Gentility is only a more select and artificial kind of vulgarity. It cannot exist but by a sort of borrowed distinction. It plumes17 itself up and revels18 in the homely19 pretensions of the mass of mankind. It judges of the worth of everything by name, fashion, and opinion; and hence, from the conscious absence of real qualities or sincere satisfaction in itself, it builds its supercilious20 and fantastic conceit21 on the wretchedness and wants of others. Violent antipathies23 are always suspicious, and betray a secret affinity24. The difference between the ‘Great Vulgar and the Small’ is mostly in outward circumstances. The coxcomb25 criticises the dress of the clown, as the pedant26 cavils27 at the bad grammar of the illiterate28, or the prude is shocked at the backslidings of her frail29 acquaintance. Those who have the fewest resources in themselves naturally seek the food of their self-love elsewhere. The most ignorant people find most to laugh at in strangers: scandal and satire30 prevail most in country-places; and a propensity31 to ridicule32 every the slightest or most palpable deviation33 from what we happen to approve, ceases with the progress of common sense and decency34.51 True worth does not exult35 in the faults and deficiencies of others; as true refinement36 turns away from grossness and deformity, instead of being tempted37 to indulge in an unmanly triumph over it. Raphael would not faint away at the daubing of a signpost, nor Homer hold his head the higher for being in the company of a Grub Street bard38. Real power, real excellence39, does not seek for a foil in inferiority; nor fear contamination from coming in contact with that which is coarse and homely. It reposes41 on itself, and is equally free from spleen and affectation. But the spirit of gentility is the mere14 essence of spleen and affectation; of affected42 delight in its own would-be qualifications, and of ineffable43 disdain44 poured out upon the involuntary blunders or accidental disadvantages of those whom it chooses to treat as its inferiors. Thus a fashionable Miss titters till she is ready to burst her sides at the uncouth45 shape of a bonnet46 or the abrupt47 drop of a curtsey (such as Jeanie Deans would make) in a country-girl who comes to be hired by her Mamma as a servant; yet to show how little foundation there is for this hysterical48 expression of her extreme good opinion of herself and contempt for the untutored rustic49, she would herself the next day be delighted with the very same shaped bonnet if brought her by a French milliner and told it was all the fashion, and in a week’s time will become quite familiar with the maid, and chatter50 with her (upon equal terms) about caps and ribbons and lace by the hour together. There is no difference between them but that of situation in the kitchen or in the parlour: let circumstances bring them together, and they fit like hand and glove. It is like mistress, like maid. Their talk, their thoughts, their dreams, their likings and dislikes are the same. The mistress’s head runs continually on dress and finery, so does the maid’s: the young lady longs to ride in a coach and six, so does the maid, if she could; Miss forms a beau-ideal of a lover with black eyes and rosy52 cheeks, which does not differ from that of her attendant; both like a smart man, the one the footman and the other his master, for the same reason; both like handsome furniture and fine houses; both apply the terms shocking and disagreeable to the same things and persons; both have a great notion of balls, plays, treats, song-books, and love-tales; both like a wedding or a christening, and both would give their little fingers to see a coronation — with this difference, that the one has a chance of getting a seat at it, and the other is dying with envy that she has not. Indeed, this last is a ceremony that delights equally the greatest monarch53 and the meanest of his subjects — the vilest54 of the rabble55. Yet this which is the height of gentility and consummation of external distinction and splendour, is, I should say, a vulgar ceremony. For what degree of refinement, of capacity, of virtue56 is required in the individual who is so distinguished57, or is necessary to his enjoying this idle and imposing58 parade of his person? Is he delighted with the stage-coach and gilded59 panels? So is the poorest wretch22 that gazes at it. Is he struck with the spirit, the beauty, and symmetry of the eight cream-coloured horses? There is not one of the immense multitude who flock to see the sight from town or country, St. Giles’s or Whitechapel, young or old, rich or poor, gentle or simple, who does not agree to admire the same object. Is he delighted with the yeomen of the guard, the military escort, the groups of ladies, the badges of sovereign power, the kingly crown, the marshal’s truncheon and the judge’s robe, the array that precedes and follows him, the crowded streets, the windows hung with eager looks? So are the mob, for they ‘have eyes and see them!’ There is no one faculty60 of mind or body, natural or acquired, essential to the principal figure in this procession more than is common to the meanest and most despised attendant on it. A waxwork61 figure would answer the same purpose: a Lord Mayor of London has as much tinsel to be proud of. I would rather have a king do something that no one else has the power or magnanimity to do, or say something that no one else has the wisdom to say, or look more handsome, more thoughtful, or benign62 than any one else in his dominions63. But I see nothing to raise one’s idea of him in his being made a show of: if the pageant64 would do as well without the man, the man would do as well without the pageant! Kings have been declared to be ‘lovers of low company’; and this maxim65, besides the reason sometimes assigned for it, viz. that they meet with less opposition to their wills from such persons, will I suspect be found to turn at last on the consideration I am here stating, that they also meet with more sympathy in their tastes. The most ignorant and thoughtless have the greatest admiration66 of the baubles67, the outward symbols of pomp and power, the sound and show, which are the habitual8 delight and mighty prerogative68 of kings. The stupidest slave worships the gaudiest69 tyrant70. The same gross motives71 appeal to the same gross capacities, flatter the pride of the superior and excite the servility of the dependant72; whereas a higher reach of moral and intellectual refinement might seek in vain for higher proofs of internal worth and inherent majesty73 in the object of its idolatry, and not finding the divinity lodged74 within, the unreasonable75 expectation raised would probably end in mortification76 on both sides! — There is little to distinguish a king from his subjects but the rabble’s shout — if he loses that and is reduced to the forlorn hope of gaining the suffrages77 of the wise and good, he is of all men the most miserable78. — But enough of this.
‘I like it,’ says Miss Branghton52 in Evelina (meaning the opera), ‘because it is not vulgar.’ That is, she likes it, not because there is anything to like in it, but because other people are prevented from liking51 or knowing anything about it. Janus Weathercock, Esq., laugheth to scorn and spitefully entreateth and hugely condemneth my dramatic criticisms in the London, for a like exquisite80 reason. I must therefore make an example of him in terrorem to all such hypercritics. He finds fault with me and calls my taste vulgar, because I go to Sadler’s Wells (‘a place he has heard of’— 0 Lord, sir!)— because I notice the Miss Dennetts, ‘great favourites with the Whitechapel orders’— praise Miss Valancy, ‘a bouncing Columbine at Ashley’s and them there places, as his barber informs him’ (has he no way of establishing himself in his own good opinion but by triumphing over his barber’s bad English?)— and finally, because I recognised the existence of the Coburg and the Surrey theatres, at the names of which he cries ‘Faugh’ with great significance, as if he had some personal disgust at them, and yet he would be supposed never to have entered them. It is not his cue as a well-bred critic. C’est beau ca. Now this appears to me a very crude, unmeaning, indiscriminate, wholesale81, and vulgar way of thinking. It is prejudicing things in the lump, by names and places and classes, instead of judging of them by what they are in themselves, by their real qualities and shades of distinction. There is no selection, truth, or delicacy82 in such a mode of proceeding83. It is affecting ignorance, and making it a title to wisdom. It is a vapid85 assumption of superiority. It is exceeding impertinence. It is rank coxcombry86. It is nothing in the world else. To condemn79 because the multitude admire is as essentially87 vulgar as to admire because they admire. There is no exercise of taste or judgment88 in either case: both are equally repugnant to good sense, and of the two I should prefer the good-natured side. I would as soon agree with my barber as differ from him; and why should I make a point of reversing the sentence of the Whitechapel orders? Or how can it affect my opinion of the merits of an actor at the Coburg or the Surrey theatres, that these theatres are in or out of the Bills of Mortality? This is an easy, short-hand way of judging, as gross as it is mechanical. It is not a difficult matter to settle questions of taste by consulting the map of London, or to prove your liberality by geographical89 distinctions. Janus jumbles90 things together strangely. If he had seen Mr. Kean in a provincial91 theatre, at Exeter or Taunton, he would have thought it vulgar to admire him; but when he had been stamped in London, Janus would no doubt show his discernment and the subtlety92 of his tact40 for the display of character and passion by not being behind the fashion. The Miss Dennetts are ‘little unformed girls,’ for no other reason than because they danced at one of the minor93 theatres: let them but come out on the opera boards, and let the beauty and fashion of the season greet them with a fairy shower of delighted applause, and they would outshine Milanie ‘with the foot of fire.’ His gorge94 rises at the mention of a certain quarter of the town: whatever passes current in another, he ‘swallows total grist unsifted, husks and all.’ This is not taste, but folly95. At this rate, the hackney-coachman who drives him, or his horse Contributor whom he has introduced as a select personage to the vulgar reader, knows as much of the matter as he does. — In a word, the answer to all this in the first instance is to say what vulgarity is. Now its essence, I imagine, consists in taking manners, actions, words, opinions on trust from others, without examining one’s own feelings or weighing the merits of the case. It is coarseness or shallowness of taste arising from want of individual refinement, together with the confidence and presumption96 inspired by example and numbers. It may be defined to be a prostitution of the mind or body to ape the more or less obvious defects of others, because by so doing we shall secure the suffrages of those we associate with. To affect a gesture, an opinion, a phrase, because it is the rage with a large number of persons, or to hold it in abhorrence97 because another set of persons very little, if at all, better informed cry it down to distinguish themselves from the former, is in either case equal vulgarity and absurdity98. A thing is not vulgar merely because it is common. ’Tis common to breathe, to see, to feel, to live. Nothing is vulgar that is natural, spontaneous, unavoidable. Grossness is not vulgarity, ignorance is not vulgarity, awkwardness is not vulgarity; but all these become vulgar when they are affected and shown off on the authority of others, or to fall in with the fashion or the company we keep. Caliban is coarse enough, but surely he is not vulgar. We might as well spurn99 the clod under our feet and call it vulgar. Cobbett is coarse enough, but he is not vulgar. He does not belong to the herd100. Nothing real, nothing original, can be vulgar; but I should think an imitator of Cobbett a vulgar man. Emery’s Yorkshireman is vulgar, because he is a Yorkshireman. It is the cant101 and gibberish, the cunning and low life of a particular district; it has ‘a stamp exclusive and provincial.’ He might ‘gabble most brutishly’ and yet not fall under the letter of the definition; but ‘his speech bewrayeth him,’ his dialect (like the jargon102 of a Bond Street lounger) is the damning circumstance. If he were a mere blockhead, it would not signify; but he thinks himself a knowing hand, according to the notions and practices of those with whom he was brought up, and which he thinks the go everywhere. In a word, this character is not the offspring of untutored nature but of bad habits; it is made up of ignorance and conceit. It has a mixture of slang in it. All slang phrases are for the same reason vulgar; but there is nothing vulgar in the common English idiom. Simplicity103 is not vulgarity; but the looking to affectation of any sort for distinction is. A cockney is a vulgar character, whose imagination cannot wander beyond the suburbs of the metropolis104; so is a fellow who is always thinking of the High Street, Edinburgh. We want a name for this last character. An opinion is vulgar that is stewed105 in the rank breath of the rabble; nor is it a bit purer or more refined for having passed through the well-cleansed teeth of a whole court. The inherent vulgarity is in having no other feeling on any subject than the crude, blind, headling, gregarious106 notion acquired by sympathy with the mixed multitude or with a fastidious minority, who are just as insensible to the real truth, and as indifferent to everything but their own frivolous107 and vexatious pretensions. The upper are not wiser than the lower orders because they resolve to differ from them. The fashionable have the advantage of the unfashionable in nothing but the fashion. The true vulgar are the servum pecus imitatorum— the herd of pretenders to what they do not feel and to what is not natural to them, whether in high or low life. To belong to any class, to move in any rank or sphere of life, is not a very exclusive distinction or test of refinement. Refinement will in all classes be the exception, not the rule; and the exception may fall out in one class as well as another. A king is but an hereditary108 title. A nobleman is only one of the House of Peers. To be a knight109 or alderman is confessedly a vulgar thing. The king the other day made Sir Walter Scott a baronet, but not all the power of the Three Estates could make another Author of Waverley. Princes, heroes, are often commonplace people: Hamlet was not a vulgar character, neither was Don Quixote. To be an author, to be a painter, is nothing. It is a trick, it is a trade.
An author! ’tis a venerable name:
How few deserve it, yet what numbers claim!
Nay110, to be a Member of the Royal Academy or a Fellow of the Royal Society is but a vulgar distinction; but to be a Virgil, a Milton, a Raphael, a Claude, is what fell to the lot of humanity but once! I do not think they were vulgar people; though, for anything I know to the contrary, the first Lord of the Bedchamber may be a very vulgar man; for anything I know to the contrary, he may not be so. — Such are pretty much my notions of gentility and vulgarity.
There is a well-dressed and an ill-dressed mob, both which I hate. Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo. The vapid affectation of the one to me is even more intolerable than the gross insolence111 and brutality112 of the other. If a set of low-lived fellows are noisy, rude, and boisterous113 to show their disregard of the company, a set of fashionable coxcombs are, to a nauseous degree, finical and effeminate to show their thorough breeding. The one are governed by their feelings, however coarse and misguided, which is something; the others consult only appearances, which are nothing, either as a test of happiness or virtue. Hogarth in his prints has trimmed the balance of pretension12 between the downright blackguard and the soi-disant fine gentleman unanswerably. It does not appear in his moral demonstrations114 (whatever it may do in the genteel letter-writing of Lord Chesterfield or the chivalrous115 rhapsodies of Burke) that vice116 by losing all its grossness loses half its evil. It becomes more contemptible117, not less disgusting. What is there in common, for instance, between his beaux and belles118, his rakes and his coquettes, and the men and women, the true heroic and ideal characters in Raphael? But his people of fashion and quality are just upon a par2 with the low, the selfish, the unideal characters in the contrasted view of human life, and are often the very same characters, only changing places. If the lower ranks are actuated by envy and uncharitableness towards the upper, the latter have scarcely any feelings but of pride, contempt, and aversion to the lower. If the poor would pull down the rich to get at their good things, the rich would tread down the poor as in a wine-press, and squeeze the last shilling out of their pockets and the last drop of blood out of their veins119. If the headstrong self-will and unruly turbulence120 of a common alehouse are shocking, what shall we say to the studied insincerity, the insipid121 want of common sense, the callous122 insensibility of the drawing-room and boudoir? I would rather see the feelings of our common nature (for they are the same at bottom) expressed in the most naked and unqualified way, than see every feeling of our nature suppressed, stifled123, hermetically sealed under the smooth, cold, glittering varnish124 of pretended refinement and conventional politeness. The one may be corrected by being better informed; the other is incorrigible125, wilful126, heartless depravity. I cannot describe the contempt and disgust I have felt at the tone of what would be thought good company, when I have witnessed the sleek127, smiling, glossy128, gratuitous129 assumption of superiority to every feeling of humanity, honesty, or principle, as a part of the etiquette130, the mental and moral costume of the table, and every profession of toleration or favour for the lower orders, that is, for the great mass of our fellow-creatures, treated as an indecorum and breach131 of the harmony of well-regulated society. In short, I prefer a bear-garden to the adder’s den5; or, to put this case in its extremest point of view, I have more patience with men in a rude state of nature outraging the human form than I have with apes ‘making mops and mows’ at the extravagances they have first provoked. I can endure the brutality (as it is termed) of mobs better than the inhumanity of courts. The violence of the one rages like a fire; the insidious132 policy of the other strikes like a pestilence133, and is more fatal and inevitable134. The slow poison of despotism is worse than the convulsive struggles of anarchy135. ‘Of all evils,’ says Hume, ‘anarchy is the shortest lived.’ The one may ‘break out like a wild overthrow’; but the other from its secret, sacred stand, operates unseen, and undermines the happiness of kingdoms for ages, lurks136 in the hollow cheek, and stares you in the face in the ghastly eye of want and agony and woe137. It is dreadful to hear the noise and uproar138 of an infuriated multitude stung by the sense of wrong and maddened by sympathy; it is more appalling139 to think of the smile answered by other gracious smiles, of the whisper echoed by other assenting140 whispers, which doom141 them first to despair and then to destruction. Popular fury finds its counterpart in courtly servility. If every outrage142 is to be apprehended143 from the one, every iniquity144 is deliberately145 sanctioned by the other, without regard to justice or decency. The word of a king, ‘Go thou and do likewise,’ makes the stoutest146 heart dumb: truth and honesty shrink before it.53 If there are watchwords for the rabble, have not the polite and fashionable their hackneyed phrases, their fulsome147, unmeaning jargon as well? Both are to me anathema148!
To return to the first question, as it regards individual and private manners. There is a fine illustration of the effects of preposterous149 and affected gentility in the character of Gertrude, in the old comedy of Eastward150 Hoe, written by Ben Jonson, Marston, and Chapman in conjunction. This play is supposed to have given rise to Hogarth’s series of prints of the Idle and Industrious151 Apprentice152; and there is something exceedingly Hogarthian in the view both of vulgar and of genteel life here displayed. The character of Gertrude, in particular, the heroine of the piece, is inimitably drawn153. The mixture of vanity and meanness, the internal worthlessness and external pretence154, the rustic ignorance and fine lady-like airs, the intoxication155 of novelty and infatuation of pride, appear like a dream or romance, rather than anything in real life. Cinderella and her glass slipper156 are common-place to it. She is not, like Millamant (a century afterwards), the accomplished157 fine lady, but a pretender to all the foppery and finery of the character. It is the honeymoon158 with her ladyship, and her folly is at the full. To be a wife, and the wife of a knight, are to her pleasures ‘worn in their newest gloss,’ and nothing can exceed her raptures159 in the contemplation of both parts of the dilemma160. It is not familiarity, but novelty, that weds161 her to the court. She rises into the air of gentility from the ground of a city life, and flutters about there with all the fantastic delight of a butterfly that has just changed its caterpillar162 state. The sound of My Lady intoxicates163 her with delight, makes her giddy, and almost turns her brain. On the bare strength of it she is ready to turn her father and mother out of doors, and treats her brother and sister with infinite disdain and judicial164 hardness of heart. With some speculators the modern philosophy has deadened and distorted all the natural affections; and before abstract ideas and the mischievous165 refinements166 of literature were introduced, nothing was to be met with in the primeval state of society but simplicity and pastoral innocence167 of manners —
And all was conscience and tender heart
This historical play gives the lie to the above theory pretty broadly, yet delicately. Our heroine is as vain as she is ignorant, and as unprincipled as she is both, and without an idea or wish of any kind but that of adorning168 her person in the glass, and being called and thought a lady, something superior to a citizen’s wife.54 She is so bent169 on finery that she believes in miracles to obtain it, and expects the fairies to bring it her.55 She is quite above thinking of a settlement, jointure, or pin-money. She takes the will for the deed all through the piece, and is so besotted with this ignorant, vulgar notion of rank and title as a real thing that cannot be counterfeited170 that she is the dupe of her own fine stratagems171, and marries a gull172, a dolt173, a broken adventurer for an accomplished and brave gentleman. Her meanness is equal to her folly and her pride (and nothing can be greater), yet she holds out on the strength of her original pretensions for a long time, and plays the upstart with decency and imposing consistency174. Indeed, her infatuation and caprices are akin84 to the flighty perversity175 of a disordered imagination; and another turn of the wheel of good or evil fortune would have sent her to keep company with Hogarth’s Merveilleuses in Bedlam176, or with Decker’s group of coquettes in the same place. — The other parts of the play are a dreary177 lee-shore, like Cuckold’s Point on the coast of Essex, where the preconcerted shipwreck178 takes place that winds up the catastrophe179 of the piece. But this is also characteristic of the age, and serves as a contrast to the airy and factitious character which is the principal figure in the plot. We had made but little progress from that point till Hogarth’s time, if Hogarth is to be believed in his description of city manners. How wonderfully we have distanced it since!
Without going into this at length, there is one circumstance 1 would mention in which I think there has been a striking improvement in the family economy of modern times — and that is in the relation of mistresses and servants. After visits and finery, a married woman of the old school had nothing to do but to attend to her housewifery. She had no other resource, no other sense of power, but to harangue180 and lord it over her domestics. Modern book-education supplies the place of the old-fashioned system of kitchen persecution181 and eloquence182. A well-bred woman now seldom goes into the kitchen to look after the servants:— formerly183 what was called a good manager, an exemplary mistress of a family, did nothing but hunt them from morning to night, from one year’s end to another, without leaving them a moment’s rest, peace, or comfort. Now a servant is left to do her work without this suspicious and tormenting184 interference and fault-finding at every step, and she does it all the better. The proverbs about the mistress’s eye, etc., are no longer held for current. A woman from this habit, which at last became an uncontrollable passion, would scold her maids for fifty years together, and nothing could stop her: now the temptation to read the last new poem or novel, and the necessity of talking of it in the next company she goes into, prevent her — and the benefit to all parties is incalculable.
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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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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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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cavils
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| v.挑剔，吹毛求疵( cavil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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36
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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37
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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38
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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39
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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40
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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41
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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42
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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43
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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44
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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45
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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46
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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47
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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48
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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49
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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50
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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51
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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52
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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53
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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54
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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55
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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56
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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57
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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58
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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59
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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60
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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61
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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62
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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63
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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64
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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65
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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66
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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67
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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68
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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69
gaudiest
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的最高级 ) | |
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70
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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71
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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72
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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73
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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74
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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75
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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76
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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77
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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78
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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79
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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80
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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81
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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82
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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83
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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84
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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85
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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86
coxcombry
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| n.（男子的）虚浮，浮夸，爱打扮 | |
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87
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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88
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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89
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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90
jumbles
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| 混杂( jumble的名词复数 )； （使）混乱； 使混乱； 使杂乱 | |
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91
provincial
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|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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92
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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93
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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94
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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95
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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96
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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97
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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98
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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99
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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100
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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101
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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102
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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103
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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104
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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105
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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106
gregarious
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|
| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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107
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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108
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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109
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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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
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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112
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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113
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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114
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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115
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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116
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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117
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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118
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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119
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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120
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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121
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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122
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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123
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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124
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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125
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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126
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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127
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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128
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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129
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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130
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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131
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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132
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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133
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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134
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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135
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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136
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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137
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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138
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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139
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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140
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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141
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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142
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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143
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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144
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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145
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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146
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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147
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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148
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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149
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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150
eastward
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|
| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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151
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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152
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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153
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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154
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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155
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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156
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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157
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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158
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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159
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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160
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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161
weds
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| v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的第三人称单数 ) | |
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162
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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163
intoxicates
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| 使喝醉（intoxicate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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164
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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165
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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166
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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167
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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168
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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169
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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170
counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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171
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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172
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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173
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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174
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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175
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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176
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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177
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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178
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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179
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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180
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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181
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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182
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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183
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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184
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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