I have always had this feeling of the inefficacy and slow progress of intellectual compared to mechanical excellence40, and it has always made me somewhat dissatisfied. It is a great many years since I saw Richer, the famous rope-dancer, perform at Sadler’s Wells. He was matchless in his art, and added to his extraordinary skill exquisite41 ease, and unaffected, natural grace. I was at that time employed in copying a half-length picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s; and it put me out of conceit43 with it. How ill this part was made out in the drawing! How heavy, how slovenly44 this other was painted! I could not help saying to myself, ‘If the rope-dancer had performed his task in this manner, leaving so many gaps and botches in his work, he would have broken his neck long ago; I should never have seen that vigorous elasticity45 of nerve and precision of movement!’— Is it, then, so easy an undertaking46 (comparatively) to dance on a tight-rope? Let any one who thinks so get up and try. There is the thing. It is that which at first we cannot do at all which in the end is done to such perfection. To account for this in some degree, I might observe that mechanical dexterity is confined to doing some one particular thing, which you can repeat as often as you please, in which you know whether you succeed or fail, and where the point of perfection consists in succeeding in a given undertaking. — In mechanical efforts you improve by perpetual practice, and you do so infallibly, because the object to be attained48 is not a matter of taste or fancy or opinion, but of actual experiment, in which you must either do the thing or not do it. If a man is put to aim at a mark with a bow and arrow, he must hit it or miss it, that’s certain. He cannot deceive himself, and go on shooting wide or falling short, and still fancy that he is making progress. No distinction between right and wrong, between true and false, is here palpable; and he must either correct his aim or persevere49 in his error with his eyes open, for which there is neither excuse nor temptation. If a man is learning to dance on a rope, if he does not mind what he is about he will break his neck. After that it will be in vain for him to argue that he did not make a false step. His situation is not like that of Goldsmith’s pedagogue:—
In argument they own’d his wondrous50 skill,
And e’en though vanquish’d, he could argue still.
Danger is a good teacher, and makes apt scholars. So are disgrace, defeat, exposure to immediate51 scorn and laughter. There is no opportunity in such cases for self-delusion, no idling time away, no being off your guard (or you must take the consequences)— neither is there any room for humour or caprice or prejudice. If the Indian Juggler were to play tricks in throwing up the three case-knives, which keep their positions like the leaves of a crocus in the air, he would cut his fingers. I can make a very bad antithesis52 without cutting my fingers. The tact53 of style is more ambiguous than that of double-edged instruments. If the Juggler were told that by flinging himself under the wheels of the Juggernaut, when the idol54 issues forth55 on a gaudy56 day, he would immediately be transported into Paradise, he might believe it, and nobody could disprove it. So the Brahmins may say what they please on that subject, may build up dogmas and mysteries without end, and not be detected; but their ingenious countryman cannot persuade the frequenters of the Olympic Theatre that he performs a number of astonishing feats without actually giving proofs of what he says. — There is, then, in this sort of manual dexterity, first a gradual aptitude57 acquired to a given exertion58 of muscular power, from constant repetition, and in the next place, an exact knowledge how much is still wanting and necessary to be supplied. The obvious test is to increase the effort or nicety of the operation, and still to find it come true. The muscles ply59 instinctively60 to the dictates61 of habit. Certain movements and impressions of the hand and eye, having been repeated together an infinite number of times, are unconsciously but unavoidable cemented into closer and closer union; the limbs require little more than to be put in motion for them to follow a regular track with ease and certainty; so that the mere intention of the will acts mathematically like touching62 the spring of a machine, and you come with Locksley in Ivanhoe, in shooting at a mark, ‘to allow for the wind.’
Further, what is meant by perfection in mechanical exercises is the performing certain feats to a uniform nicety, that is, in fact, undertaking no more than you can perform. You task yourself, the limit you fix is optional, and no more than human industry and skill can attain47 to; but you have no abstract, independent standard of difficulty or excellence (other than the extent of your own powers). Thus he who can keep up four brass balls does this to perfection; but he cannot keep up five at the same instant, and would fail every time he attempted it. That is, the mechanical performer undertakes to emulate63 himself, not to equal another.27 But the artist undertakes to imitate another, or to do what Nature has done, and this it appears is more difficult, viz. to copy what she has set before us in the face of nature or ‘human face divine,’ entire and without a blemish64, than to keep up four brass balls at the same instant, for the one is done by the power of human skill and industry, and the other never was nor will be. Upon the whole, therefore, I have more respect for Reynolds than I have for Richer; for, happen how it will, there have been more people in the world who could dance on a rope like the one than who could paint like Sir Joshua. The latter was but a bungler65 in his profession to the other, it is true; but then he had a harder taskmaster to obey, whose will was more wayward and obscure, and whose instructions it was more difficult to practise. You can put a child apprentice66 to a tumbler or rope-dancer with a comfortable prospect67 of success, if they are but sound of wind and limb; but you cannot do the same thing in painting. The odds68 are a million to one. You may make indeed as many Haydons and H——s as you put into that sort of machine, but not one Reynolds amongst them all, with his grace, his grandeur69, his blandness70 of gusto, ‘in tones and gestures hit,’ unless you could make the man over again. To snatch this grace beyond the reach of art is then the height of art — where fine art begins, and where mechanical skill ends. The soft suffusion71 of the soul, the speechless breathing eloquence72, the looks ‘commercing with the skies,’ the ever-shifting forms of an eternal principle, that which is seen but for a moment, but dwells in the heart always, and is only seized as it passes by strong and secret sympathy, must be taught by nature and genius, not by rules or study. It is suggested by feeling, not by laborious73 microscopic74 inspection75; in seeking for it without, we lose the harmonious76 clue to it within; and in aiming to grasp the substance, we let the very spirit of art evaporate. In a word, the objects of fine art are not the objects of sight, but as these last are the objects of taste and imagination, that is, as they appeal to the sense of beauty, of pleasure, and of power in the human breast, and are explained by that finer sense, and revealed in their inner structure to the eye in return. Nature is also a language. Objects, like words, have a meaning; and the true artist is the interpreter of this language, which he can only do by knowing its application to a thousand other objects in a thousand other situations. Thus the eye is too blind a guide of itself to distinguish between the warm or cold tone of a deep-blue sky; but another sense acts as a monitor to it and does not err15. The colour of the leaves in autumn would be nothing without the feeling that accompanies it; but it is that feeling that stamps them on the canvas, faded, seared, blighted77, shrinking from the winter’s flaw, and makes the sight as true as touch —
And visions, as poetic78 eyes avow79,
Cling to each leaf and hang on every bough80.
The more ethereal, evanescent, more refined and sublime81 part of art is the seeing nature through the medium of sentiment and passion, as each object is a symbol of the affections and a link in the chain of our endless being. But the unravelling82 this mysterious web of thought and feeling is alone in the Muse’s gift, namely, in the power of that trembling sensibility which is awake to every change and every modification83 of its ever-varying impressions, that
Thrills in each nerve, and lives along the line.
This power is indifferently called genius, imagination, feeling, taste; but the manner in which it acts upon the mind can neither be defined by abstract rules, as is the case in science, nor verified by continual, unvarying experiments, as is the case in mechanical performances. The mechanical excellence of the Dutch painters in colouring and handling is that which comes the nearest in fine art to the perfection of certain manual exhibitions of skill. The truth of the effect and the facility with which it is produced are equally admirable. Up to a certain point everything is faultless. The hand and eye have done their part. There is only a want of taste and genius. It is after we enter upon that enchanted84 ground that the human mind begins to droop85 and flag as in a strange road, or in a thick mist, benighted86 and making little way with many attempts and many failures, and that the best of us only escape with half a triumph. The undefined and the imaginary are the regions that we must pass like Satan, difficult and doubtful, ‘half flying, half on foot.’ The object in sense is a positive thing, and execution comes with practice.
Cleverness is a certain knack87 or aptitude at doing certain things, which depend more on a particular adroitness88 and off-hand readiness than on force or perseverance89, such as making puns, making epigrams, making extempore verses, mimicking90 the company, mimicking a style, etc. Cleverness is either liveliness and smartness, or something answering to sleight91 of hand, like letting a glass fall sideways off a table, or else a trick, like knowing the secret spring of a watch. Accomplishments92 are certain external graces, which are to be learned from others, and which are easily displayed to the admiration of the beholder93, viz. dancing, riding, fencing, music, and so on. These ornamental94 acquirements are only proper to those who are at ease in mind and fortune. I know an individual who, if he had been born to an estate of five thousand a year, would have been the most accomplished95 gentleman of the age. He would have been the delight and envy of the circle in which he moved — would have graced by his manners the liberality flowing from the openness of his heart, would have laughed with the women, have argued with the men, have said good things and written agreeable ones, have taken a hand at piquet or the lead at the harpsichord96, and have set and sung his own verses — nugae canorae — with tenderness and spirit; a Rochester without the vice97, a modern Surrey! As it is, all these capabilities98 of excellence stand in his way. He is too versatile99 for a professional man, not dull enough for a political drudge100, too gay to be happy, too thoughtless to be rich. He wants the enthusiasm of the poet, the severity of the prose-writer, and the application of the man of business. Talent differs from genius as voluntary differs from involuntary power. Ingenuity is genius in trifles; greatness is genius in undertakings101 of much pith and moment. A clever or ingenious man is one who can do anything well, whether it is worth doing or not; a great man is one who can do that which when done is of the highest importance make of a small city a great one. This gives one a pretty good idea of the distinction in question.
Greatness is great power, producing great effects. It is not enough that a man has great power in himself; he must show it to all the world in a way that cannot be hid or gainsaid102. He must fill up a certain idea in the public mind. I have no other notion of greatness than this twofold definition, great results springing from great inherent energy. The great in visible objects has relation to that which extends over space; the great in mental ones has to do with space and time. No man is truly great who is great only in his lifetime. The test of greatness is the page of history. Nothing can be said to be great that has a distinct limit, or that borders on something evidently greater than itself. Besides, what is short-lived and pampered103 into mere notoriety is of a gross and vulgar quality in itself. A Lord Mayor is hardly a great man. A city orator104 or patriot105 of the day only show, by reaching the height of their wishes, the distance they are at from any true ambition. Popularity is neither fame nor greatness. A king (as such) is not a great man. He has great power, but it is not his own. He merely wields106 the lever of the state, which a child, an idiot, or a madman can do. It is the office, not the man we gaze at. Any one else in the same situation would be just as much an object of abject107 curiosity. We laugh at the country girl who having seen a king expressed her disappointment by saying, ‘Why, he is only a man!’ Yet, knowing this, we run to see a king as if he was something more than a man. — To display the greatest powers, unless they are applied108 to great purposes, makes nothing for the character of greatness. To throw a barleycorn through the eye of a needle, to multiply nine figures by nine in the memory, argues definite dexterity of body and capacity of mind, but nothing comes of either. There is a surprising power at work, but the effects are not proportionate, or such as take hold of the imagination. To impress the idea of power on others, they must be made in some way to feel it. It must be communicated to their understandings in the shape of an increase of knowledge, or it must subdue109 and overawe them by subjecting their wills. Admiration to be solid and lasting110 must be founded on proofs from which we have no means of escaping; it is neither a slight nor a voluntary gift. A mathematician111 who solves a profound problem, a poet who creates an image of beauty in the mind that was not there before, imparts knowledge and power to others, in which his greatness and his fame consists, and on which it reposes112. Jedediah Buxton will be forgotten; but Napier’s bones will live. Lawgivers, philosophers, founders113 of religion, conquerors114 and heroes, inventors and great geniuses in arts and sciences, are great men, for they are great public benefactors115, or formidable scourges116 to mankind. Among ourselves, Shakespear, Newton, Bacon, Milton, Cromwell, were great men, for they showed great power by acts and thoughts, that have not yet been consigned117 to oblivion. They must needs be men of lofty stature118, whose shadows lengthen119 out to remote posterity120. A great farce-writer may be a great man; for Moliere was but a great farce-writer. In my mind, the author of Don Quixote was a great man. So have there been many others. A great chess-player is not a great man, for he leaves the world as he found it. No act terminating in itself constitutes greatness. This will apply to all displays of power or trials of skill which are confined to the momentary121, individual effort, and construct no permanent image or trophy122 of themselves without them. Is not an actor then a great man, because ‘he dies and leaves the world no copy’? I must make an exception for Mrs. Siddons, or else give up my definition of greatness for her sake. A man at the top of his profession is not therefore a great man. He is great in his way, but that is all, unless he shows the marks of a great moving intellect, so that we trace the master-mind, and can sympathise with the springs that urge him on. The rest is but a craft or mystery. John Hunter was a great man —that any one might see without the smallest skill in surgery. His style and manner showed the man. He would set about cutting up the carcass of a whale with the same greatness of gusto that Michael Angelo would have hewn a block of marble. Lord Nelson was a great naval123 commander; but for myself, I have not much opinion of a seafaring life. Sir Humphry Davy is a great chemist, but I am not sure that he is a great man. I am not a bit the wiser for any of his discoveries, nor I never met with any one that was. But it is in the nature of greatness to propagate an idea of itself, as wave impels124 wave, circle without circle. It is a contradiction in terms for a coxcomb125 to be a great man. A really great man has always an idea of something greater than himself. I have observed that certain sectaries and polemical writers have no higher compliment to pay their most shining lights than to say that “Such a one was a considerable man in his day.” Some new elucidation126 of a text sets aside the authority of the old interpretation127, and a “great scholar’s memory outlives him half a century,” at the utmost. A rich man is not a great man, except to his dependents and his steward128. A lord is a great man in the idea we have of his ancestry129, and probably of himself, if we know nothing of him but his title. I have heard a story of two bishops131, one of whom said (speaking of St. Peter’s at Rome) that when he first entered it, he was rather awe-struck, but that as he walked up it, his mind seemed to swell133 and dilate134 with it, and at last to fill the whole building: the other said that as he saw more of it, he appeared to himself to grow less and less every step he took, and in the end to dwindle135 into nothing. This was in some respects a striking picture of a great and little mind; for greatness sympathises with greatness, and littleness shrinks into itself. The one might have become a Wolsey; the other was only fit to become a Mendicant136 Friar — or there might have been court reasons for making him a bishop130. The French have to me a character of littleness in all about them; but they have produced three great men that belong to every country, Moliere, Rabelais, and Montaigne.
To return from this digression, and conclude Essay. A singular instance of manual dexterity was shown in the person of the late John Cavanaugh, whom I have several times seen. His death was celebrated137 at the time in an article in the Examiner newspaper (Feb. 7, 1819), written apparently138 between jest and earnest; but as it is pat to our purpose, and falls in with my own way of considering such subjects, I shall here take leave to quote it:—
‘Died at his house in Burbage Street, St. Giles’s, John Cavanagh, the famous hand fives-player. When a person dies who does any one thing better than any one else in the world, which so many others are trying to do well, it leaves a gap in society. It is not likely that any one will now see the game of fives played in its perfection for many years to come — for Cavanagh is dead, and has not left his peer behind him. It may be said that there are things of more importance than striking a ball against a wall — there are things, indeed, that make more noise and do as little good, such as making war and peace, making speeches and answering them, making verses and blotting139 them, making money and throwing it away. But the game of fives is what no one despises who has ever played at it. It is the finest exercise for the body, and the best relaxation140 for the mind. The Roman poet said that “Care mounted behind the horseman and stuck to his skirts.” But this remark would not have applied to the fives-player. He who takes to playing at fives is twice young. He feels neither the past nor future “in the instant.” Debts, taxes, “domestic treason, foreign levy141, nothing can touch him further.” He has no other wish, no other thought, from the moment the game begins, but that of striking the ball, of placing it, of making it! This Cavanagh was sure to do. Whenever he touched the ball there was an end of the chase. His eye was certain, his hand fatal, his presence of mind complete. He could do what he pleased, and he always knew exactly what to do. He saw the whole game, and played it; took instant advantage of his adversary’s weakness, and recovered balls, as if by a miracle and from sudden thought, that every one gave for lost. He had equal power and skill, quickness and judgment142. He could either outwit his antagonist143 by finesse144, or beat him by main strength. Sometimes, when he seemed preparing to send the ball with the full swing of his arm, he would by a slight turn of his wrist drop it within an inch of the line. In general, the ball came from his hand, as if from a racket, in a straight, horizontal line; so that it was in vain to attempt to overtake or stop it. As it was said of a great orator that he never was at a loss for a word, and for the properest word, so Cavanagh always could tell the degree of force necessary to be given to a ball, and the precise direction in which it should be sent. He did his work with the greatest ease; never took more pains than was necessary; and while others were fagging themselves to death, was as cool and collected as if he had just entered the court. His style of play was as remarkable145 as his power of execution. He had no affectation, no trifling. He did not throw away the game to show off an attitude or try an experiment. He was a fine, sensible, manly146 player, who did what he could, but that was more than any one else could even affect to do. His blows were not undecided and ineffectual — lumbering148 like Mr. Wordsworth’s epic149 poetry, nor wavering like Mr. Coleridge’s lyric150 prose, nor short of the mark like Mr. Brougham’s speeches, nor wide of it like Mr. Canning’s wit, nor foul151 like the Quarterly, nor let balls like the Edinburgh Review. Cobbett and Junius together would have made a Cavanagh. He was the best up-hill player in the world; even when his adversary was fourteen, he would play on the same or better, and as he never flung away the game through carelessness and conceit, he never gave it through laziness or want of heart. The only peculiarity152 of his play was that he never volleyed, but let the balls hop132; but if they rose an inch from the ground he never missed having them. There was not only nobody equal, but nobody second to him. It is supposed that he could give any other player half the game, or beat him with his left hand. His service was tremendous. He once played Woodward and Meredith together (two of the best players in England) in the Fives-court, St. Martin’s street, and made seven and twenty aces29 following by services alone — a thing unheard of. He another time played Peru, who was considered a first-rate fives-player, a match of the best out of five games, and in the three first games, which of course decided147 the match, Peru got only one ace19. Cavanagh was an Irishman by birth, and a house-painter by profession. He had once laid aside his working-dress, and walked up, in his smartest clothes, to the Rosemary Branch to have an afternoon’s pleasure. A person accosted153 him, and asked him if he would have a game. So they agreed to play for half a crown a game and a bottle of cider. The first game began — it was seven, eight, ten, thirteen, fourteen, all. Cavanagh won it. The next was the same. They played on, and each game was hardly contested. “There,” said the unconscious fives-player, “there was a stroke that Cavanagh could not take: I never played better in my life, and yet I can’t win a game. I don’t know how it is!” However, they played on, Cavanagh winning every game, and the bystanders drinking the cider and laughing all the time. In the twelfth game, when Cavanagh was only four, and the stranger thirteen, a person came in and said, “What! are you here, Cavanagh?” The words were no sooner pronounced than the astonished player let the hall drop from his hand, and saying, “What! have I been breaking my heart all this time to beat Cavanagh?” refused to make another effort. “And yet, I give you my word,” said Cavanagh, telling the story with some triumph, “I played all the while with my clenched154 fist.”— He used frequently to ploy42 matches at Copenhagen House for wagers155 and dinners. The wall against which they play is the same that supports the kitchen-chimney, and when the wall resounded156 louder than usual, the cooks exclaimed, “Those are the Irishman’s balls,” and the joints157 trembled on the spit! — Goldsmith consoled himself that there were places where he too was admired: and Cavanagh was the admiration of all the fives-courts where he ever played. Mr. Powell, when he played matches in the Court in St. Martin’s Street, used to fill his gallery at half a crown a head with amateurs and admirers of talent in whatever department it is shown. He could not have shown himself in any ground in England but he would have been immediately surrounded with inquisitive158 gazers, trying to find out in what part of his frame his unrivalled skill lay, as politicians wonder to see the balance of Europe suspended in Lord Castlereagh’s face, and admire the trophies159 of the British Navy lurking160 under Mr. Croker’s hanging brow. Now Cavanagh was as good-looking a man as the Noble Lord, and much better looking than the Right Hon. Secretary. He had a clear, open countenance161, and did not look sideways or down, like Mr. Murray the bookseller. He was a young fellow of sense, humour, and courage. He once had a quarrel with a waterman at Hungerford Stairs, and, they say, served him out in great style. In a word, there are hundreds at this day who cannot mention his name without admiration, as the best fives-player that perhaps ever lived (the greatest excellence of which they have any notion); and the noisy shout of the ring happily stood him in stead of the unheard voice of posterity! — The only person who seems to have excelled as much in another way as Cavanagh did in his was the late John Davies, the racket-player. It was remarked of him that he did not seem to follow the ball, but the ball seemed to follow him. Give him a foot of wall, and he was sure to make the ball. The four best racket-players of that day were Jack162 Spines163, Jem Harding, Armitage, and Church. Davies could give any one of these two hands a time, that is, half the game, and each of these, at their best, could give the best player now in London the same odds. Such are the gradations in all exertions164 of human skill and art. He once played four capital players together, and beat them. He was also a first-rate tennis-player and an excellent fives-player. In the Fleet or King’s Bench he would have stood against Powell, who was reckoned the best open-ground player of his time. This last-mentioned player is at present the keeper of the Fives-court, and we might recommend to him for a motto over his door, “Who enters here, forgets himself, his country, and his friends.” And the best of it is, that by the calculation of the odds, none of the three are worth remembering! — Cavanagh died from the bursting of a blood-vessel, which prevented him from playing for the last two or three years. This, he was often heard to say, he thought hard upon him. He was fast recovering, however, when he was suddenly carried off, to the regret of all who knew him. As Mr. Peel made it a qualification of the present Speaker, Mr. Manners Sutton, that he was an excellent moral character, so Jack Cavanagh was a zealous165 Catholic, and could not be persuaded to eat meat on a Friday, the day on which he died. We have paid this willing tribute to his memory.
Let no rude hand deface it,
And his forlorn “Hic Jacet.”’
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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5
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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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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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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27
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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29
aces
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| abbr.adjustable convertible-rate equity security (units) 可调节的股本证券兑换率；aircraft ejection seat 飞机弹射座椅；automatic control evaluation simulator 自动控制评估模拟器n.擅长…的人( ace的名词复数 )；精于…的人；（ 网球 ）（对手接不到发球的）发球得分；爱司球 | |
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30
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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31
sieves
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| 筛，漏勺( sieve的名词复数 ) | |
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32
abortions
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| n.小产( abortion的名词复数 )；小产胎儿；（计划）等中止或夭折；败育 | |
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33
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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34
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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35
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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36
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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37
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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38
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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39
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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40
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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41
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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42
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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43
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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44
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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45
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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46
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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47
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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48
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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49
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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50
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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51
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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52
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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53
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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54
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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55
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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56
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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57
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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58
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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59
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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60
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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61
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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62
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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63
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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64
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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65
Bungler
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| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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66
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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67
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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68
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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69
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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70
blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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71
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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72
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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73
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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74
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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75
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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76
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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77
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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78
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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79
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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80
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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81
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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82
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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83
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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84
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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86
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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87
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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88
adroitness
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89
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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90
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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91
sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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92
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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93
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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94
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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95
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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96
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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97
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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98
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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99
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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100
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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101
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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102
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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105
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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106
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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107
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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108
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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109
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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110
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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111
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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112
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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114
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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115
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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116
scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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117
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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118
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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119
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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120
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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121
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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122
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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123
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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124
impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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126
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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127
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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128
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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129
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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130
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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131
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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132
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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133
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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134
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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135
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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136
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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137
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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138
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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139
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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140
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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141
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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142
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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143
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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144
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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145
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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146
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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147
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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148
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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149
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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150
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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151
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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152
peculiarity
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|
| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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153
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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154
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
wagers
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| n.赌注，用钱打赌( wager的名词复数 )v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的第三人称单数 )；保证，担保 | |
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156
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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157
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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158
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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159
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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160
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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161
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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162
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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163
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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164
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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165
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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