There is such a thing as an aristocracy or privileged order in letters which has sometimes excited my wonder, and sometimes my spleen. We meet with authors who have never done anything, but who have a vast reputation for what they could have done. Their names stand high, and are in everybody’s mouth, but their works are never heard of, or had better remain undiscovered for the sake of their admirers. —Stat nominis umbra— their pretensions1 are lofty and unlimited2, as they have nothing to rest upon, or because it is impossible to confront them with the proofs of their deficiency. If you inquire farther, and insist upon some act of authorship to establish the claims of these Epicurean votaries3 of the Muses5, you find that they had a great reputation at Cambridge, that they were senior wranglers6 or successful prize-essayists, that they visit at Holland House, and, to support that honour, must be supposed, of course, to occupy the first rank in the world of letters.65 It is possible, however, that they have some manuscript work in hand, which is of too much importance (and the writer has too much at stake in publishing it) hastily to see the light: or perhaps they once had an article in the Edinburgh Review, which was much admired at the time, and is kept by them ever since as a kind of diploma and unquestionable testimonial of merit. They are not like Grub Street authors, who write for bread, and are paid by the sheet. Like misers7 who hoard8 their wealth, they are supposed to be masters of all the wit and sense they do not impart to the public. ‘Continents have most of what they contain,’ says a considerable philosopher; and these persons, it must be confessed, have a prodigious9 command over themselves in the expenditure10 of light and learning. The Oriental curse, ‘0 that mine enemy had written a book!’ hangs suspended over them. By never committing themselves, they neither give a handle to the malice11 of the world, nor excite the jealousy12 of friends; and keep all the reputation they have got, not by discreetly13 blotting14, but by never writing a line. Some one told Sheridan, who was always busy about some new work and never advancing any farther in it, that he would not write because he was afraid of the author of the School for Scandal. So these idle pretenders are afraid of undergoing a comparison with themselves in something they have never done, but have had credit for doing. They do not acquire celebrity15, they assume it; and escape detection by never venturing out of their imposing16 and mysterious incognito17. They do not let themselves down by everyday work: for them to appear in print is a work of supererogation as much as in lords and kings; and like gentlemen with a large landed estate, they live on their established character, and do nothing (or as little as possible) to increase or lose it. There is not a more deliberate piece of grave imposture18 going. I know a person of this description who has been employed many years (by implication) in a translation of Thucydides, of which no one ever saw a word, but it does not answer the purpose of bolstering19 up a factitious reputation the less on that account. The longer it is delayed and kept sacred from the vulgar gaze, the more it swells20 into imaginary consequence; the labour and care required for a work of this kind being immense; — and then there are no faults in an unexecuted translation. The only impeccable writers are those that never wrote. Another is an oracle21 on subjects of taste and classical erudition, because (he says at least) he reads Cicero once a year to keep up the purity of his Latinity. A third makes the indecency pass for the depth of his researches and for a high gusto in virtu, till, from his seeing nothing in the finest remains22 of ancient art, the world by the merest accident find out that there is nothing in him. There is scarcely anything that a grave face with an impenetrable manner will not accomplish, and whoever is weak enough to impose upon himself will have wit enough to impose upon the public — particularly if he can make it their interest to be deceived by shallow boasting, and contrives24 not to hurt their self-love by sterling25 acquirements. Do you suppose that the understood translation of Thucydides costs its supposed author nothing? A select party of friends and admirers dine with him once a week at a magnificent town mansion26, or a more elegant and picturesque27 retreat in the country. They broach28 their Horace and their old hock, and sometimes allude29 with a considerable degree of candour to the defects of works which are brought out by contemporary writers — the ephemeral offspring of haste and necessity!
Among other things, the learned languages are a ready passport to this sort of unmeaning, unanalysed reputation. They presently lift a man up among the celestial30 constellations31, the signs of the zodiac (as it were) and third heaven of inspiration, from whence he looks down on those who are toiling32 on in this lower sphere, and earning their bread by the sweat of their brain, at leisure and in scorn. If the graduates in this way condescend33 to express their thoughts in English, it is understood to be infra dignitatem— such light and unaccustomed essays do not fit the ponderous34 gravity of their pen — they only draw to advantage and with full justice to themselves in the bow of the ancients. Their native tongue is to them strange, inelegant, unapt, and crude. They ‘cannot command it to any utterance35 of harmony. They have not the skill.’ This is true enough; but you must not say so, under a heavy penalty — the displeasure of pedants36 and blockheads. It would be sacrilege against the privileged classes, the Aristocracy of Letters. What! will you affirm that a profound Latin scholar, a perfect Grecian, cannot write a page of common sense or grammar? Is it not to be presumed, by all the charters of the Universities and the foundations of grammar-schools, that he who can speak a dead language must be a fortiori conversant37 with his own? Surely the greater implies the less. He who knows every science and every art cannot be ignorant of the most familiar forms of speech. Or if this plea is found not to hold water, then our scholastic38 bungler39 is said to be above this vulgar trial of skill, ‘something must be excused to want of practice — but did you not observe the elegance40 of the Latinity, how well that period would become a classical and studied dress?’ Thus defects are ‘monster’d’ into excellences41, and they screen their idol42, and require you, at your peril43, to pay prescriptive homage44 to false concords45 and inconsequential criticisms, because the writer of them has the character of the first or second Greek or Latin scholar in the kingdom. If you do not swear to the truth of these spurious credentials46, you are ignorant and malicious47, a quack48 and a scribbler —flagranti delicto! Thus the man who can merely read and construe49 some old author is of a class superior to any living one, and, by parity50 of reasoning, to those old authors themselves: the poet or prose-writer of true and original genius, by the courtesy of custom, ‘ducks to the learned fool’; or, as the author of Hudibras has so well stated the same thing —
He that is but able to express
No sense at all in several languages,
Will pass for learneder than he that’s known
To speak the strongest reason in his own.
These preposterous51 and unfounded claims of mere23 scholars to precedence in the commonwealth52 of letters which they set up so formally themselves and which others so readily bow to, are partly owing to traditional prejudice: there was a time when learning was the only distinction from ignorance, and when there was no such thing as popular English literature. Again, there is something more palpable and positive in this kind of acquired knowledge, like acquired wealth, which the vulgar easily recognise. That others know the meaning of signs which they are confessedly and altogether ignorant of is to them both a matter of fact and a subject of endless wonder. The languages are worn like a dress by a man, and distinguish him sooner than his natural figure; and we are, from motives53 of self-love, inclined to give others credit for the ideas they have borrowed or have come into indirect possession of, rather than for those that originally belong to them and are exclusively their own. The merit in them and the implied inferiority in ourselves is less. Learning is a kind of external appendage54 or transferable property —
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and may be any man’s.
Genius and understanding are a man’s self, an integrant part of his personal identity; and the title to these last, as it is the most difficult to be ascertained56, is also the most grudgingly57 acknowledged. Few persons would pretend to deny that Porson had more Greek than they; it was a question of fact which might be put to the immediate58 proof, and could not be gainsaid59; but the meanest frequenter of the Cider Cellar or the Hole in the Wall would be inclined, in his own conceit60, to dispute the palm of wit or sense with him, and indemnify his self-complacency for the admiration61 paid to living learning by significant hints to friends and casual droppers-in, that the greatest men, when you came to know them, were not without their weak sides as well as others. Pedants, I will add here, talk to the vulgar as pedagogues62 talk to schoolboys, on an understood principle of condescension63 and superiority, and therefore make little progress in the knowledge of men or things. While they fancy they are accommodating themselves to, or else assuming airs of importance over, inferior capacities, these inferior capacities are really laughing at them. There can be no true superiority but what arises out of the presupposed ground of equality: there can be no improvement but from the free communication and comparing of ideas. Kings and nobles, for this reason, receive little benefit from society — where all is submission64 on one side, and condescension on the other. The mind strikes out truth by collision, as steel strikes fire from the flint!
There are whole families who are born classical, and are entered in the heralds’ college of reputation by the right of consanguinity65. Literature, like nobility, runs in the blood. There is the Burney family. There is no end of it or its pretensions. It produces wits, scholars, novelists, musicians, artists in ‘numbers numberless.’ The name is alone a passport to the Temple of Fame. Those who bear it are free of Parnassus by birthright. The founder66 of it was himself an historian and a musician, but more of a courtier and man of the world than either. The secret of his success may perhaps be discovered in the following passage, where, in alluding67 to three eminent68 performers on different instruments, he says: ‘These three illustrious personages were introduced at the Emperor’s court,’ etc.; speaking of them as if they were foreign ambassadors or princes of the blood, and thus magnifying himself and his profession. This overshadowing manner carries nearly everything before it, and mystifies a great many. There is nothing like putting the best face upon things, and leaving others to find out the difference. He who could call three musicians ‘personages’ would himself play a personage through life, and succeed in his leading object. Sir Joshua Reynolds, remarking on this passage, said: ‘No one had a greater respect than he had for his profession, but that he should never think of applying to it epithets69 that were appropriated merely to external rank and distinction.’ Madame d’Arblay, it must be owned, had cleverness enough to stock a whole family, and to set up her cousin-germans, male and female, for wits and virtuosos70 to the third and fourth generation. The rest have done nothing, that I know of, but keep up the name.
The most celebrated71 author in modern times has written without a name, and has been knighted for anonymous72 productions. Lord Byron complains that Horace Walpole was not properly appreciated, ‘first, because he was a gentleman; and secondly73, because he was a nobleman.’ His Lordship stands in one, at least, of the predicaments here mentioned, and yet he has had justice, or somewhat more, done him. He towers above his fellows by all the height of the peerage. If the poet lends a grace to the nobleman, the nobleman pays it back to the poet with interest. What a fine addition is ten thousand a year and a title to the flaunting74 pretensions of a modern rhapsodist! His name so accompanied becomes the mouth well: it is repeated thousands of times, instead of hundreds, because the reader in being familiar with the Poet’s works seems to claim acquaintance with the Lord.
Let but a lord once own the happy lines:
How the wit brightens, and the style refines!
He smiles at the high-flown praise or petty cavils75 of little men. Does he make a slip in decorum, which Milton declares to be the principal thing? His proud crest76 and armorial bearings support him: no bend-sinister slurs77 his poetical78 escutcheon! Is he dull, or does he put of some trashy production on the public? It is not charged to his account, as a deficiency which he must make good at the peril of his admirers. His Lordship is not answerable for the negligence79 or extravagances of his Muse4. He ‘bears a charmed reputation, which must not yield’ like one of vulgar birth. The Noble Bard80 is for this reason scarcely vulnerable to the critics. The double barrier of his pretensions baffles their puny81, timid efforts. Strip off some of his tarnished82 laurels83, and the coronet appears glittering beneath: restore them, and it still shines through with keener lustre84. In fact, his Lordship’s blaze of reputation culminates85 from his rank and place in society. He sustains two lofty and imposing characters; and in order to simplify the process of our admiration, and ‘leave no rubs or botches in the way,’ we equalise his pretensions, and take it for granted that he must be as superior to other men in genius as he is in birth. Or, to give a more familiar solution of the enigma86, the Poet and the Peer agree to honour each other’s acceptances on the bank of Fame, and sometimes cozen87 the town to some tune88 between them. Really, however, and with all his privileges, Lord Byron might as well not have written that strange letter about Pope. I could not afford it, poor as I am. Why does he pronounce, ex cathedra and robed, that Cowper is no poet? Cowper was a gentleman and of noble family like his critic. He was a teacher of morality as well as a describer of nature, which is more than his Lordship is. His John Gilpin will last as long as Beppo, and his verses to Mary are not less touching89 than the Farewell. If I had ventured upon such an assertion as this, it would have been worse for me than finding out a borrowed line in the Pleasures of Hope.
There is not a more helpless or more despised animal than a mere author, without any extrinsic90 advantages of birth, breeding, or fortune to set him off. The real ore of talents or learning must be stamped before it will pass current. To be at all looked upon as an author, a man must be something more or less than an author — a rich merchant, a banker, a lord, or a ploughman. He is admired for something foreign to himself, that acts as a bribe91 to the servility or a set-off to the envy of the community. ‘What should such fellows as we do, crawling betwixt heaven and earth’; —‘coining our hearts for drachmas’; now scorched92 in the sun, now shivering in the breeze, now coming out in our newest gloss93 and best attire94, like swallows in the spring, now ‘sent back like hollowmas or shortest day’? The best wits, like the handsomest faces upon the town, lead a harassing95, precarious96 life — are taken up for the bud and promise of talent, which they no sooner fulfil than they are thrown aside like an old fashion — are caressed97 without reason, and insulted with impunity98 — are subject to all the caprice, the malice, and fulsome99 advances of that great keeper, the Public — and in the end come to no good, like all those who lavish100 their favours on mankind at large, and look to the gratitude101 of the world for their reward. Instead of this set of Grub Street authors, the mere canaille of letters, this corporation of Mendicity, this ragged102 regiment103 of genius suing at the corners of streets in forma pauperis, give me the gentleman and scholar, with a good house over his head and a handsome table ‘with wine of Attic104 taste’ to ask his friends to, and where want and sorrow never come. Fill up the sparkling bowl; heap high the dessert with roses crowned; bring out the hot-pressed poem, the vellum manuscripts, the medals, the portfolios105, the intaglios — this is the true model of the life of a man of taste and virtu— the possessors, not the inventors of these things, are the true benefactors106 of mankind and ornaments107 of letters. Look in, and there, amidst silver services and shining chandeliers, you will see the man of genius at his proper post, picking his teeth and mincing108 an opinion, sheltered by rank, bowing to wealth — a poet framed, glazed109, and hung in a striking light; not a straggling weed, torn and trampled110 on; not a poor Kit-run-the-street, but a powdered beau, a sycophant111 plant, an exotic reared in a glass case, hermetically sealed,
Free from the Sirian star and the dread112 thunder-stroke
whose mealy coat no moth113 can corrupt114 nor blight115 can wither116. The poet Keats had not this sort of protection for his person — he lay bare to weather — the serpent stung him, and the poison-tree dropped upon this little western flower: when the mercenary servile crew approached him, he had no pedigree to show them, no rent-roll to hold out in reversion for their praise: he was not in any great man’s train, nor the butt117 and puppet of a lord — he could only offer them ‘the fairest flowers of the season, carnations118 and streaked119 gilliflowers,’—‘rue for remembrance and pansies for thoughts,’— they recked not of his gift, but tore him with hideous120 shouts and laughter,
Nor could the Muse protect her son!
Unless an author has all establishment of his own, or is entered on that of some other person, he will hardly be allowed to write English or to spell his own name. To be well spoken of, he must enlist121 under some standard; he must belong to some coterie122. He must get the esprit de corps123 on his side: he must have literary bail124 in readiness. Thus they prop55 up one another’s rickety heads at Murray’s shop, and a spurious reputation, like false argument, runs in a circle. Croker affirms that Gifford is sprightly125, and Gifford that Croker is genteel; Disraeli that Jacob is wise, and Jacob that Disraeli is good-natured. A Member of Parliament must be answerable that you are not dangerous or dull before you can be of the entree126. You must commence toad-eater to have your observations attended to; if you are independent, unconnected, you will be regarded as a poor creature. Your opinion is honest, you will say; then ten to one it is not profitable. It is at any rate your own. So much the worse; for then it is not the world’s. Tom Hill is a very tolerable barometer127 in this respect. He knows nothing, hears everything, and repeats just what he hears; so that you may guess pretty well from this round-faced echo what is said by others! Almost everything goes by presumption128 and appearances. ‘Did you not think Mr. B——‘s language very elegant?’— I thought he bowed very low. ‘Did you not think him remarkably129 well-behaved?’— He was unexceptionably dressed. ‘But were not Mr. C——‘s manners quite insinuating130?’— He said nothing. “You will at least allow his friend to be a well-informed man.”— talked upon all subjects alike. Such would be a pretty faithful interpretation131 of the tone of what is called good society. The surface is everything; we do not pierce to the core. The setting is more valuable than the jewel. Is it not so in other things as well as letters? Is not an R. A. by the supposition a greater man in his profession than any one who is not so blazoned132? Compared with that unrivalled list, Raphael had been illegitimate, Claude not classical, and Michael Angelo admitted by special favour. What is a physician without a diploma? An alderman without being knighted? An actor whose name does not appear in great letters? All others are counterfeits133 — men ‘of no mark or likelihood.’ This was what made the Jackals of the North so eager to prove that I had been turned out of the Edinburgh Review. It was not the merit of the articles which excited their spleen — but their being there. Of the style they knew nothing; for the thought they cared nothing: all that they knew was that I wrote in that powerful journal, and therefore they asserted that I did not!
We find a class of persons who labour under an obvious natural inaptitude for whatever they aspire135 to. Their manner of setting about it is a virtual disqualification. The simple affirmation, ‘What this man has said, I will do,’ is not always considered as the proper test of capacity. On the contrary, there are people whose bare pretensions are as good or better than the actual performance of others. What I myself have done, for instance, I never find admitted as proof of what I shall be able to do: whereas I observe others who bring as proof of their competence136 to any task (and are taken at their word) what they have never done, and who gravely assure those who are inclined to trust them that their talents are exactly fitted for some post because they are just the reverse of what they have ever shown them to be. One man has the air of an Editor as much as another has that of a butler or porter in a gentleman’s family. ——— is the model of this character, with a prodigious look of business, an air of suspicion which passes for sagacity, and an air of deliberation which passes for judgment137. If his own talents are no ways prominent, it is inferred he will be more impartial138 and in earnest in making use of those of others. There is Britton, the responsible conductor of several works of taste and erudition, yet (God knows) without an idea in his head relating to any one of them. He is learned by proxy139, and successful from sheer imbecility. If he were to get the smallest smattering of the departments which are under his control, he would betray himself from his desire to shine; but as it is, he leaves others to do all the drudgery140 for him. He signs his name in the title-page or at the bottom of a vignette, and nobody suspects any mistake. This contractor141 for useful and ornamental142 literature once offered me two guineas for a Life and Character of Shakespear, with an admission to his converzationi. I went once. There was a collection of learned lumber143, of antiquaries, lexicographers, and other ‘illustrious obscure,’ and I had given up the day for lost, when in dropped Jack134 Taylor of the Sun—(who would dare to deny that he was ‘the Sun of our table’?)— and I had nothing now to do but hear and laugh. Mr. Taylor knows most of the good things that have been said in the metropolis144 for the last thirty years, and is in particular an excellent retailer145 of the humours and extravagances of his old friend Peter Pindar. He had recounted a series of them, each rising above the other in a sort of magnificent burlesque146 and want of literal preciseness, to a medley147 of laughing and sour faces, when on his proceeding148 to state a joke of a practical nature by the said Peter, a Mr. ——— (I forget the name) objected to the moral of the story, and to the whole texture149 of Mr. Taylor’s facetiae — upon which our host, who had till now supposed that all was going on swimmingly, thought it time to interfere150 and give a turn to the conversation by saying, ‘Why, yes, gentlemen, what we have hitherto heard fall from the lips of our friend has been no doubt entertaining and highly agreeable in its way; but perhaps we have had enough of what is altogether delightful151 and pleasant and light and laughable in conduct. Suppose, therefore, we were to shift the subject, and talk of what is serious and moral and industrious152 and laudable in character — Let us talk of Mr. Tomkins the Penman!’— This staggered the gravest of us, broke up our dinner-party, and we went upstairs to tea. So much for the didactic vein153 of one of our principal guides in the embellished154 walks of modern taste, and master manufacturers of letters. He had found that gravity had been a never-failing resource when taken at a pinch — for once the joke miscarried — and Mr. Tomkins the Penman figures to this day nowhere but in Sir Joshua’s picture of him!
To complete the natural Aristocracy of Letters, we only want a Royal Society of Authors!
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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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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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wranglers
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| n.争执人( wrangler的名词复数 )；在争吵的人；（尤指放马的）牧人；牛仔 | |
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misers
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| 守财奴，吝啬鬼( miser的名词复数 ) | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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bolstering
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| v.支持( bolster的现在分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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39
Bungler
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| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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40
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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41
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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42
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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43
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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44
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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45
concords
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| n.和谐，一致，和睦( concord的名词复数 ) | |
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46
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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47
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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48
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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49
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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50
parity
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| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
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51
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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52
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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53
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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54
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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55
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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56
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
grudgingly
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58
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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61
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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62
pedagogues
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| n.教师，卖弄学问的教师( pedagogue的名词复数 ) | |
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63
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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64
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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65
consanguinity
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| n.血缘；亲族 | |
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66
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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67
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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68
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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69
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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70
virtuosos
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| n.艺术大师( virtuoso的名词复数 )；名家；艺术爱好者；古董收藏家 | |
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71
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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72
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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73
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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74
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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75
cavils
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| v.挑剔，吹毛求疵( cavil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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77
slurs
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| 含糊的发音( slur的名词复数 )； 玷污； 连奏线； 连唱线 | |
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78
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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79
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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80
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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81
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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82
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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83
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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84
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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85
culminates
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| v.达到极点( culminate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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87
cozen
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| v.欺骗，哄骗 | |
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88
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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89
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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90
extrinsic
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| adj.外部的；不紧要的 | |
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91
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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92
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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93
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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94
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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95
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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96
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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97
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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99
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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100
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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101
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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102
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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103
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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104
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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105
portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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106
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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107
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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109
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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110
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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111
sycophant
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| n.马屁精 | |
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112
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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113
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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114
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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115
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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116
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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117
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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118
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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119
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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120
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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121
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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122
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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123
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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124
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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125
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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126
entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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127
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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128
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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129
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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130
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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131
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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132
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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133
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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135
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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136
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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137
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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138
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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139
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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140
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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141
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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142
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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143
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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144
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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145
retailer
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| n.零售商(人) | |
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146
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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147
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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148
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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149
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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150
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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151
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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152
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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153
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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154
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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