over-persuaded by entreaties54, or compelled for reputation’s sake, he has many times held the balance with an unsteady hand. How sad the condition of him who is in authority! Not only are the miseries55 of power imposed upon him, but its vices also, which, not content with torturing, succeed in corrupting56 him.
We prolonged our conversation till it was interrupted by the minister’s return. He threw himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers, and with an anxious manner went into his own room. An instant afterward57 his bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to all those invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; they spoke58 mysteriously of bad news transmitted by the telegraph, and in such circumstances an entertainment would seem to insult the public sorrow.
I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seen is an answer to my doubts the other day. Now I know with what pangs59 men pay for their dignities; now I understand
That Fortune sells what we believe she gives.
This explains to me the reason why Charles V. aspired60 to the repose61 of the cloister62.
And yet I have only glanced at some of the sufferings attached to power. What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitated63 from the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that path of pain along which they must forever bear the burden of their responsibility? of that chain of decorums and ennuis which encompasses64 every act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?
The partisans65 of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies. If men wish to give unlimited66 power to their fellow-man, they must keep him separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with a continual worship, and, by a constant ceremonial, keep up for him the superhuman part they have granted him. Our masters cannot remain absolute, except on condition of being treated as idols67.
But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they must lead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment68 to themselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used to regulate, hour by hour, the actions of the king and queen; “so that,” says Voltaire, “by reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns of Spain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment.” It was by this law that Philip III, when sick, was obliged to endure such an excess of heat that he died in consequence, because the Duke of Uzeda, who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber69, happened to be absent.
When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, she was about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquette70 forbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endangered their lives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whom they had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon for their crime. Every one knows the anecdote71 related by Madame Campan of Marie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, when the chemise was about to be presented to her by one of the assistants, a lady of very ancient family entered and claimed the honor, as she had the right by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil her duty, a lady of higher rank appeared, and in her turn took the garment she was about to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still higher title came in her turn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no other than the king’s sister. The chemise was in this manner passed from hand to hand, with ceremonies, courtesies, and compliments, before it came to the queen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with cold for the great honor of etiquette.
12th, seven o’clock, P.M. — On coming home this evening, I saw, standing at the door of a house, an old man, whose appearance and features reminded me of my father. There was the same beautiful smile, the same deep and penetrating72 eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and the same careless attitude.
I began living over again the first years of my life, and recalling to myself the conversations of that guide whom God in his mercy had given me, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn73.
When my father spoke, it was not only to bring our two minds together by an interchange of thought, but his words always contained instruction.
Not that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father feared everything that had the appearance of a lesson. He used to say that virtue75 could make herself devoted76 friends, but she did not take pupils: therefore he was not desirous to teach goodness; he contented38 himself with sowing the seeds of it, certain that experience would make them grow.
How often has good grain fallen thus into a corner of the heart, and, when it has been long forgotten, all at once put forth77 the blade and come into ear! It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, and we do not know its value till we find ourselves in need of it.
Among the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings, there is one which now returns to my memory, doubtless because the time is come to derive78 its lesson from it.
My father, who was apprenticed79 at the age of twelve to one of those trading collectors who call themselves naturalists80, because they put all creation under glasses that they may sell it by retail82, had always led a life of poverty and labor83. Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turns shop-boy, clerk, and laborer84, he was made to bear alone all the work of a trade of which his master reaped all the profits. In truth, this latter had a peculiar85 talent for making the most of the labor of other people. Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, no one knew better how to sell it. His words were a net, in which people found themselves taken before they were aware. And since he was devoted to himself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and the buyer as prey86, he used them both with that obstinate87 perseverance88 which avarice89 teaches.
My father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own only on Sunday. The master naturalist81, who used to spend the day at the house of an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on condition that he dined out, and at his own expense. But my father used secretly to take with him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and, leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valley of Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings90 of the Marne. Excited by the fresh air, the penetrating perfume of the growing vegetation, or the fragrance91 of the honeysuckles, he would walk on until hunger or fatigue92 made itself felt. Then he would sit under a hedge, or by the side of a stream, and would make a rustic93 feast, by turns on watercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from the hedges; he would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then in greatest vogue94, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques, of whom he possessed95 three old volumes. The day was thus passed alternately in activity and rest, in pursuit and meditation96, until the declining sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he would arrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a whole week.
One day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close to it, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in sorting the plants he had just gathered. He was an elderly man with an honest face; but his eyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows97, had a somewhat uneasy and timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, a gray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stockings, and held an ivory-headed cane98 under his arm. His appearance was that of a small retired99 tradesman who was living on his means, and rather below the golden mean of Horace.
My father, who had great respect for age, civilly raised his hat to him as he passed. In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; the stranger stooped to take it up, and recognized it.
“It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos,” said he; “I have not yet seen any of them in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?”
My father replied that it was to be found in abundance on the top of the hill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium.
“That, too!” repeated the old man more briskly. “Ah! I shall go and look for them; I have gathered them formerly100 on the hillside of Robaila.”
My father proposed to take him. The stranger accepted his proposal with thanks, and hastened to collect together the plants he had gathered; but all of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple101. He observed to his companion that the road he was going was halfway102 up the hill, and led in the direction of the castle of the Dames103 Royales at Bellevue; that by going to the top he would consequently turn out of his road, and that it was not right he should take this trouble for a stranger.
My father insisted upon it with his habitual104 good-nature; but, the more eagerness he showed, the more obstinately105 the old man refused; it even seemed to my father that his good intention at last excited his suspicion. He therefore contented himself with pointing out the road to the stranger, whom he saluted106, and he soon lost sight of him.
Many hours passed by, and he thought no more of the meeting. He had reached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossy glade107, he read once more the last volume of émile. The delight of reading it had so completely absorbed him that he had ceased to see or hear anything around him. With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist, he repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected108 him.
An exclamation109 uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy110; he raised his head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before on the crossroad at Viroflay.
He was loaded with plants, the collection of which seemed to have put him into high good-humor.
“A thousand thanks, sir,” said he to my father. “I have found all that you told me of, and I am indebted to you for a charming walk.”
My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply. The stranger had grown quite familiar, and even asked if his young “brother botanist” did not think of returning to Paris. My father replied in the affirmative, and opened his tin box to put his book back in it.
The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence ask the name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseau’s émile.
The stranger immediately became grave.
They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with the warmth of a heart still throbbing111 with emotion, all that this work had made him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent. The former extolled112 the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had made him a citizen of the world; he expatiated113 on this privilege of great thinkers, who reign23 in spite of time and space, and gather together a people of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly interrupted him:
“And how do you know,” said he, mildly, “whether Jean Jacques would not exchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of the wood-cutters whose chimneys’ smoke we see? What has fame brought him except persecution114? The unknown friends whom his books may have made for him content themselves with blessing115 him in their hearts, while the declared enemies that they have drawn74 upon him pursue him with violence and calumny116! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times has it been wounded by satire117? And be assured that human pride is like the Sybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease118 in a roseleaf. The activity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost always turns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he grows older; the ideal he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual; he is like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blemishes119 in the most beautiful face. I will not speak of stronger temptations and of deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what virtuous120 man is not afraid of being a king? He who feels only his great powers, is — with the weaknesses and passions of our nature — preparing for great failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is no object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart, pity him!”
My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion pronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.
Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to that of Versailles; a carriage was passing.
The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:
“There is Jean Jacques — there is Rousseau!”
Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.
My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wide open, and his hands clasped.
Rousseau, who had shuddered121 on hearing his name spoken, turned toward him:
“You see,” said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later misfortunes had produced in him, “Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself: he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity122 to others, and to all he is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signify less if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as soon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes public property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial actions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which every passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps you will say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my Confessions123. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my house through the blinds, and they slandered124 me; I have opened the doors and windows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir. Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seen Rousseau.”
Nine o’clock. — Ah! now I understand my father’s story! It contains the answer to one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I now feel that fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, when they dazzle the soul, both are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but ’un deuil eclatant de bonheur!
’Tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble125 livers in content,
Than to be perk’d up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
[Henry VIII., Act II., Scene 3.]
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1
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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enroll
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| v.招收；登记；入学；参军；成为会员（英)enrol | |
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parvenus
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| n.暴富者( parvenu的名词复数 )；暴发户；新贵；傲慢自负的人 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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aggrandize
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| v.增大，扩张，吹捧 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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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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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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42
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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43
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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44
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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45
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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46
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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47
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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48
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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49
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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50
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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51
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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52
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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53
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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54
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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55
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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56
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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57
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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58
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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59
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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60
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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62
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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63
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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64
encompasses
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| v.围绕( encompass的第三人称单数 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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65
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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66
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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67
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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68
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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69
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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70
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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71
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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72
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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73
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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74
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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75
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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76
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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77
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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78
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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79
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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81
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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82
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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83
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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84
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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87
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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88
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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89
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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90
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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91
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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92
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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93
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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94
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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95
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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96
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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97
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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98
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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99
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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100
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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101
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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102
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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103
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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104
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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105
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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106
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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107
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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108
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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109
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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110
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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111
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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112
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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115
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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116
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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117
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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118
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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119
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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120
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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121
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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122
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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123
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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124
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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