Whate’er Lorraine light touch’d with soft’ning hue2,
Or savage3 Rosa dash’d, or learned Poussin drew.
He turns aside to view a country gentleman’s seat with eager looks, thinking it may contain some of the rich products of art. There is an air round Lord Radnor’s park, for there hang the two Claudes, the Morning and Evening of the Roman Empire — round Wilton House, for there is Vandyke’s picture of the Pembroke family — round Blenheim, for there is his picture of the Duke of Buckingham’s children, and the most magnificent collection of Rubenses in the world — at Knowsley, for there is Rembrandt’s Handwriting on the Wall — and at Burleigh, for there are some of Guido’s angelic heads. The young artist makes a pilgrimage to each of these places, eyes them wistfully at a distance, ‘bosomed high in tufted trees,’ and feels an interest in them of which the owner is scarce conscious: he enters the well-swept walks and echoing archways, passes the threshold, is led through wainscoted rooms, is shown the furniture, the rich hangings, the tapestry4, the massy services of plate — and, at last, is ushered5 into the room where his treasure is, the idol6 of his vows7 — some speaking face or bright landscape! It is stamped on his brain, and lives there thenceforward, a tally8 for nature, and a test of art. He furnishes out the chambers9 of the mind from the spoils of time, picks and chooses which shall have the best places — nearest his heart. He goes away richer than he came, richer than the possessor; and thinks that he may one day return, when he perhaps shall have done something like them, or even from failure shall have learned to admire truth and genius more.
My first initiation10 in the mysteries of the art was at the Orleans Gallery: it was there I formed my taste, such as it is; so that I am irreclaimably of the old school in painting. I was staggered when I saw the works there collected, and looked at them with wondering and with longing11 eyes. A mist passed away from my sight: the scales fell off. A new sense came upon me, a new heaven and a new earth stood before me. I saw the soul speaking in the face —‘hands that the rod of empire had swayed’ in mighty12 ages past —‘a forked mountain or blue promontory,’
— with trees upon’t
That nod unto the world, and mock our eyes with air.
Old Time had unlocked his treasures, and Fame stood portress at the door. We had all heard of the names of Titian, Raphael, Guido, Domenichino, the Caracci — but to see them face to face, to be in the same room with their deathless productions, was like breaking some mighty spell — was almost an effect of necromancy13! From that time I lived in a world of pictures. Battles, sieges, speeches in parliament seemed mere14 idle noise and fury, ‘signifying nothing,’ compared with those mighty works and dreaded15 names that spoke16 to me in the eternal silence of thought. This was the more remarkable17, as it was but a short time before that I was not only totally ignorant of, but insensible to the beauties of art. As an instance, I remember that one afternoon I was reading The Provoked Husband with the highest relish18, with a green woody landscape of Ruysdael or Hobbima just before me, at which I looked off the book now and then, and wondered what there could be in that sort of work to satisfy or delight the mind — at the same time asking myself, as a speculative19 question, whether I should ever feel an interest in it like what I took in reading Vanbrugh and Cibber?
I had made some progress in painting when I went to the Louvre to study, and I never did anything afterwards. I never shall forget conning20 over the Catalogue which a friend lent me just before I set out. The pictures, the names of the painters, seemed to relish in the mouth. There was one of Titian’s Mistress at her toilette. Even the colours with which the painter had adorned21 her hair were not more golden, more amiable22 to sight, than those which played round and tantalised my fancy ere I saw the picture. There were two portraits by the same hand —‘A young Nobleman with a glove’— Another, ‘a companion to it.’ I read the description over and over with fond expectancy23, and filled up the imaginary outline with whatever I could conceive of grace, and dignity, and an antique gusto — all but equal to the original. There was the Transfiguration too. With what awe24 I saw it in my mind’s eye, and was overshadowed with the spirit of the artist! Not to have been disappointed with these works afterwards, was the highest compliment I can pay to their transcendent merits. Indeed, it was from seeing other works of the same great masters that I had formed a vague, but no disparaging25 idea of these. The first day I got there, I was kept for some time in the French Exhibition Room, and thought I should not be able to get a sight of the old masters. I just caught a peep at them through the door (vile hindrance26!) like looking out of purgatory27 into paradise — from Poussin’s noble, mellow-looking landscapes to where Rubens hung out his gaudy28 banner, and down the glimmering29 vista30 to the rich jewels of Titian and the Italian school. At last, by much importunity31, I was admitted, and lost not an instant in making use of my new privilege. It was un beau jour to me. I marched delighted through a quarter of a mile of the proudest efforts of the mind of man, a whole creation of genius, a universe of art! I ran the gauntlet of all the schools from the bottom to the top; and in the end got admitted into the inner room, where they had been repairing some of their greatest works. Here the Transfiguration, the St. Peter Martyr32, and the St. Jerome of Domenichino stood on the floor, as if they had bent33 their knees, like camels stooping, to unlade their riches to the spectator. On one side, on an easel, stood Hippolito de Medici (a portrait by Titian), with a boar-spear in his hand, looking through those he saw, till you turned away from the keen glance; and thrown together in heaps were landscapes of the same hand, green pastoral hills and vales, and shepherds piping to their mild mistresses underneath34 the flowering shade. Reader, ‘if thou hast not seen the Louvre thou art damned!’— for thou hast not seen the choicest remains35 of the works of art; or thou hast not seen all these together with their mutually reflected glories. I say nothing of the statues; for I know but little of sculpture, and never liked any till I saw the Elgin Marbles. . . . Here, for four months together, I strolled and studied, and daily heard the warning sound —‘Quatres heures passees, il faut fermer, Citoyens’—(Ah! why did they ever change their style?) muttered in coarse provincial36 French; and brought away with me some loose draughts37 and fragments, which I have been forced to part with, like drops of life-blood, for ‘hard money.’ How often, thou tenantless38 mansion39 of godlike magnificence — how often has my heart since gone a pilgrimage to thee!
It has been made a question, whether the artist, or the mere man of taste and natural sensibility, receives most pleasure from the contemplation of works of art; and I think this question might be answered by another as a sort of experimentum crucis, namely, whether any one out of that ‘number numberless’ of mere gentlemen and amateurs, who visited Paris at the period here spoken of, felt as much interest, as much pride or pleasure in this display of the most striking monuments of art as the humblest student would? The first entrance into the Louvre would be only one of the events of his journey, not an event in his life, remembered ever after with thankfulness and regret. He would explore it with the same unmeaning curiosity and idle wonder as he would the Regalia in the Tower, or the Botanic Garden in the Tuileries, but not with the fond enthusiasm of an artist. How should he? His is ‘casual fruition, joyless, unendeared.’ But the painter is wedded40 to his art — the mistress, queen, and idol of his soul. He has embarked41 his all in it, fame, time, fortune, peace of mind — his hopes in youth, his consolation42 in age: and shall he not feel a more intense interest in whatever relates to it than the mere indolent trifler? Natural sensibility alone, without the entire application of the mind to that one object, will not enable the possessor to sympathise with all the degrees of beauty and power in the conceptions of a Titian or a Correggio; but it is he only who does this, who follows them into all their force and matchless race, that does or can feel their full value. Knowledge is pleasure as well as power. No one but the artist who has studied nature and contended with the difficulties of art, can be aware of the beauties, or intoxicated43 with a passion for painting. No one who has not devoted44 his life and soul to the pursuit of art can feel the same exultation45 in its brightest ornaments46 and loftiest triumphs which an artist does. Where the treasure is, there the heart is also. It is now seventeen years since I was studying in the Louvre (and I have on since given up all thoughts of the art as a profession), but long after I returned, and even still, I sometimes dream of being there again — of asking for the old pictures — and not finding them, or finding them changed or faded from what they were, I cry myself awake! What gentleman-amateur ever does this at such a distance of time — that is, ever received pleasure or took interest enough in them to produce so lasting47 an impression?
But it is said that if a person had the same natural taste, and the same acquired knowledge as an artist, without the petty interests and technical notions, he would derive48 a purer pleasure from seeing a fine portrait, a fine landscape, and so on. This, however, is not so much begging the question as asking an impossibility: he cannot have the same insight into the end without having studied the means; nor the same love of art without the same habitual49 and exclusive attachment50 to it. Painters are, no doubt, often actuated by jealousy51 to that only which they find useful to themselves in painting. Wilson has been seen poring over the texture52 of a Dutch cabinet-picture, so that he could not see the picture itself. But this is the perversion53 and pedantry54 of the profession, not its true or genuine spirit. If Wilson had never looked at anything but megilps and handling, he never would have put the soul of life and manners into his pictures, as he has done. Another objection is, that the instrumental parts of the art, the means, the first rudiments55, paints, oils, and brushes, are painful and disgusting; and that the consciousness of the difficulty and anxiety with which perfection has been attained56 must take away from the pleasure of the finest performance. This, however, is only an additional proof of the greater pleasure derived57 by the artist from his profession; for these things which are said to interfere58 with and destroy the common interest in works of art do not disturb him; he never once thinks of them, he is absorbed in the pursuit of a higher object; he is intent, not on the means, but the end; he is taken up, not with the difficulties, but with the triumph over them. As in the case of the anatomist, who overlooks many things in the eagerness of his search after abstract truth; or the alchemist who, while he is raking into his soot59 and furnaces, lives in a golden dream; a lesser60 gives way to a greater object. But it is pretended that the painter may be supposed to submit to the unpleasant part of the process only for the sake of the fame or profit in view. So far is this from being a true state of the case, that I will venture to say, in the instance of a friend of mine who has lately succeeded in an important undertaking61 in his art, that not all the fame he has acquired, not all the money he has received from thousands of admiring spectators, not all the newspaper puffs62 — nor even the praise of the Edinburgh Review — not all these put together ever gave him at any time the same genuine, undoubted satisfaction as any one half-hour employed in the ardent63 and propitious64 pursuit of his art — in finishing to his heart’s content a foot, a hand, or even a piece of drapery. What is the state of mind of an artist while he is at work? He is then in the act of realising the highest idea he can form of beauty or grandeur65: he conceives, he embodies66 that which he understands and loves best: that is, he is in full and perfect possession of that which is to him the source of the highest happiness and intellectual excitement which he can enjoy.
In short, as a conclusion to this argument, I will mention a circumstance which fell under my knowledge the other day. A friend had bought a print of Titian’s Mistress, the same to which I have alluded67 above. He was anxious to show it me on this account. I told him it was a spirited engraving68, but it had not the look of the original. I believe he thought this fastidious, till I offered to show him a rough sketch69 of it, which I had by me. Having seen this, he said he perceived exactly what I meant, and could not bear to look at the print afterwards. He had good sense enough to see the difference in the individual instance; but a person better acquainted with Titian’s manner and with art in general — that is, of a more cultivated and refined taste — would know that it was a bad print, without having any immediate70 model to compare it with. He would perceive with a glance of the eye, with a sort of instinctive71 feeling, that it was hard, and without that bland72, expansive, and nameless expression which always distinguished73 Titian’s most famous works. Any one who is accustomed to a head in a picture can never reconcile himself to a print from it; but to the ignorant they are both the same. To a vulgar eye there is no difference between a Guido and a daub — between a penny print, or the vilest74 scrawl75, and the most finished performance. In other words, all that excellence76 which lies between these two extremes — all, at least, that marks the excess above mediocrity — all that constitutes true beauty, harmony, refinement77, grandeur, is lost upon the common observer. But it is from this point that the delight, the glowing raptures78 of the true adept79 commence. An uninformed spectator may like an ordinary drawing better than the ablest connoisseur80; but for that very reason he cannot like the highest specimens81 of art so well. The refinements82 not only of execution but of truth and nature are inaccessible83 to unpractised eyes. The exquisite gradations in a sky of Claude’s are not perceived by such persons, and consequently the harmony cannot be felt. Where there is no conscious apprehension84, there can be no conscious pleasure. Wonder at the first sights of works of art may be the effect of ignorance and novelty; but real admiration85 and permanent delight in them are the growth of taste and knowledge. ‘I would not wish to have your eyes,’ said a good-natured man to a critic who was finding fault with a picture in which the other saw no blemish86. Why so? The idea which prevented him from admiring this inferior production was a higher idea of truth and beauty which was ever present with him, and a continual source of pleasing and lofty contemplations. It may be different in a taste for outward luxuries and the privations of mere sense; but the idea of perfection, which acts as an intellectual foil, is always an addition, a support, and a proud consolation!
Richardson, in his Essays, which ought to be better known, has left some striking examples of the felicity and infelicity of artists, both as it relates to their external fortune and to the practice of their art. In speaking of the knowledge of hands, he exclaims: ‘When one is considering a picture or a drawing, one at the same time thinks this was done by him6 who had many extraordinary endowments of body and mind, but was withal very capricious; who was honoured in life and death, expiring in the arms of one of the greatest princes of that age, Francis I., King of France, who loved him as a friend. Another is of him7 who lived a long and happy life, beloved of Charles V. emperor; and many others of the first princes of Europe. When one has another in hand, we think this was done by one8 who so excelled in three arts as that any of them in that degree had rendered him worthy87 of immortality88; and one moreover that durst contend with his sovereign (one of the haughtiest89 popes that ever was) upon a slight offered to him, and extricated90 himself with honour. Another is the work of him9 who, without any one exterior91 advantage but mere strength of genius, had the most sublime92 imaginations, and executed them accordingly, yet lived and died obscurely. Another we shall consider as the work of him10 who restored Painting when it had almost sunk; of him whom art made honourable93, but who, neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical94 pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not his intrinsic worth; which, (he) not having philosophy enough to bear it, broke his heart. Another is done by one11 who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman and lived in great magnificence, and was much honoured by his own and foreign princes; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter; and so much all these, that when he acted in either character, that seemed to be his business, and the others his diversion. I say when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from the beauties and excellences95 of the work, the fine ideas it gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking it suggest to us, an additional pleasure results from the above considerations. But, oh! the pleasure, when a connoisseur and lover of art has before him a picture or drawing of which he can say this is the hand, these are the thoughts of him12 who was one of the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was; and beloved and assisted by the greatest wits and the greatest men then in Rome: of him who lived in great fame, honour, and magnificence, and died extremely lamented96; and missed a Cardinal’s hat only by dying a few months too soon; but was particularly esteemed97 and favoured by two Popes, the only ones who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time, and as great men as ever sat there since that apostle, if at least he ever did: one, in short, who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Titian, a Correggio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any other whom he pleased, but none of them could ever have been a Raffaelle.’
The same writer speaks feelingly of the change in the style of different artists from their change of fortune, and as the circumstances are little known I will quote the passage relating to two of them:—
‘Guido Reni, from a prince-like affluence98 of fortune (the just reward of his angelic works), fell to a condition like that of a hired servant to one who supplied him with money for what he did at a fixed99 rate; and that by his being bewitched by a passion for gaming, whereby he lost vast sums of money; and even what he got in his state of servitude by day, he commonly lost at night: nor could he ever be cured of this cursed madness. Those of his works, therefore, which he did in this unhappy part of his life may easily be conceived to be in a different style to what he did before, which in some things, that is, in the airs of his heads (in the gracious kind) had a delicacy100 in them peculiar101 to himself, and almost more than human. But I must not multiply instance variation, and all the degrees of goodness, from the lowest of the indifferent up to the sublime. I can produce evident proofs of this in so easy a gradation, that one cannot deny but that he that did this might do that, and very probably did so; and thus one may ascend102 and descend103, like the angels on Jacob’s ladder, whose foot was upon the earth, but its top reached to Heaven.
‘And this great man had his unlucky circumstance. He became mad after the philosopher’s stone, and did but very little in painting or drawing afterwards. Judge what that was, and whether there was not an alteration104 of style from what he had done before this devil possessed105 him. His creditors106 endeavoured to exorcise him, and did him some good, for he set himself to work again in his own way; but if a drawing I have of a Lucretia be that he made for his last picture, as it probably is (Vasari says that was the subject of it), it is an evident proof of his decay; it is good indeed, but it wants much of the delicacy which is commonly seen in his works; and so I always thought before I knew or imagined it to be done in this his ebb107 of genius.’
We have had two artists of our own country whose fate has been as singular as it was hard: Gandy was a portrait-painter in the beginning of the last century, whose heads were said to have come near to Rembrandt’s, and he was the undoubted prototype of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s style. Yet his name has scarcely been heard of; and his reputation, like his works, never extended beyond his own country. What did he think of himself and of a fame so bounded? Did he ever dream he was indeed an artist? Or how did this feeling in him differ from the vulgar conceit108 of the lowest pretender? The best known of his works is a portrait of an alderman of Exeter, in some public building in that city.
Poor Dan. Stringer! Forty years ago he had the finest hand and the clearest eye of any artist of his time, and produced heads and drawings that would not have disgraced a brighter period in the art. But he fell a martyr (like Burns) to the society of country gentlemen, and then of those whom they would consider as more his equals. I saw him many years ago when he treated the masterly sketches109 he had by him (one in particular of the group of citizens in Shakespeare ‘swallowing the tailor’s news’) as ‘bastards of his genius, not his children,’ and seemed to have given up all thoughts of his art. Whether he is since dead, I cannot say; the world do not so much as know that he ever lived!
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1
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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2
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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3
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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4
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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5
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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7
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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8
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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9
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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10
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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12
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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15
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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16
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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17
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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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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41
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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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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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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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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57
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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58
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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83
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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86
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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88
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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89
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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98
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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103
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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104
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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107
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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108
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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109
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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