Or by the lazy Scheldt or wandering Po.
I never was in a better place or humour than I am at present for writing on this subject. I have a partridge getting ready for my supper, my fire is blazing on the hearth2, the air is mild for the season of the year, I have had but a slight fit of indigestion today (the only thing that makes me abhor3 myself), I have three hours good before me, and therefore I will attempt it. It is as well to do it at once as to have it to do for a week to come.
If the writing on this subject is no easy task, the thing itself is a harder one. It asks a troublesome effort to ensure the admiration4 of others: it is a still greater one to be satisfied with one’s own thoughts. As I look from the window at the wide bare heath before me, and through the misty5 moonlight air see the woods that wave over the top of Winterslow,
While Heav’n’s chancel-vault6 is blind with sleet7,
my mind takes its flight through too long a series of years, supported only by the patience of thought and secret yearnings after truth and good, for me to be at a loss to understand the feeling I intend to write about; but I do not know that this will enable me to convey it more agreeably to the reader.
Lady Grandison, in a letter to Miss Harriet Byron, assures her that ‘her brother Sir Charles lived to-himself’; and Lady L. soon after (for Richardson was never tired of a good thing) repeats the same observation; to which Miss Byron frequently returns in her answers to both sisters, ‘For you know Sir Charles lives to himself,’ till at length it passes into a proverb among the fair correspondents. This is not, however, an example of what I understand by living to one’s-self, for Sir Charles Grandison was indeed always thinking of himself; but by this phrase I mean never thinking at all about one’sself, any more than if there was no such person in existence. The character I speak of is as little of an egotist as possible: Richardson’s great favourite was as much of one as possible. Some satirical critic has represented him in Elysium ‘bowing over the faded hand of Lady Grandison’ (Miss Byron that was)— he ought to have been represented bowing over his own hand, for he never admired any one but himself, and was the God of his own idolatry. — Neither do I call it living to one’sself to retire into a desert (like the saints and martyrs8 of old) to be devoured10 by wild beasts nor to descend11 into a cave to be considered as a hermit12, nor to got to the top of a pillar or rock to do fanatic13 penance14 and be seen of all men. What I mean by living to one’sself is living in the world, as in it, not of it: it is as if no one know there was such a person, and you wished no one to know it: it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty15 scene of things, not an object of attention or curiosity in it; to take a thoughtful, anxious interest in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination16 to make or meddle17 with it. It is such a life as a pure spirit might be supposed to lead, and such an interest as it might take in the affairs of men, calm, contemplative, passive, distant, touched with pity for their sorrows, smiling at their follies18 without bitterness, sharing their affections, but not troubled by their passions, not seeking their notice, nor once dreamt of by them. He who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart looks at the busy world through the loop-holes of retreat, and does not want to mingle19 in the fray20. ‘He hears the tumult21, and is still.’ He is not able to mend it, nor willing to mar9 it. He sees enough in the universe to interest him without putting himself forward to try what he can do to fix the eyes of the universe upon him. Vain the attempt! He reads the clouds, he looks at the stars, he watches the return of the seasons, the falling leaves of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring, starts with delight at the note of a thrush in a copse near him, sits by the fire, listens to the moaning of the wind, pores upon a book, or discourses22 the freezing hours away, or melts down hours to minutes in pleasing thought. All this while he is taken up with other things, forgetting himself. He relishes23 an author’s style without thinking of turning author. He is fond of looking at a print from an old picture in the room, without teasing himself to copy it. He does not fret25 himself to death with trying to be what he is not, or to do what he cannot. He hardly knows what he is capable of, and is not in the least concerned whether he shall ever make a figure in the world. He feels the truth of the lines —
The man whose eye is ever on himself,
Doth look one, the least of nature’s works;
One who might move the wise man to that scorn
Which wisdom holds unlawful ever.
He looks out of himself at the wide, extended prospect26 of nature, and takes an interest beyond his narrow pretensions27 in general humanity. He is free as air, and independent as the wind. Woe28 be to him when he first begins to think what others say of him. While a man is contented29 with himself and his own resources, all is well. When he undertakes to play a part on the stage, and to persuade the world to think more about him than they do about themselves, he is got into a track where he will find nothing but briars and thorns, vexation and disappointment. I can speak a little to this point. For many years of my life I did nothing but think. I had nothing else to do but solve some knotty30 point, or dip in some abstruse31 author, or look at the sky, or wander by the pebbled32 seaside —
To see the children sporting on the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore
I cared for nothing, I wanted nothing. I took my time to consider whatever occurred to me, and was in no hurry to give a sophistical answer to a question — there was no printer’s devil waiting for me. I used to write a page or two perhaps in half a year; and remember laughing heartily33 at the celebrated34 experimentalist Nicholson, who told me that in twenty years he had written as much as would make three hundred octavo volumes. If I was not a great author, I could read with ever fresh delight, ‘never ending, still beginning,’ and had no occasion to write a criticism when I had done. If I could not paint like Claude, I could admire ‘the witchery of the soft blue sky’ as I walked out, and was satisfied with the pleasure it gave me. If I was dull, it gave me little concern: if I was lively, I indulged my spirits. I wished well to the world, and believed as favourably35 of it as I could. I was like a stranger in a foreign land, at which I looked with wonder, curiosity, and delight, without expecting to be an object of attention in return. I had no relations to the state, no duty to perform, no ties to bind36 me to others: I had neither friend nor mistress, wife nor child. I lived in a world of contemplation, and not of action.
This sort of dreaming existence is the best. He who quits it to go in search of realities generally barters37 repose38 for repeated disappointments and vain regrets. His time, thoughts, and feelings are no longer at his own disposal. From that instant he does not survey the objects of nature as they are in themselves, but looks asquint at them to see whether he cannot make them the instruments of his ambition, interest, or pleasure; for a candid39, undesigning, undisguised simplicity40 of character, his views become jaundiced, sinister41, and double: he takes no farther interest in the great changes of the world but as he has a paltry42 share in producing them: instead of opening his senses, his understanding, and his heart to the resplendent fabric44 of the universe, he holds a crooked45 mirror before his face, in which he may admire his own person and pretensions, and just glance his eye aside to see whether others are not admiring him too. He no more exists in the impression which ‘the fair variety of things’ makes upon him, softened46 and subdued47 by habitual48 contemplation, but in the feverish49 sense of his own upstart self-importance. By aiming to fix, he is become the slave of opinion. He is a tool, a part of a machine that never stands still, and is sick and giddy with the ceaseless motion. He has no satisfaction but in the reflection of his own image in the public gaze — but in the repetition of his own name in the public ear. He himself is mixed up with and spoils everything. I wonder Buonaparte was not tired of the N. N.‘s stuck all over the Louvre and throughout France. Goldsmith (as we all know) when in Holland went out into a balcony with some handsome Englishwomen, and on their being applauded by the spectators, turned round and said peevishly50, ‘There are places where I also am admired.’ He could not give the craving51 appetite of an author’s vanity one day’s respite52. I have seen a celebrated talker of our own time turn pale and go out of the room when a showy-looking girl has come into it who for a moment divided the attention of his hearers. — Infinite are the mortifications of the bare attempt to emerge from obscurity; numberless the failures; and greater and more galling53 still the vicissitudes54 and tormenting55 accompaniments of success —
Whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery, that
The fear’s as bad as falling.
‘Would to God,’ exclaimed Oliver Cromwell, when he was at any time thwarted56 by the Parliament, ‘that I had remained by my woodside to tend a flock of sheep, rather than have been thrust on such a government as this!’ When Buonaparte got into his carriage to proceed on his Russian expedition, carelessly twirling his glove, and singing the air, ‘Malbrook to the war is going,’ he did not think of the tumble he has got since, the shock of which no one could have stood but himself. We see and hear chiefly of the favourites of Fortune and the Muse57, of great generals, of first-rate actors, of celebrated poets. These are at the head; we are struck with the glittering eminence58 on which they stand, and long to set out on the same tempting59 career — not thinking how many discontented half-pay lieutenants60 are in vain seeking promotion61 all their lives, and obliged to put up with ‘the insolence62 of office, and the spurns63 which patient merit of the unworthy takes’; how many half-starved strolling players are doomed64 to penury65 and tattered66 robes in country places, dreaming to the last of a London engagement; how many wretched daubers shiver and shake in the ague-fit of alternate hopes and fears, waste and pine away in the atrophy67 of genius, or else turn drawing-masters, picture-cleaners, or newspaper-critics; how many hapless poets have sighed out their souls to the Muse in vain, without ever getting their effusions farther known than the Poet’s Corner of a country newspaper, and looked and looked with grudging68, wistful eyes at the envious69 horizon that bounded their provincial70 fame! — Suppose an actor, for instance, ‘after the heart-aches and the thousand natural pangs71 that flesh is heir to,’ does get at the top of his profession, he can no longer bear a rival near the throne; to be second or only equal to another is to be nothing: he starts at the prospect of a successor, and retains the mimic72 sceptre with a convulsive grasp: perhaps as he is about to seize the first place which he has long had in his eye, an unsuspected competitor steps in before him, and carries off the prize, leaving him to commence his irksome toil73 again. He is in a state of alarm at every appearance or rumour74 of the appearance of a new actor: ‘a mouse that takes up its lodgings75 in a cat’s ear’29 has a mansion76 of peace to him: he dreads77 every hint of an objection, and least of all, can forgive praise mingled78 with censure79: to doubt is to insult; to discriminate80 is to degrade: he dare hardly look into a criticism unless some one has tasted it for him, to see that there is no offence in it: if he does not draw crowded houses every night, he can neither eat nor sleep; or if all these terrible inflections are removed, and he can ‘eat his meal in peace,’ he then becomes surfeited81 with applause and dissatisfied with his profession: he wants to be something else, to be distinguished82 as an author, a collector, a classical scholar, a man of sense and information, and weighs every word he utters, and half retracts83 it before he utters it, lest if he were to make the smallest slip of the tongue it should get buzzed abroad that Mr. —— was only clever as an actor! If ever there was a man who did not derive84 more pain than pleasure from his vanity, that man, says Rousseau, was no other than a fool. A country gentleman near Taunton spent his whole life in making some hundreds of wretched copies of second-rate pictures, which were bought up at his death by a neighbouring baronet, to whom
Some Demon85 whisper’d, L—— have a taste!
A little Wilson in an obscure corner escaped the man of virtu, and was carried off by a Bristol picture-dealer for three guineas, while the muddled86 copies of the owner of the mansion (with the frames) fetched thirty, forty, sixty, a hundred ducats a piece. A friend of mine found a very fine Canaletti in a state of strange disfigurement, with the upper part of the sky smeared87 over and fantastically variegated88 with English clouds; and on inquiring of the person to whom it belonged whether something had not been done to it, received for answer ‘that a gentleman, a great artist in the neighbourhood, had retouched some parts of it.’ What infatuation! Yet this candidate for the honours of the pencil might probably have made a jovial89 fox-hunter or respectable justice of the peace it he could only have stuck to what nature and fortune intended him for. Miss —— can by no means be persuaded to quit the boards of the theatre at —— a little country town in the West of England. Her salary has been abridged90, her person ridiculed91, her acting92 laughed at; nothing will serve — she is determined93 to be an actress, and scorns to return to her former business as a milliner. Shall I go on? An actor in the same company was visited by the apothecary94 of the place in an ague-fit, who, on asking his landlady95 as to his way of life, was told that the poor gentleman was very quiet and gave little trouble, that he generally had a plate of mashed96 potatoes for his dinner, and lay in bed most of his time, repeating his part. A young couple, every way amiable98 and deserving, were to have been married, and a benefit-play was bespoke99 by the officers of the regiment100 quartered there, to defray the expense of a license101 and of the wedding-ring, but the profits of the night did not amount to the necessary sum, and they have, I fear, ‘virgined it e’er since’! Oh, for the pencil of Hogarth or Wilkie to give a view of the comic strength of the company at —— drawn103 up in battle-array in the Clandestine104 Marriage, with a coup97 d’oeil of the pit, boxes, and gallery, to cure for ever the love of the ideal, and the desire to shine and make holiday in the eyes of others, instead of retiring within ourselves and keeping our wishes and our thoughts at home! — Even in the common affairs of life, in love, friendship, and marriage, how little security have we when we trust our happiness in the hands of others! Most of the friends I have seen have turned out the bitterest enemies, or cold, uncomfortable acquaintance. Old companions are like meats served up too often, that lose their relish24 and their wholesomeness105. He who looks at beauty to admire, to adore it, who reads of its wondrous106 power in novels, in poems, or in plays, is not unwise; but let no man fall in love, for from that moment he is ‘the baby of a girl.’ I like very well to repeat such lines as these in the play of Mirandola—
With what a waving air she goes
Along the corridor! How like a fawn107!
Yet statelier. Hark! No sound, however soft,
Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads,
But every motion of her shape doth seem
Hallowed by silence.
But however beautiful the description, defend me from meeting with the original!
The fly that sips108 treacle109
Is lost in the sweets;
So he that tastes woman
Ruin meets.
The song is Gay’s, not mine, and a bitter-sweet it is. How few out of the infinite number of those that marry and are given in marriage wed102 with those they would prefer to all the world! nay110, how far the greater proportion are joined together by mere111 motives112 of convenience, accident, recommendation of friends, or indeed not unfrequently by the very fear of the event, by repugnance113 and a sort of fatal fascination114! yet the tie is for life, not to be shaken off but with disgrace or death: a man no longer lives to himself, but is a body (as well as mind) chained to another, in spite of himself —
Like life and death in disproportion met.
So Milton (perhaps from his own experience) makes Adam exclaim in the vehemence115 of his despair,
For either
He never shall find out fit mate, but such
As some misfortune brings him or mistake
Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain
Through her perverseness116, but shall sea her gain’d
By a far worse; or it she love, withheld117
By parents; or his happiest choice too late
Shall meet, already link’d and wedlock-bound
To a fell adversary118, his hate and shame;
Which infinite calamity119 shall cause
To human life, and household peace confound.
If love at first sight were mutual120, or to be conciliated by kind offices; if the fondest affection were not so often repaid and chilled by indifference121 and scorn; if so many lovers both before and since the madman in Don Quixote had not ‘worshipped a statue, hunted the wind, cried aloud to the desert’; if friendship were lasting122; if merit were renown123, and renown were health, riches, and long life; or if the homage124 of the world were paid to conscious worth and the true aspirations125 after excellence126, instead of its gaudy127 signs and outward trappings, then indeed I might be of opinion that it is better to live to others than one’sself; but as the case stands, I incline to the negative side of the question.30
I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bow’d
To its idolatries a patient knee —
Nor coin’d my cheek to smiles — nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud128
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filled my mind which thus itself subdued.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me —
But let us part fair foes129; I do believe,
Though I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things — hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues131 which are merciful nor weave
Snares132 for the failing: I would also deem
O’er others’ griefs that some sincerely grieve;
That two, or one, are almost what they seem —
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.
Sweet verse embalms133 the spirit of sour misanthropy; but woe betide the ignoble134 prose-writer who should thus dare to compare notes with the world, or tax it roundly with imposture135.
If I had sufficient provocation136 to rail at the public, as Ben Jonson did at the audience in the Prologues137 to his plays, I think I should do it in good set terms, nearly as follows:— There is not a more mean, stupid, dastardly, pitiful, selfish, spiteful, envious, ungrateful animal than the Public. It is the greatest of cowards, for it is afraid of itself. From its unwieldy, overgrown dimensions, it dreads the least opposition138 to it, and shakes like isinglass at the touch of a finger. It starts at its own shadow, like the man in the Hartz mountains, and trembles at the mention of its own name. It has a lion’s mouth, the heart of a hare, with ears erect139 and sleepless140 eyes. It stands ‘listening its fears.’ It is so in awe141 of its own opinion that it never dares to form any, but catches up the first idle rumour, lest it should be behindhand in its judgment142, and echoes it till it is deafened143 with the sound of its own voice. The idea of what the public will think prevents the public from ever thinking at all, and acts as a spell on the exercise of private judgment, so that, in short, the public ear is at the mercy of the first impudent144 pretender who chooses to fill it with noisy assertions, or false surmises145, or secret whispers. What is said by one is heard by all; the supposition that a thing is known to all the world makes all the world believe it, and the hollow repetition of a vague report drowns the ‘still, small voice’ of reason. We may believe or know that what is said is not true; but we know or fancy that others believe it — we dare not contradict or are too indolent to dispute with them, and therefore give up our internal, and, as we think, our solitary146 conviction to a sound without substance, without proof, and often without meaning. Nay more, we may believe and know not only that a thing is false, but that others believe and know it to be so, that they are quite as much in the secret of the imposture as we are, that they see the puppets at work, the nature of the machinery147, and yet if any one has the art or power to get the management of it, he shall keep possession of the public ear by virtue130 of a cant148 phrase or nickname, and by dint149 of effrontery150 and perseverance151 make all the world believe and repeat what all the world know to be false. The ear is quicker than the judgment. We know that certain things are said; by that circumstance alone, we know that they produce a certain effect on the imagination of others, and we conform to their prejudices by mechanical sympathy, and for want of sufficient spirit to differ with them. So far then is public opinion from resting on a broad and solid basis, as the aggregate152 of thought and feeling in a community, that it is slight and shallow and variable to the last degree — the bubble of the moment; so that we may safely say the public is the dupe of public opinion, not its parent. The public is pusillanimous153 and cowardly, because it is weak. It knows itself to be a great dunce, and that it has no opinions but upon suggestion. Yet it is unwilling154 to appear in leading-strings, and would have it thought that its decisions are as wise as they are weighty. It is hasty in taking up its favourites, more hasty in laying them aside, lest it should be supposed deficient155 in sagacity in either case. It is generally divided into two strong parties, each of which will allow neither common sense nor common honesty to the other side. It reads the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, and believes them both — or if there is a doubt, malice156 turns the scale. Taylor and Hessey told me that they had sold nearly two editions of the Characters of Shakespear’s Plays in about three months, but that after the Quarterly Review of them came out they never sold another copy. The public, enlightened as they are, must have known the meaning of that attack as well as those who made it. It was not ignorance then, but cowardice157, that led them to give up their own opinion. A crew of mischievous158 critics at Edinburgh having affixed159 the epithet161 of the Cockney School to one or two writers born in the metropolis162, all the people in London became afraid of looking into their works, lest they too should be convicted of cockneyism. Oh, brave public! This epithet proved too much for one of the writers in question, and stuck like a barbed arrow in his heart. Poor Keats! What was sport to the town was death to him. Young, sensitive, delicate, he was like
A bud bit by an envious worm,
Ere he could spread his sweet leaves to the air
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun;
and unable to endure the miscreant163 cry and idiot laugh, withdrew to sigh his last breath in foreign climes. The public is as envious and ungrateful as it is ignorant, stupid, and pigeon-livered —
A huge-sized monster of ingratitudes.
It reads, it admires, it extols164, only because it is the fashion, not from any love of the subject or the man. It cries you up or runs you down out of mere caprice and levity165. If you have pleased it, it is jealous of its own involuntary acknowledgment of merit, and seizes the first opportunity, the first shabby pretext166, to pick a quarrel with you and be quits once more. Every petty caviller167 is erected168 into a judge, every tale-bearer is implicitly169 believed. Every little, low, paltry creature that gaped170 and wondered, only because others did so, is glad to find you (as he thinks) on a level with himself. An author is not then, after all, a being of another order. Public admiration is forced, and goes against the grain. Public obloquy171 is cordial and sincere: every individual feels his own importance in it. They give you up bound hand and foot into the power of your accusers. To attempt to defend yourself is a high crime and misdemeanor, a contempt of court, an extreme piece of impertinence. Or if you prove every charge unfounded, they never think of retracing172 their error or making you amends173. It would be a compromise of their dignity; they consider themselves as the party injured, and resent your innocence174 as an imputation175 on their judgment. The celebrated Bub Doddington, when out of favour at court, said ‘he would not justify176 before his sovereign: it was for Majesty177 to be displeased178, and for him to believe himself in the wrong!’ The public are not quite so modest. People already begin to talk of the Scotch179 Novels as overrated. How then can common authors be supposed to keep their heads long above water? As a general rule, all those who live by the public starve, and are made a by-word and a standing43 jest into the bargain. Posterity180 is no better (not a bit more enlightened or more liberal), except that you are no longer in their power, and that the voice of common fame saves them the trouble of deciding on your claims. The public now are the posterity of Milton and Shakespear. Our posterity will be the living public of a future generation. When a man is dead, they put money in his coffin181, erect monuments to his memory, and celebrate the anniversary of his birthday in set speeches. Would they take any notice of him if he were living? No! — I was complaining of this to a Scotchman who had been attending a dinner and a subscription182 to raise a monument to Burns. He replied he would sooner subscribe183 twenty pounds to his monument than have given it him while living; so that if the poet were to come to life again, he would treat him just as he was treated in fact. This was an honest Scotchman. What he said, the rest would do.
Enough: my soul, turn from them, and let me try to regain184 the obscurity and quiet that I love, ‘far from the madding strife,’ in some sequestered185 corner of my own, or in some far-distant land! In the latter case, I might carry with me as a consolation186 the passage in Bolinbroke’s Reflections on Exile, in which he describes in glowing colours the resources which a man may always find within himself, and of which the world cannot deprive him:—
‘Believe me, the providence187 of God has established such an order in the world, that of all which belongs to us the least valuable parts can alone fall under the will of others. Whatever is best is safest; lies out of the reach of human power; can neither be given nor taken away. Such is this great and beautiful work of nature, the world. Such is the mind of man, which contemplates188 and admires the world, whereof it makes the noblest part. These are inseparably ours, and as long as we remain in one we shall enjoy the other. Let us march therefore intrepidly189 wherever we are led by the course of human accidents. Wherever they lead us, on what coast soever we are thrown by them, we shall not find ourselves absolutely strangers. We shall feel the same revolution of seasons, and the same sun and moon31 will guide the course of our year. The same azure190 vault, bespangled with stars, will be everywhere spread over our heads. There is no part of the world from whence we may not admire those planets which roll, like ours, in different orbits round the same central sun; from whence we may not discover an object still more stupendous, that army of fixed160 stars hung up in the immense space of the universe, innumerable suns whose beams enlighten and cherish the unknown worlds which roll around them: and whilst I am ravished by such contemplations as these, whilst my soul is thus raised up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I tread-upon.’
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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2
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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3
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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4
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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5
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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6
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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7
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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8
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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9
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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10
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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11
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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12
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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13
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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14
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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15
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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17
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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18
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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19
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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21
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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22
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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23
relishes
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| n.滋味( relish的名词复数 )；乐趣；（大量的）享受；快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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24
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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25
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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26
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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27
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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28
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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29
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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30
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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31
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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32
pebbled
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| 用卵石铺（pebble的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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33
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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34
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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35
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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36
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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37
barters
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| n.物物交换，易货( barter的名词复数 )v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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39
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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40
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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41
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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42
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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45
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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46
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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47
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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49
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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50
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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51
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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52
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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53
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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54
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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55
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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56
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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57
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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58
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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59
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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60
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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61
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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62
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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63
spurns
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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65
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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66
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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67
atrophy
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| n./v.萎缩，虚脱，衰退 | |
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68
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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69
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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70
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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71
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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72
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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73
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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74
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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75
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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76
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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77
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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79
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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80
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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81
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
retracts
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的第三人称单数 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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84
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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85
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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86
muddled
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|
| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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87
smeared
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|
| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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88
variegated
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|
| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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89
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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90
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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91
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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95
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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96
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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97
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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98
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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99
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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100
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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101
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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102
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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105
wholesomeness
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| 卫生性 | |
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106
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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107
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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108
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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110
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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111
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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112
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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113
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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114
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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115
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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116
perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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117
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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118
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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119
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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120
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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121
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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122
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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123
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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124
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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125
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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126
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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127
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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128
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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129
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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130
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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131
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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132
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
embalms
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| n.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的名词复数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的第三人称单数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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134
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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135
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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136
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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137
prologues
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| n.序言，开场白( prologue的名词复数 ) | |
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138
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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139
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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140
sleepless
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|
| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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141
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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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
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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144
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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145
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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146
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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147
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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148
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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149
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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150
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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151
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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152
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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153
pusillanimous
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| adj.懦弱的，胆怯的 | |
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154
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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155
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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156
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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157
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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158
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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159
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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160
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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161
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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162
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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163
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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164
extols
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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165
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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166
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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167
caviller
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| n.提出令人为难的问题的人 | |
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168
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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169
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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170
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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171
obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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172
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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173
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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174
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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175
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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176
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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177
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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178
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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179
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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180
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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181
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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182
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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183
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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184
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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185
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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186
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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187
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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188
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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189
intrepidly
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| adv.无畏地，勇猛地 | |
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190
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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