Even if, instead of following the dim daybreak, our imagination pauses on a certain historical spot and awaits the fuller morning, we may see a world-famous city, which has hardly changed its outline since the days of Columbus, seeming to stand as an almost unviolated symbol, amidst the flux17 of human things, to remind us that we still resemble the men of the past more than we differ from them, as the great mechanical principles on which those domes and towers were raised must make a likeness18 in human building that will be broader and deeper than all possible change. And doubtless, if the spirit of a Florentine citizen, whose eyes were closed for the last time while Columbus was still waiting and arguing for the three poor vessels19 with which he was to set sail from the port of Palos, could return from the shades and pause where our thought is pausing, he would believe that there must still be fellowship and understanding for him among the inheritors of his birthplace.
Let us suppose that such a Shade has been permitted to revisit the glimpses of the golden morning, and is standing20 once more on the famous hill of San Miniato, which overlooks Florence from the south.
The Spirit is clothed in his habit as he lived: the folds of his well-lined black silk garment or lucco hang in grave unbroken lines from neck to ankle; his plain cloth cap, with its becchetto, or long hanging strip of drapery, to serve as a scarf in case of need, surmounts21 a penetrating22 face, not, perhaps, very handsome, but with a firm, well-cut mouth, kept distinctly human by a close-shaven lip and chin. It is a face charged with memories of a keen and various life passed below there on the banks of the gleaming river; and as he looks at the scene before him, the sense of familiarity is so much stronger than the perception of change, that he thinks it might be possible to descend23 once more amongst the streets, and take up that busy life where he left it. For it is not only the mountains and the westward-bending river that he recognises; not only the dark sides of Mount Morello opposite to him, and the long valley of the Arno that seems to stretch its grey low-tufted luxuriance to the far-off ridges of Carrara; and the steep height of Fiesole, with its crown of monastic walls and cypresses24; and all the green and grey slopes sprinkled with villas25 which he can name as he looks at them. He sees other familiar objects much closer to his daily walks. For though he misses the seventy or more towers that once surmounted26 the walls, and encircled the city as with a regal diadem27, his eyes will not dwell on that blank; they are drawn28 irresistibly29 to the unique tower springing, like a tall flower-stem drawn towards the sun, from the square turreted30 mass of the Old Palace in the very heart of the city — the tower that looks none the worse for the four centuries that have passed since he used to walk under it. The great dome6, too, greatest in the world, which, in his early boyhood, had been only a daring thought in the mind of a small, quick-eyed man — there it raises its large curves still, eclipsing the hills. And the well-known bell-towers — Giotto’s, with its distant hint of rich colour,and the graceful-spired Badia, and the rest — he looked at them all from the shoulder of his nurse.
‘Surely,’ he thinks, ‘Florence can still ring her bells with the solemn hammer-sound that used to beat on the hearts of her citizens and strike out the fire there. And here, on the right, stands the long dark mass of Santa Croce, where we buried our famous dead, laying the laurel on their cold brows and fanning them with the breath of praise and of banners. But Santa Croce had no spire8 then: we Florentines were too full of great building projects to carry them all out in stone and marble; we had our frescoes31 and our shrines32 to pay for, not to speak of rapacious33 condottieri, bribed34 royalty35, and purchased territories, and our facades36 and spires must needs wait. But what architect can the Frati Minori have employed to build that spire for them? If it had been built in my day, Filippo Brunelleschi or Michelozzo would have devised something of another fashion than that — something worthy37 to crown the church of Arnolfo.’
At this the Spirit, with a sigh, lets his eyes travel on to the city walls, and now he dwells on the change there with wonder at these modern times. Why have five out of the eleven convenient gates been closed? And why, above all, should the towers have been levelled that were once a glory and defence? Is the world become so peaceful, then, and do Florentines dwell in such harmony, that there are no longer conspiracies38 to bring ambitious exiles home again with armed bands at their back? These are difficult questions: it is easier and pleasanter to recognise the old than to account for the new. And there flows Arno, with its bridges just where they used to be — the Ponte Vecchio, least like other bridges in the world, laden39 with the same quaint40 shops where our Spirit remembers lingering a little on his way perhaps to look at the progress of that great palace which Messer Luca Pitti had set a-building with huge stones got from the Hill of Bogoli close behind, or perhaps to transact41 a little business with the cloth-dressers in Oltrarno. The exorbitant42 line of the Pitti roof is hidden from San Miniato; but the yearning44 of the old Florentine is not to see Messer Luca’s too ambitious palace which he built unto himself; it is to be down among those narrow streets and busy humming Piazze where he inherited the eager life of his fathers. Is not the anxious voting with black and white beans still going on down there? Who are the Priorill in these months, eating soberly regulated official dinners in the Palazzo Vecchio, with removes of tripe45 and boiled partridges, seasoned by practical jokes against the ill-fated butt46 among those potent47 signors? Are not the significant banners still hung from the windows — still distributed with decent pomp under Orcagna’s Loggia every two months?
Life had its zest48 for the old Florentine when he, too, trod the marble steps and shared in those dignities. His politics had an area as wide as his trade, which stretched from Syria to Britain, but they had also the passionate49 intensity50, and the detailed51 practical interest, which could belong only to a narrow scene of corporate52 action; only to the members of a community shut in close by the hills and by walls of six miles’ circuit, where men knew each other as they passed in the street, set their eyes every day on the memorials of their commonwealth53, and were conscious of having not simply the right to vote, but the chance of being voted for. He loved his honours and his gains, the business of his counting-house, of his guild54, of the public council-chamber: he loved his enmities too, and fingered the white bean which was to keep a hated name out of the borsa with more complacency than if it had been a golden florin. He loved to strengthen his family by a good alliance, and went home with a triumphant55 light in his eyes after concluding a satisfactory marriage for his son or daughter under his favourite loggia in the evening cool; he loved his game at chess under that same loggia, and his biting jest, and even his coarse joke, as not beneath the dignity of a man eligible56 for the highest magistracy. He had gained an insight into all sorts of affairs at home and abroad: he had been of the ‘Ten’ who managed the war department, of the ‘Eight’ who attended to home discipline, of the Priori or Signori who were the heads of the executive government; he had even risen to the supreme57 office of Gonfaloniere; he had made one in embassies to the Pope and to the Venetians; and he had been commissary to the hired army of the Republic, directing the inglorious bloodless battles in which no man died of brave breast wounds — virtuosi colpi — but only of casual falls and tramplings. And in this way he had learned to distrust men without bitterness; looking on life mainly as a game of skill, but not dead to traditions of heroism58 and clean-handed honour. For the human soul is hospitable59, and will entertain conflicting sentiments and contradictory60 opinions with much impartiality61. It was his pride besides, that he was duly tinctured with the learning of his age, and judged not altogether with the vulgar, but in harmony with the ancients: he, too, in his prime, had been eager for the most correct manuscripts, and had paid many florins for antique vases and for disinterred busts62 of the ancient immortals63 — some, perhaps, truncis naribus, wanting as to the nose, but not the less authentic64; and in his old age he had made haste to look at the first sheets of that fine Homer which was among the early glories of the Florentine press. But he had not, for all that, neglected to hang up a waxen image or double of himself under the protection of the Madonna Annunziata, or to do penance66 for his sins in large gifts to the shrines of saints whose lives had not been modelled on the study of the classics; he had not even neglected making liberal bequests67 towards buildings for the Frati, against whom he had levelled many a jest.
For the Unseen Powers were mighty68. Who knew — who was sure — that there was any name given to them behind which there was no angry force to be appeased69, no intercessory pity to be won? Were not gems70 medicinal, though they only pressed the finger? Were not all things charged with occult virtues71? Lucretius might be right — he was an ancicnt, and a great poet; Luigi Pulci, too, who was suspected of not believing anything from the roof upward (dal tetto in su), had very much the air of being right over the supper-table, when the wine and jests were circulating fast, though he was only a poet in the vulgar tongue. There were even learned personages who maintained that Aristotle, wisest of men (unless, indeed, Plato were wiser?) was a thoroughly72 irreligious philosopher; and a liberal scholar must entertain all speculations73. But the negatives might, after all, prove false; nay74, seemed manifestly false, as the circling hours swept past him, and turned round with graver faces. For had not the world become Christian75? Had he not been baptised in San Giovanni, where the dome is awful with the symbols of coming judgment76, and where the altar bears a crucified Image disturbing to perfect complacency in one’s self and the world? Our resuscitated77 Spirit was not a pagan philosopher, nor a philosophising pagan poet, but a man of the fifteenth century, inheriting its strange web of belief and unbelief; of Epicurean levity78 and fetichistic dread79; of pedantic80 impossible ethics81 uttered by rote65, and crude passions acted out with childish impulsiveness82; of inclination83 towards a self-indulgent paganism, and inevitable84 subjection to that human conscience which, in the unrest of a new growth, was filling the air with strange prophecies and presentiments85.
He had smiled, perhaps, and shaken his head dubiously86, as he heard simple folk talk of a Pope Angelico, who was to come by-and-by and bring in a new order of things, to purify the Church from simony, and the lives of the clergy87 from scandal — a state of affairs too different from what existed under Innocent the Eighth for a shrewd merchant and politician to regard the prospect88 as worthy of entering into his calculations. But he felt the evils of the time, nevertheless; for he was a man of public spirit, and public spirit can never be wholly immoral89, since its essence is care for a common good. That very Quaresima or Lent of 1492 in which he died, still in his erect90 old age, he had listened in San Lorenzo, not without a mixture of satisfaction, to the preaching of a Dominican Friar, named Girolamo Savonarola, who denounced with a rare boldness the worldliness and vicious habits of the clergy, and insisted on the duty of Christian men not to live for their own ease when wrong was triumphing in high places, and not to spend their wealth in outward pomp even in the churches, when their fellow-citizens were suffering from want and sickness. The Frate carried his doctrine91 rather too far for elderly ears; yet it was a memorable92 thing to see a preacher move his audience to such a pitch that the women even took off their ornaments93 and delivered them up to be sold for the benefit of the needy94.
‘He was a noteworthy man, that Prior of San Marco,’ thinks our Spirit; ‘somewhat arrogant95 and extreme, perhaps, especially in his denunciations of speedy vengeance96. Ah, Iddio non paga il Sabato — the wages of men’s sins often linger in their payment, and I myself saw much established wickedness of long-standing prosperity. But a Frate Predicatore who wanted to move the people — how could he be moderate? He might have been a little less defiant97 and curt98, though, to Lorenzo de’ Medici, whose family had been the very makers99 of San Marco: was that quarrel ever made up? And our Lorenzo himself, with the dim outward eyes and the subtle inward vision, did he get over that illness at Careggi? It was but a sad, uneasy-looking face that he would carry out of the world which had given him so much, and there were strong suspicions that his handsome son would play the part of Rehoboam. How has it all turned out? Which party is likely to be banished100 and have its houses sacked just now? Is there any successor of the incomparable Lorenzo, to whom the great Turk is so gracious as to send over presents of rare animals, rare relics101, rare manuscripts or fugitive102 enemies, suited to the tastes of a Christian Magnifico who is at once lettered and devout103 — and also slightly vindictive104? And what famous scholar is dictating105 the Latin letters of the Republic — what fiery106 philosopher is lecturing on Dante in the Duomo, and going home to write bitter invectives against the father and mother of the bad critic who may have found fault with his classical spelling? Are our wiser heads leaning towards alliance with the Pope and the Regno, or are they rather inclining their ears to the orators107 of France and of Milan?
‘There is knowledge of these things to be had in the streets below, on the beloved marmi in front of the churches, and under the sheltering Loggie, where surely our citizens have still their gossip and debates, their bitter and merry jests as of old. For are not the well-remembered buildings all there? The changes have not been so great in those uncounted years. I will go down and hear — I will tread the familiar pavement, and hear once again the speech of Florentines.’
Go not down, good Spirit! for the changes are great and the speech of Florentines would sound as a riddle108 in your ears. Or, if you go, mingle11 with no politicians on the marmi, or elsewhere; ask no questions about trade in the Calimara; confuse yourself with no inquiries109 into scholarship, official or monastic. Only look at the sunlight and shadows on the grand walls that were built solidly, and have endured in their grandeur110; look at the faces of the little children, making another sunlight amid the shadows of age; look, if you will, into the churches, and hear the same chants, see the same images as of old — the images of willing anguish111 for a great end, of beneficent love and ascending112 glory; see upturned living faces, and lips moving to the old prayers for help. These things have not changed. The sunlight and shadows bring their old beauty and waken the old heart-strains at morning, noon, and eventide; the little children are still the symbol of the eternal marriage between love and duty; and men still yearn43 for the reign113 of peace and righteousness — still own that life to be the highest which is a conscious voluntary sacrifice. For the Pope Angelico is not come yet.
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1 mid | |
adj.中央的,中间的 | |
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2 alpine | |
adj.高山的;n.高山植物 | |
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3 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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4 isles | |
岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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5 unstable | |
adj.不稳定的,易变的 | |
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6 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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7 domes | |
n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 );像圆屋顶一样的东西;圆顶体育场 | |
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8 spire | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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9 spires | |
n.(教堂的) 塔尖,尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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10 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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11 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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12 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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13 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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14 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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15 ebb | |
vi.衰退,减退;n.处于低潮,处于衰退状态 | |
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16 pulsate | |
v.有规律的跳动 | |
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17 flux | |
n.流动;不断的改变 | |
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18 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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19 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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20 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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21 surmounts | |
战胜( surmount的第三人称单数 ); 克服(困难); 居于…之上; 在…顶上 | |
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22 penetrating | |
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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23 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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24 cypresses | |
n.柏属植物,柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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25 villas | |
别墅,公馆( villa的名词复数 ); (城郊)住宅 | |
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26 surmounted | |
战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 ); 克服(困难); 居于…之上; 在…顶上 | |
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27 diadem | |
n.王冠,冕 | |
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28 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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29 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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30 turreted | |
a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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31 frescoes | |
n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 );温壁画技法,湿壁画 | |
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32 shrines | |
圣地,圣坛,神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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33 rapacious | |
adj.贪婪的,强夺的 | |
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34 bribed | |
v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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35 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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36 facades | |
n.(房屋的)正面( facade的名词复数 );假象,外观 | |
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37 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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38 conspiracies | |
n.阴谋,密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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39 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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40 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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41 transact | |
v.处理;做交易;谈判 | |
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42 exorbitant | |
adj.过分的;过度的 | |
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43 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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44 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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45 tripe | |
n.废话,肚子, 内脏 | |
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46 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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47 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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48 zest | |
n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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49 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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50 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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51 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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52 corporate | |
adj.共同的,全体的;公司的,企业的 | |
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53 commonwealth | |
n.共和国,联邦,共同体 | |
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54 guild | |
n.行会,同业公会,协会 | |
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55 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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56 eligible | |
adj.有条件被选中的;(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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57 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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58 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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59 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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60 contradictory | |
adj.反驳的,反对的,抗辩的;n.正反对,矛盾对立 | |
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61 impartiality | |
n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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62 busts | |
半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 ); 妇女的胸部; 胸围; 突击搜捕 | |
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63 immortals | |
不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 ); 永生不朽者 | |
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64 authentic | |
a.真的,真正的;可靠的,可信的,有根据的 | |
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65 rote | |
n.死记硬背,生搬硬套 | |
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66 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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67 bequests | |
n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 );遗产,遗赠物 | |
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68 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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69 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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70 gems | |
growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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71 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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72 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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73 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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74 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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75 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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76 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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77 resuscitated | |
v.使(某人或某物)恢复知觉,苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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79 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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80 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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81 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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82 impulsiveness | |
n.冲动 | |
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83 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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84 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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85 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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86 dubiously | |
adv.可疑地,怀疑地 | |
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87 clergy | |
n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
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88 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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89 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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90 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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91 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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92 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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93 ornaments | |
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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94 needy | |
adj.贫穷的,贫困的,生活艰苦的 | |
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95 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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96 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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97 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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98 curt | |
adj.简短的,草率的 | |
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99 makers | |
n.制造者,制造商(maker的复数形式) | |
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100 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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102 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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103 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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104 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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105 dictating | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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106 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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107 orators | |
n.演说者,演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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108 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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109 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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110 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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111 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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112 ascending | |
adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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113 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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