Cobbett is not so difficult. He has been compared to Paine; and so far it is true there are no two writers who come more into juxtaposition9 from the nature of their subjects, from the internal resources on which they draw, and from the popular effect of their writings and their adaptation (though that is a bad word in the present case) to the capacity of every reader. But still if we turn to a volume of Paine’s (his Common Sense or Rights of Man) we are struck (not to say somewhat refreshed) by the difference. Paine is a much more sententious writer than Cobbett. You cannot open a page in any of his best and earlier works without meeting with some maxim10, some antithetical and memorable11 saying, which is a sort of starting-place for the argument, and the goal to which it returns. There is not a single bon mot, a single sentence in Cobbett that has ever been quoted again. If anything is ever quoted from him, it is an epithet12 of abuse or a nickname. He is an excellent hand at invention in that way, and has ‘damnable iteration’ in him. What could be better than his pestering13 Erskine year after year with his second title of Baron14 Clackmannan? He is rather too fond of the Sons and Daughters of Corruption15. Paine affected17 to reduce things to first principles, to announce self-evident truths. Cobbett troubles himself about little but the details and local circumstances. The first appeared to have made up his mind beforehand to certain opinions, and to try to find the most compendious18 and pointed19 expressions for them: his successor appears to have no clue, no fixed20 or leading principles, nor ever to have thought on a question till he sits down to write about it; but then there seems no end of his matters of fact and raw materials, which are brought out in all their strength and sharpness from not having been squared or frittered down or vamped up to suit a theory — he goes on with his descriptions and illustrations as if he would never come to a stop; they have all the force of novelty with all the familiarity of old acquaintance; his knowledge grows out of the subject, and his style is that of a man who has an absolute intuition of what he is talking about, and never thinks of anything else. He deals in premises21 and speaks to evidence — the coming to a conclusion and summing up (which was Paine’s forte) lies in a smaller compass. The one could not compose an elementary treatise22 on politics to become a manual for the popular reader, nor could the other in all probability have kept up a weekly journal for the same number of years with the same spirit, interest, and untired perseverance23. Paine’s writings are a sort of introduction to political arithmetic on a new plan: Cobbett keeps a day-book, and makes an entry at full of all the occurrences and troublesome questions that start up throughout the year. Cobbett, with vast industry, vast information, and the utmost power of making what he says intelligible24, never seems to get at the beginning or come to the end of any question: Paine in a few short sentences seems by his peremptory25 manner ‘to clear it from all controversy26, past, present, and to come.’ Paine takes a bird’s-eye view of things. Cobbett sticks close to them, inspects the component27 parts, and keeps fast hold of the smallest advantages they afford him. Or, if I might here be indulged in a pastoral allusion28, Paine tries to enclose his ideas in a fold for security and repose29; Cobbett lets his pour out upon the plain like a flock of sheep to feed and batten. Cobbett is a pleasanter writer for those to read who do not agree with him; for he is less dogmatical, goes more into the common grounds of fact and argument to which all appeal, is more desultory30 and various, and appears less to be driving at a present conclusion than urged on by the force of present conviction. He is therefore tolerated by all parties, though he has made himself by turns obnoxious31 to all; and even those he abuses read him. The Reformers read him when he was a Tory, and the Tories read him now that he is a Reformer. He must, I think, however, be caviare to the Whigs.22
If he is less metaphysical and poetical32 than his celebrated33 prototype, he is more picturesque and dramatic. His episodes, which are numerous as they are pertinent7, are striking, interesting, full of life and naivete, minute, double measure running over, but never tedious —nunquam sufflaminandus erat. He is one of those writers who can never tire us, not even of himself; and the reason is, he is always ‘full of matter.’ He never runs to lees, never gives us the vapid34 leavings of himself, is never ‘weary, stale, and unprofitable,’ but always setting out afresh on his journey, clearing away some old nuisance, and turning up new mould. His egotism is delightful35, for there is no affectation in it. He does not talk of himself for lack of something to write about, but because some circumstance that has happened to himself is the best possible illustration of the subject, and he is not the man to shrink from giving the best possible illustration of the subject from a squeamish delicacy36. He likes both himself and his subject too well. He does not put himself before it, and say, ‘Admire me first,’ but places us in the same situation with himself, and makes us see all that he does. There is no blindman’s-buff, no conscious hints, no awkward ventriloquism, no testimonies37 of applause, no abstract, senseless self-complacency, no smuggled38 admiration39 of his own person by proxy40: it is all plain and above-board. He writes himself plain William Cobbett, strips himself quite as naked as anybody would wish — in a word, his egotism is full of individuality, and has room for very little vanity in it. We feel delighted, rub our hands, and draw our chair to the fire, when we come to a passage of this sort: we know it will be something new and good, manly41 and simple, not the same insipid42 story of self over again. We sit down at table with the writer, but it is to a course of rich viands43, flesh, fish, and wild-fowl, and not to a nominal44 entertainment, like that given by the Barmecide in the Arabian Nights, who put off his visitors with calling for a number of exquisite45 things that never appeared, and with the honour of his company. Mr. Cobbett is not a make-believe writer: his worst enemy cannot say that of him. Still less is he a vulgar one: he must be a puny46, common-place critic indeed who thinks him so. How fine were the graphical descriptions he sent us from America: what a Transatlantic flavour, what a native gusto, what a fine sauce piquante of contempt they were seasoned with! If he had sat down to look at himself in the glass, instead of looking about him like Adam in Paradise, he would not have got up these articles in so capital a style. What a noble account of his first breakfast after his arrival in America! It might serve for a month. There is no scene on the stage more amusing. How well he paints the gold and scarlet47 plumage of the American birds, only to lament48 more pathetically the want of the wild wood-notes of his native land! The groves49 of the Ohio that had just fallen beneath the axe’s stroke ‘live in his description,’ and the turnips50 that he transplanted from Botley ‘look green’ in prose! How well at another time he describes the poor sheep that had got the tick and had bled down in the agonies of death! It is a portrait in the manner of Bewick, with the strength, the simplicity51, and feeling of that great naturalist52. What havoc53 be makes, when he pleases, of the curls of Dr. Parr’s wig54 and of the Whig consistency55 of Mr. (Coleridge?)! His Grammar, too, is as entertaining as a story-book. He is too hard upon the style of others, and not enough (sometimes) on his own.
As a political partisan57 no one can stand against him. With his brandished58 club, like Giant Despair in the Pilgrim’s Progress, he knocks out their brains; and not only no individual but no corrupt16 system could hold out against his powerful and repeated attacks, but with the same weapon, swung round like a flail59, that he levels his antagonists60, he lays his friends low, and puts his own party hors de combat. This is a bad propensity62., and a worse principle in political tactics, though a common one. If his blows were straightforward63 and steadily64 directed to the same object, no unpopular minister could live before him; instead of which he lays about right and left, impartially65 and remorselessly, makes a clear stage, has all the ring to himself, and then runs out of it, just when he should stand his ground. He throws his head into his adversary’s stomach, and takes away from him all inclination66 for the fight, hits fair or foul67, strikes at everything, and as you come up to his aid or stand ready to pursue his advantage, trips up your heels or lays you sprawling68, and pummels you when down as much to his heart’s content as ever the Yanguesian carriers belaboured Rosinante with their pack-staves. ‘He has the back-trick simply the best of any man in Illyria.’ He pays off both scores of old friendship and new-acquired enmity in a breath, in one perpetual volley, one raking fire of ‘arrowy sleet’ shot from his pen. However his own reputation or the cause may suffer in consequence, he cares not one pin about that, so that he disables all who oppose, or who pretend to help him. In fact, he cannot bear success of any kind, not even of his own views or party; and if any principle were likely to become popular, would turn round against it to show his power in shouldering it on one side. In short, wherever power is, there he is against it: he naturally butts69 at all obstacles, as unicorns70 are attracted to oak trees, and feels his own strength only by resistance to the opinions and wishes of the rest of the world. To sail with the stream, to agree with the company, is not his humour. If he could bring about a Reform in Parliament, the odds71 are that he would instantly fall foul of and try to mar56 his own handiwork; and he quarrels with his own creatures as soon as he has written them into a little vogue72 — and a prison. I do not think this is vanity or fickleness73 so much as a pugnacious74 disposition75, that must have an antagonistic76 power to contend with, and only finds itself at ease in systematic77 opposition78. If it were not for this, the high towers and rotten places of the world would fall before the battering-ram of his hard-headed reasoning; but if he once found them tottering79, he would apply his strength to prop61 them up, and disappoint the expectations of his followers80. He cannot agree to anything established, nor to set up anything else in its stead. While it is established, he presses hard against it, because it presses upon him, at least in imagination. Let it crumble81 under his grasp, and the motive82 to resistance is gone. He then requires some other grievance83 to set his face against. His principle is repulsion, his nature contradiction: he is made up of mere84 antipathies85, an Ishmaelite indeed without a fellow. He is always playing at hunt-the-slipper in politics. He turns round upon whoever is next him. The way to wean him from any opinion, and make him conceive an intolerable hatred86 against it, would be to place somebody near him who was perpetually dinning87 it in his ears. When he is in England he does nothing but abuse the Boroughmongers and laugh at the whole system; when he is in America he grows impatient of freedom and a republic. If he had stayed there a little longer he would have become a loyal and a loving subject of His Majesty88 King George IV. He lampooned89 the French Revolution when it was hailed as the dawn of liberty by millions: by the time it was brought into almost universal ill-odour by some means or other (partly no doubt by himself), he had turned, with one or two or three others, staunch Buonapartist. He is always of the militant90, not of the triumphant91 party: so far he bears a gallant92 show of magnanimity. But his gallantry is hardly of the right stamp. It wants principle; for though he is not servile or mercenary, he is the victim of self-will. He must pull down and pull in pieces: it is not in his disposition to do otherwise. It is a pity; for with his great talents he might do great things, if he would go right forward to any useful object, make thorough stitch-work of any question, or join hand and heart with any principle. He changes his opinions as he does his friends, and much on the same account. He has no comfort in fixed principles; as soon as anything is settled in his own mind, he quarrels with it. He has no satisfaction but the chase after truth, runs a question down, worries and kills it, then quits it like a vermin, and starts some new game, to lead him a new dance, and give him a fresh breathing through bog94 and brake, with the rabble95 yelping96 at his heels and the leaders perpetually at fault. This he calls sport-royal. He thinks it as good as cudgel-playing or single-stick, or anything else that has life in it. He likes the cut and thrust, the falls, bruises97, and dry blows of an argument: as to any good or useful results that may come of the amicable98 settling of it, any one is welcome to them for him. The amusement is over when the matter is once fairly decided99.
There is another point of view in which this may be put. I might say that Mr. Cobbett is a very honest man with a total want of principle, and I might explain this paradox100 thus:— I mean that he is, I think, in downright earnest in what he says, in the part he takes at the time; but in taking that part, he is led entirely101 by headstrong obstinacy102, caprice, novelty ‘pique, or personal motive of some sort, and not by a steadfast103 regard for truth or habitual104 anxiety for what is right uppermost in his mind. He is not a fee’d, time-serving, shuffling105 advocate (no man could write as he does who did not believe himself sincere); but his understanding is the dupe and slave of his momentary106, violent, and irritable107 humours. He does not adopt an opinion ‘deliberately or for money,’ yet his conscience is at the mercy of the first provocation108 he receives, of the first whim109 he takes in his head: he sees things through the medium of heat and passion, not with reference to any general principles, and his whole system of thinking is deranged110 by the first object that strikes his fancy or sours his temper education. He is a self-taught man, and has the faults as well as excellences111 of that class of persons in their most striking and glaring excess. It must be acknowledged that the editor of the Political Register (the twopenny trash, as it was called, till a bill passed the House to raise the price to sixpence) is not ‘the gentleman and scholar,’ though he has qualities that, with a little better management, would be worth (to the public) both those titles. For want of knowing what has been discovered before him, he has not certain general landmarks112 to refer to, or a general standard of thought to apply to individual cases. He relies on his own acuteness and the immediate113 evidence, without being acquainted with the comparative anatomy114 or philosophical115 structure of opinion. He does not view things on a large scale or at the horizon (dim and airy enough, perhaps)— but as they affect himself, close, palpable, tangible116. Whatever he finds out is his own, and he only knows what he finds out. He is in the constant hurry and fever of gestation117; his brain teems118 incessantly119 with some fresh project. Every new light is the birth of a new system, the dawn of a new world outstripping120 and overreaching himself. The last opinion is the only true one. He is wiser today than he was yesterday. Why should he not be wiser tomorrow than he was today? — Men of a learned education are not so sharp-witted as clever men without it; but they know the balance of the human intellect better; if they are more stupid, they are more steady, and are less liable to be led astray by their own sagacity and the overweening petulance121 of hard-earned and late-acquired wisdom. They do not fall in love with every meretricious122 extravagance at first sight, or mistake an old battered123 hypothesis for a vestal, because they are new to the ways of this old world. They do not seize upon it as a prize, but are safe from gross imposition by being as wise and no wiser than those who went before them.
Paine said on some occasion, ‘What I have written, I have written’— as rendering124 any further declaration of his principles unnecessary. Not so Mr. Cobbett. What he has written is no rule to him what he is to write maintain the opinions of the last six days against friend or foe5. I doubt whether this outrageous125 inconsistency, this headstrong fickleness, this understood want of all rule and method, does not enable him to go on with the spirit, vigour126, and variety that he does. He is not pledged to repeat himself. Every new Register is a kind of new Prospectus127. He blesses himself from all ties and shackles128 on his understanding; he has no mortgages on his brain; his notions are free and unencumbered. If he was put in trammels, he might become a vile93 hack129 like so many more. But he gives himself ‘ample scope and verge130 enough.’ He takes both sides of a question, and maintains one as sturdily as the other. If nobody else can argue against him, he is a very good match for himself. He writes better in favour of Reform than anybody else; he used to write better against it. Wherever he is, there is the tug131 of war, the weight of the argument, the strength of abuse. He is not like a man in danger of being bed-rid in his faculties132 — he tosses and tumbles about his unwieldy bulk, and when he is tired of lying on one side, relieves himself by turning on the other. His shifting his point of view from time to time not merely adds variety and greater compass to his topics (so that the Political Register is an armoury and magazine for all the materials and weapons of political warfare), but it gives a greater zest133 and liveliness to his manner of treating them. Mr. Cobbett takes nothing for granted as what he has proved before; he does not write a book of reference. We see his ideas in their first concoction134, fermenting135 and overflowing136 with the ebullitions of a lively conception. We look on at the actual process, and are put in immediate possession of the grounds and materials on which he forms his sanguine137, unsettled conclusions. He does not give us samples of reasoning, but the whole solid mass, refuse and all.
He pours out all as plain
As downright Shippen or as old Montaigne.
This is one cause of the clearness and force of his writings. An argument does not stop to stagnate138 and muddle139 in his brain, but passes at once to his paper. His ideas are served up, like pancakes, hot and hot. Fresh theories give him fresh courage. He is like a young and lusty bridegroom that divorces a favourite speculation140 every morning, and marries a new one every night. He is not wedded141 to his notions, not he. He has not one Mrs. Cobbett among all his opinions. He makes the most of the last thought that has come in his way, seizes fast hold of it, rumbles142 it about in all directions with rough strong hands, has his wicked will of it, takes a surfeit143, and throws it away. — Our author’s changing his opinions for new ones is not so wonderful; what is more remarkable144 is his facility in forgetting his old ones. He does not pretend to consistency (like Mr. Coleridge); he frankly145 disavows all connection with himself. He feels no personal responsibility in this way, and cuts a friend or principle with the same decided indifference146 that Antipholis of Ephesus cuts AEgeon of Syracuse. It is a hollow thing. The only time he ever grew romantic was in bringing over the relics147 of Mr. Thomas Paine with him from America to go a progress with them through the disaffected148 districts. Scarce had he landed in Liverpool when he left the bones of a great man to shift for themselves; and no sooner did he arrive in London than he made a speech to disclaim149 all participation150 in the political and theological sentiments of his late idol151, and to place the whole stock of his admiration and enthusiasm towards him to the account of his financial speculations152, and of his having predicted the fate of paper-money. If he had erected153 a little gold statue to him, it might have proved the sincerity154 of this assertion; but to make a martyr155 and a patron saint of a man, and to dig up ‘his canonised bones’ in order to expose them as objects of devotion to the rabble’s gaze, asks something that has more life and spirit in it, more mind and vivifying soul, than has to do with any calculation of pounds, shillings, and pence! The fact is, he ratted from his own project. He found the thing not so ripe as he had expected. His heart failed him; his enthusiasm fled, and he made his retractation. His admiration is short-lived; his contempt only is rooted, and his resentment156 lasting157. — The above was only one instance of his building too much on practical data. He has an ill habit of prophesying158, and goes on, though still decieved. The art of prophesying does not suit Mr. Cobbett’s style. He has a knack159 of fixing names and times and places. According to him, the Reformed Parliament was to meet in March 1818 — it did not, and we heard no more of the matter. When his predictions fail, he takes no further notice of them, but applies himself to new ones — like the country people who turn to see what weather there is in the almanac for the next week, though it has been out in its reckoning every day of the last.
Mr. Cobbett is great in attack, not in defence; he cannot fight an up-hill battle. He will not bear the least punishing. If any one turns upon him (which few people like to do) he immediately turns tail. Like an overgrown schoolboy, he is so used to have it all his own way, that he cannot submit to anything like competition or a struggle for the mastery; he must lay on all the blows, and take none. He is bullying160 and cowardly; a Big Ben in politics, who will fall upon others and crush them by his weight, but is not prepared for resistance, and is soon staggered by a few smart blows. Whenever he has been set upon, he has slunk out of the controversy. The Edinburgh Review made (what is called) a dead set at him some years ago, to which he only retorted by an eulogy161 on the superior neatness of an English kitchen-garden to a Scotch162 one. I remember going one day into a bookseller’s shop in Fleet Street to ask for the Review, and on my expressing my opinion to a young Scotchman, who stood behind the counter, that Mr. Cobbett might hit as hard in his reply, the North Briton said with some alarm, ‘But you don’t think, sir, Mr. Cobbett will be able to injure the Scottish nation?’ I said I could not speak to that point, but I thought he was very well able to defend himself. He, however, did not, but has borne a grudge163 to the Edinburgh Review ever since, which he hates worse than the Quarterly. I cannot say I do.
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stuns
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| v.击晕( stun的第三人称单数 )；使大吃一惊；给（某人）以深刻印象；使深深感动 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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compendious
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| adj.简要的，精简的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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controversy
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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47
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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48
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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49
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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50
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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51
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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52
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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53
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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54
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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55
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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56
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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57
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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58
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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59
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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60
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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61
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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62
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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63
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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64
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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65
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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66
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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67
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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68
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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69
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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70
unicorns
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| n.（传说中身体似马的）独角兽( unicorn的名词复数 )；一角鲸；独角兽标记 | |
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71
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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72
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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73
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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74
pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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75
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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76
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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77
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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78
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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79
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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80
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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81
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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82
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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83
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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84
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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85
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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86
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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87
dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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88
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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89
lampooned
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| v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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91
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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92
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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93
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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94
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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95
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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96
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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97
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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98
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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99
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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100
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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101
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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102
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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103
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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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
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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106
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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107
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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108
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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109
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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110
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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111
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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112
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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115
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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116
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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117
gestation
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| n.怀孕；酝酿 | |
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118
teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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119
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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120
outstripping
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的现在分词 ) | |
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121
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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122
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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123
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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124
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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125
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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126
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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127
prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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128
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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129
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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130
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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131
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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132
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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133
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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134
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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135
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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136
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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137
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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138
stagnate
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| v.停止 | |
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139
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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140
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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141
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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142
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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143
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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144
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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145
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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146
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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147
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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148
disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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149
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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150
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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151
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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152
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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153
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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154
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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155
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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156
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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157
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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158
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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159
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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160
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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161
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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162
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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163
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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