And yet men imagine that books are dice20, and have no merit in their fortune; that the trade and the favor of a few critics can get one book into circulation, and defeat another; and that in the production of these things the author has chosen and may choose to do thus and so. Society also wishes to assign subjects and methods to its writers. But neither reader nor author may intermeddle. You cannot reason at will in this and that other vein22, but only as you must. You cannot make quaint23 combinations, and bring to the crucible24 and alembic of truth things far fetched or fantastic or popular, but your method and your subject are foreordained in all your nature, and in all nature, or ever the earth was, or it has no worth. All that gives currency still to any book, advertised in the morning’s newspaper in London or Boston, is the remains26 of faith in the breast of men that not adroit27 book makers28, but the inextinguishable soul of the universe reports of itself in articulate discourse29 to-day as of old. The ancients strongly expressed their sense of the unmanageableness of these words of the spirit by saying, that the God made his priest insane, took him hither and thither30 as leaves are whirled by the tempest. But we sing as we are bid. Our inspirations are very manageable and tame. Death and sin have whispered in the ear of the wild horse of Heaven, and he has become a dray and a hack31. And step by step with the entrance of this era of ease and convenience, the belief in the proper Inspiration of man has departed.
Literary accomplishments32, skill in grammar and rhetoric33, knowledge of books, can never atone35 for the want of things which demand voice. Literature is a poor trick when it busies itself to make words pass for things. The most original book in the world is the Bible. This old collection of the ejaculations of love and dread36, of the supreme37 desires and contritions of men proceeding38 out of the region of the grand and eternal, by whatsoever39 different mouths spoken, and through a wide extent of times and countries, seems, especially if you add to our canon the kindred sacred writings of the Hindoos, Persians, and Greeks, the alphabet of the nations, — and all posterior literature either the chronicle of facts under very inferior ideas, or, when it rises to sentiment, the combinations, analogies, or degradations40 of this. The elevation41 of this book may be measured by observing, how certainly all elevation of thought clothes itself in the words and forms of speech of that book. For the human mind is not now sufficiently42 erect43 to judge and correct that scripture. Whatever is majestically45 thought in a great moral element, instantly approaches this old Sanscrit. It is in the nature of things that the highest originality46 must be moral. The only person, who can be entirely47 independent of this fountain of literature and equal to it, must be a prophet in his own proper person. Shakspeare, the first literary genius of the world, the highest in whom the moral is not the predominating element, leans on the Bible: his poetry supposes it. If we examine this brilliant influence — Shakspeare — as it lies in our minds, we shall find it reverent48 not only of the letter of this book, but of the whole frame of society which stood in Europe upon it, deeply indebted to the traditional morality, in short, compared with the tone of the Prophets, secondary. On the other hand, the Prophets do not imply the existence of Shakspeare or Homer, — advert25 to no books or arts, only to dread ideas and emotions. People imagine that the place, which the Bible holds in the world, it owes to miracles. It owes it simply to the fact that it came out of a profounder depth of thought than any other book, and the effect must be precisely49 proportionate. Gibbon fancied that it was combinations of circumstances that gave Christianity its place in history. But in nature it takes an ounce to balance an ounce.
All just criticism will not only behold50 in literature the action of necessary laws, but must also oversee51 literature itself. The erect mind disparages52 all books. What are books? it saith: they can have no permanent value. How obviously initial they are to their authors. The books of the nations, the universal books, are long ago forgotten by those who wrote them, and one day we shall forget this primer learning. Literature is made up of a few ideas and a few fables54. It is a heap of nouns and verbs enclosing an intuition or two. We must learn to judge books by absolute standards. When we are aroused to a life in ourselves, these traditional splendors56 of letters grow very pale and cold. Men seem to forget that all literature is ephemeral, and unwillingly57 entertain the supposition of its utter disappearance58. They deem not only letters in general, but the best books in particular, parts of a preestablished harmony, fatal, unalterable, and do not go behind Virgil and Dante, much less behind Moses, Ezekiel, and St. John. But no man can be a good critic of any book, who does not read it in a wisdom which transcends59 the instructions of any book, and treats the whole extant product of the human intellect as only one age revisable and reversible by him.
In our fidelity60 to the higher truth, we need not disown our debt in our actual state of culture, in the twilights of experience to these rude helpers. They keep alive the memory and the hope of a better day. When we flout61 all particular books as initial merely, we truly express the privilege of spiritual nature; but, alas63, not the fact and fortune of this low Massachusetts and Boston, of these humble64 Junes and Decembers of mortal life. Our souls are not self-fed, but do eat and drink of chemical water and wheat. Let us not forget the genial65 miraculous66 force we have known to proceed from a book. We go musing67 into the vault68 of day and night; no constellation69 shines, no muse70 descends71, the stars are white points, the roses brick-colored leaves, and frogs pipe, mice cheep, and wagons72 creak along the road. We return to the house and take up Plutarch or Augustine, and read a few sentences or pages, and lo! the air swarms73 with life; the front of heaven is full of fiery74 shapes; secrets of magnanimity and grandeur75 invite us on every hand; life is made up of them. Such is our debt to a book. Observe, moreover, that we ought to credit literature with much more than the bare word it gives us. I have just been reading poems which now in my memory shine with a certain steady, warm, autumnal light. That is not in their grammatical construction which they give me. If I analyze76 the sentences, it eludes77 me, but is the genius and suggestion of the whole. Over every true poem lingers a certain wild beauty, immeasurable; a happiness lightsome and delicious fills the heart and brain, — as they say, every man walks environed by his proper atmosphere, extending to some distance around him. This beautiful result must be credited to literature also in casting its account.
In looking at the library of the Present Age we are first struck with the fact of the immense miscellany. It can hardly be characterized by any species of book, for every opinion old and new, every hope and fear, every whim15 and folly78 has an organ. It prints a vast carcass of tradition every year, with as much solemnity as a new revelation. Along with these it vents79 books that breathe of new morning, that seem to heave with the life of millions, books for which men and women peak and pine; books which take the rose out of the cheek of him that wrote them, and give him to the midnight a sad, solitary81, diseased man; which leave no man where they found him, but make him better or worse; and which work dubiously82 on society, and seem to inoculate83 it with a venom84 before any healthy result appears.
In order to any complete view of the literature of the present age, an inquiry85 should include what it quotes, what it writes, and what it wishes to write. In our present attempt to enumerate86 some traits of the recent literature, we shall have somewhat to offer on each of these topics, but we cannot promise to set in very exact order what we have to say.
In the first place, it has all books. It reprints the wisdom of the world. How can the age be a bad one, which gives me Plato and Paul and Plutarch, St. Augustine, Spinoza, Chapman, Beaumont and Fletcher, Donne and Sir Thomas Browne, beside its own riches? Our presses groan87 every year with new editions of all the select pieces of the first of mankind, — meditations88, history, classifications, opinions, epics89, lyrics, which the age adopts by quoting them. If we should designate favorite studies in which the age delights more than in the rest of this great mass of the permanent literature of the human race, one or two instances would be conspicuous90. First; the prodigious91 growth and influence of the genius of Shakspeare, in the last one hundred and fifty years, is itself a fact of the first importance. It almost alone has called out the genius of the German nation into an activity, which spreading from the poetic92 into the scientific, religious, and philosophical93 domains95, has made theirs now at last the paramount96 intellectual influence of the world, reacting with great energy on England and America. And thus, and not by mechanical diffusion97, does an original genius work and spread himself. Society becomes an immense Shakspeare. Not otherwise could the poet be admired, nay, not even seen; — not until his living, conversing98, and writing had diffused99 his spirit into the young and acquiring class, so that he had multiplied himself into a thousand sons, a thousand Shakspeares, and so understands himself.
Secondly100; the history of freedom it studies with eagerness in civil, in religious, in philosophic94 history. It has explored every monument of Anglo-Saxon history and law, and mainly every scrap101 of printed or written paper remaining from the period of the English Commonwealth102. It has, out of England, devoted103 much thought and pains to the history of philosophy. It has groped in all nations where was any literature for the early poetry not only the dramatic, but the rudest lyric7; for songs and ballads104, the Nibelungen Lied, the poems of Hans Sachs and Henry of Alckmaer in Germany, for the Cid in Spain, for the rough-cast verse of the interior nations of Europe, and in Britain for the ballads of Scotland and of Robinhood.
In its own books also, our age celebrates its wants, achievements, and hopes. A wide superficial cultivation105, often a mere62 clearing and whitewashing106, indicate the new taste in the hitherto neglected savage107, whether of the cities or the fields, to know the arts and share the spiritual efforts of the refined. The time is marked by the multitude of writers. Soldiers, sailors, servants, nobles, princes, women, write books. The progress of trade and the facilities for locomotion108 have made the world nomadic109 again. Of course it is well informed. All facts are exposed. The age is not to be trifled with: it wishes to know who is who, and what is what. Let there be no ghost stories more. Send Humboldt and Bonpland to explore Mexico, Guiana, and the Cordilleras. Let Captain Parry learn if there be a northwest passage to America, and Mr. Lander learn the true course of the Niger. Puckler Muskau will go to Algiers, and Sir Francis Head to the Pampas, to the Brunnens of Nassau, and to Canada. Then let us have charts true and Gazeteers correct. We will know where Babylon stood, and settle the topography of the Roman Forum110. We will know whatever is to be known of Australasia, of Japan, of Persia, of Egypt, of Timbuctoo, of Palestine.
Thus Christendom has become a great reading-room; and its books have the convenient merits of the newspaper, its eminent111 propriety112, and its superficial exactness of information. The age is well bred, knows the world, has no nonsense, and herein is well distinguished113 from the learned ages that preceded ours. That there is no fool like your learned fool, is a proverb plentifully114 illustrated115 in the history and writings of the English and European scholars for the half millenium that preceded the beginning of the eighteenth century. The best heads of their time build or occupy such card-house theories of religion, politics, and natural science, as a clever boy would now blow away. What stuff in Kepler, in Cardan, in Lord Bacon. Montaigne, with all his French wit and downright sense, is little better: a sophomore116 would wind him round his finger. Some of the Medical Remains of Lord Bacon in the book for his own use, “Of the Prolongation of Life,” will move a smile in the unpoetical practitioner117 of the Medical College. They remind us of the drugs and practice of the leeches118 and enchanters of Eastern romance. Thus we find in his whimsical collection of astringents119:
“A stomacher of scarlet120 cloth; whelps or young healthy boys applied121 to the stomach; hippocratic wines, so they be made of austere122 materials.
“8. To remember masticatories for the mouth.
“9. And orange flower water to be smelled or snuffed up.
“10. In the third hour after the sun is risen to take in air from some high and open place with a ventilation of rosae moschatae and fresh violets, and to stir the earth with infusion123 of wine and mint.
“17. To use once during supper time wine in which gold is quenched124.
“26. Heroic desires.
“28. To provide always an apt breakfast.
“29. To do nothing against a man’s genius.”
To the substance of some of these specifics we have no objection. We think we should get no better at the Medical College to-day: and of all astringents we should reckon the best, “heroic desires,” and “doing nothing against one’s genius.” Yet the principle of modern classification is different. In the same place, it is curious to find a good deal of pretty nonsense concerning the virtues125 of the ashes of a hedgehog, the heart of an ape, the moss126 that groweth upon the skull127 of a dead man unburied, and the comfort that proceeds to the system from wearing beads128 of amber129, coral, and hartshorn; — or from rings of sea horse teeth worn for cramp130; — to find all these masses of moonshine side by side with the gravest and most valuable observations.
The good Sir Thomas Browne recommends as empirical cures for the gout:
“To wear shoes made of a lion’s skin.
“Try transplantation: Give poultices taken from the part to dogs.
“Try the magnified amulet131 of Muffetus, of spiders’ legs worn in a deer’s skin, or of tortoises’ legs cut off from the living tortoise and wrapped up in the skin of a kid.”
Burton’s Anatomy132 of Melancholy133 is an encyclopaedia134 of authors and of opinions, where one who should forage135 for exploded theories might easily load his panniers. In daemonology, for example; “The air,” he says, “is not so full of flies in summer as it is at all times of invisible devils. They counterfeit136 suns and moons, and sit on ships’ masts. They cause whirlwinds on a sudden and tempestuous137 storms, which though our meteorologists generally refer to natural causes, yet I am of Bodine’s mind, they are more often caused by those aerial devils in their several quarters. Cardan gives much information concerning them. His father had one of them, an aerial devil, bound to him for eight and twenty years; as Aggrippa’s dog had a devil tied to his collar. Some think that Paracelsus had one confined in his sword pommel. Others wear them in rings. At Hammel in Saxony, the devil in the likeness138 of a pied piper carried away 130 children that were never after seen.”
All this sky-full of cobwebs is now forever swept clean away. Another race is born. Humboldt and Herschel, Davy and Arago, Malthus and Bentham have arrived. If Robert Burton should be quoted to represent the army of scholars, who have furnished a contribution to his moody139 pages, Horace Walpole, whose letters circulate in the libraries, might be taken with some fitness to represent the spirit of much recent literature. He has taste, common sense, love of facts, impatience140 of humbug141, love of history, love of splendor55, love of justice, and the sentiment of honor among gentlemen; but no life whatever of the higher faculties142, no faith, no hope, no aspiration143, no question touching144 the secret of nature.
The favorable side of this research and love of facts is the bold and systematic145 criticism, which has appeared in every department of literature. From Wolf’s attack upon the authenticity147 of the Homeric Poems, dates a new epoch148 in learning. Ancient history has been found to be not yet settled. It is to be subjected to common sense. It is to be cross examined. It is to be seen, whether its traditions will consist not with universal belief, but with universal experience. Niebuhr has sifted149 Roman history by the like methods. Heeren has made good essays towards ascertaining150 the necessary facts in the Grecian, Persian, Assyrian, Egyptian, Ethiopic, Carthaginian nations. English history has been analyzed151 by Turner, Hallam, Brodie, Lingard, Palgrave. Goethe has gone the circuit of human knowledge, as Lord Bacon did before him, writing True or False on every article. Bentham has attempted the same scrutiny152 in reference to Civil Law. Pestalozzi out of a deep love undertook the reform of education. The ambition of Coleridge in England embraced the whole problem of philosophy; to find, that is, a foundation in thought for everything that existed in fact. The German philosophers, Schelling, Kant, Fichte, have applied their analysis to nature and thought with an antique boldness. There can be no honest inquiry, which is not better than acquiescence153. Inquiries154, which once looked grave and vital no doubt, change their appearance very fast, and come to look frivolous155 beside the later queries156 to which they gave occasion.
This skeptical157 activity, at first directed on circumstances and historical views deemed of great importance, soon penetrated158 deeper than Rome or Egypt, than history or institutions, or the vocabulary of metaphysics, namely, into the thinker himself, and into every function he exercises. The poetry and the speculation159 of the age are marked by a certain philosophic turn, which discriminates160 them from the works of earlier times. The poet is not content to see how “fair hangs the apple from the rock,” “what music a sunbeam awoke in the groves,” nor of Hardiknute, how “stately steppes he east the way, and stately steppes he west,” but he now revolves161, What is the apple to me? and what the birds to me? and what is Hardiknute to me? and what am I? And this is called subjectiveness162, as the eye is withdrawn164 from the object and fixed165 on the subject or mind.
We can easily concede that a steadfast166 tendency of this sort appears in modern literature. It is the new consciousness of the one mind which predominates in criticism. It is the uprise of the soul and not the decline. It is founded on that insatiable demand for unity167 — the need to recognise one nature in all the variety of objects, — which always characterizes a genius of the first order. Accustomed always to behold the presence of the universe in every part, the soul will not condescend168 to look at any new part as a stranger, but saith, — “I know all already, and what art thou? Show me thy relations to me, to all, and I will entertain thee also.”
There is a pernicious ambiguity169 in the use of the term subjective163. We say, in accordance with the general view I have stated, that the single soul feels its right to be no longer confounded with numbers, but itself to sit in judgment170 on history and literature, and to summon all facts and parties before its tribunal. And in this sense the age is subjective.
But, in all ages, and now more, the narrow-minded have no interest in anything but its relation to their personality. What will help them to be delivered from some burden, eased in some circumstance, flattered, or pardoned, or enriched, what will help to marry or to divorce them, to prolong or to sweeten life, is sure of their interest, and nothing else. Every form under the whole heaven they behold in this most partial light or darkness of intense selfishness, until we hate their being. And this habit of intellectual selfishness has acquired in our day the fine name of subjectiveness.
Nor is the distinction between these two habits to be found in the circumstance of using the first person singular, or reciting facts and feelings of personal history. A man may say I, and never refer to himself as an individual; and a man may recite passages of his life with no feeling of egotism. Nor need a man have a vicious subjectiveness because he deals in abstract propositions.
But the criterion, which discriminates these two habits in the poet’s mind, is the tendency of his composition; namely, whether it leads us to nature, or to the person of the writer. The great always introduce us to facts; small men introduce us always to themselves. The great man, even whilst he relates a private fact personal to him, is really leading us away from him to an universal experience. His own affection is in nature, in What is, and, of course, all his communication leads outward to it, starting from whatsoever point. The great never with their own consent become a load on the minds they instruct. The more they draw us to them, the farther from them or more independent of them we are, because they have brought us to the knowledge of somewhat deeper than both them and us. The great never hinder us; for, as the Jews had a custom of laying their beds north and south, founded on an opinion that the path of God was east and west, and they would not desecrate172 by the infirmities of sleep the Divine circuits, so the activity of the good is coincident with the axle of the world, with the sun and moon, with the course of the rivers and of the winds, with the stream of laborers174 in the street, and with all the activity and well being of the race. The great lead us to nature, and, in our age, to metaphysical nature, to the invisible awful facts, to moral abstractions, which are not less nature than is a river or a coal mine; nay, they are far more nature, but its essence and soul.
But the weak and evil, led also to analyze, saw nothing in thought but luxury. Thought for the selfish became selfish. They invited us to contemplate175 nature, and showed us an abominable176 self. Would you know the genius of the writer? Do not enumerate his talents or his feats177, but ask thyself, What spirit is he of? Do gladness and hope and fortitude178 flow from his page into thy heart? Has he led thee to nature because his own soul was too happy in beholding179 her power and love; or is his passion for the wilderness180 only the sensibility of the sick, the exhibition of a talent, which only shines whilst you praise it; which has no root in the character, and can thus minister to the vanity but not to the happiness of the possessor; and which derives181 all its eclat182 from our conventional education, but would not make itself intelligible183 to the wise man of another age or country? The water we wash with never speaks of itself, nor does fire, or wind, or tree. Neither does the noble natural man: he yields himself to your occasion and use; but his act expresses a reference to universal good.
Another element of the modern poetry akin184 to this subjective tendency, or rather the direction of that same on the question of resources, is, the Feeling of the Infinite. Of the perception now fast becoming a conscious fact, — that there is One Mind, and that all the powers and privileges which lie in any, lie in all; that I as a man may claim and appropriate whatever of true or fair or good or strong has anywhere been exhibited; that Moses and Confucius, Montaigne and Leibnitz are not so much individuals as they are parts of man and parts of me, and my intelligence proves them my own, — literature is far the best expression. It is true, this is not the only nor the obvious lesson it teaches. A selfish commerce and government have caught the eye and usurped185 the hand of the masses. It is not to be contested that selfishness and the senses write the laws under which we live, and that the street seems to be built, and the men and women in it moving not in reference to pure and grand ends, but rather to very short and sordid186 ones. Perhaps no considerable minority, perhaps no one man leads a quite clean and lofty life. What then? We concede in sadness the fact. But we say that these low customary ways are not all that survives in human beings. There is that in us which mutters, and that which groans188, and that which triumphs, and that which aspires189. There are facts on which men of the world superciliously190 smile, which are worth all their trade and politics, the impulses, namely, which drive young men into gardens and solitary places, and cause extravagant191 gestures, starts, distortions of the countenance192, and passionate193 exclamations194; sentiments, which find no aliment or language for themselves on the wharves195, in court, or market, but which are soothed196 by silence, by darkness, by the pale stars, and the presence of nature. All over the modern world the educated and susceptible197 have betrayed their discontent with the limits of our municipal life, and with the poverty of our dogmas of religion and philosophy. They betray this impatience by fleeing for resource to a conversation with nature — which is courted in a certain moody and exploring spirit, as if they anticipated a more intimate union of man with the world than has been known in recent ages. Those who cannot tell what they desire or expect, still sigh and struggle with indefinite thoughts and vast wishes. The very child in the nursery prattles198 mysticism, and doubts and philosophizes. A wild striving to express a more inward and infinite sense characterizes the works of every art. The music of Beethoven is said by those who understand it, to labor173 with vaster conceptions and aspirations199 than music has attempted before. This Feeling of the Infinite has deeply colored the poetry of the period. This new love of the vast, always native in Germany, was imported into France by De Stael, appeared in England in Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Felicia Hemans, and finds a most genial climate in the American mind. Scott and Crabbe, who formed themselves on the past, had none of this tendency; their poetry is objective. In Byron, on the other hand, it predominates; but in Byron it is blind, it sees not its true end — an infinite good, alive and beautiful, a life nourished on absolute beatitudes, descending200 into nature to behold itself reflected there. His will is perverted201, he worships the accidents of society, and his praise of nature is thieving and selfish.
Nothing certifies202 the prevalence of this taste in the people more than the circulation of the poems, — one would say, most incongruously united by some bookseller, — of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. The only unity is in the subjectiveness and the aspiration common to the three writers. Shelley, though a poetic mind, is never a poet. His muse is uniformly imitative; all his poems composite. A good English scholar he is, with ear, taste, and memory, much more, he is a character full of noble and prophetic traits; but imagination, the original, authentic146 fire of the bard203, he has not. He is clearly modern, and shares with Richter, Chateaubriand, Manzoni, and Wordsworth, the feeling of the infinite, which so labors204 for expression in their different genius. But all his lines are arbitrary, not necessary. When we read poetry, the mind asks, — Was this verse one of twenty which the author might have written as well; or is this what that man was created to say? But, whilst every line of the true poet will be genuine, he is in a boundless205 power and freedom to say a million things. And the reason why he can say one thing well, is because his vision extends to the sight of all things, and so he describes each as one who knows many and all.
The fame of Wordsworth is a leading fact in modern literature, when it is considered how hostile his genius at first seemed to the reigning206 taste, and with what feeble poetic talents his great and steadily207 growing dominion208 has been established. More than any other poet his success has been not his own, but that of the idea which he shared with his coevals, and which he has rarely succeeded in adequately expressing. The Excursion awakened209 in every lover of nature the right feeling. We saw stars shine, we felt the awe210 of mountains, we heard the rustle211 of the wind in the grass, and knew again the ineffable212 secret of solitude213. It was a great joy. It was nearer to nature than anything we had before. But the interest of the poem ended almost with the narrative214 of the influences of nature on the mind of the Boy, in the first book. Obviously for that passage the poem was written, and with the exception of this and of a few strains of the like character in the sequel, the whole poem was dull. Here was no poem, but here was poetry, and a sure index where the subtle muse was about to pitch her tent and find the argument of her song. It was the human soul in these last ages striving for a just publication of itself. Add to this, however, the great praise of Wordsworth, that more than any other contemporary bard he is pervaded215 with a reverence216 of somewhat higher than (conscious) thought. There is in him that property common to all great poets, a wisdom of humanity, which is superior to any talents which they exert. It is the wisest part of Shakspeare and of Milton. For they are poets by the free course which they allow to the informing soul, which through their eyes beholdeth again and blesseth the things which it hath made. The soul is superior to its knowledge, wiser than any of its works.
With the name of Wordsworth rises to our recollection the name of his contemporary and friend, Walter Savage Landor — a man working in a very different and peculiar217 spirit, yet one whose genius and accomplishments deserve a wiser criticism than we have yet seen applied to them, and the rather that his name does not readily associate itself with any school of writers. Of Thomas Carlyle, also we shall say nothing at this time, since the quality and the energy of his influence on the youth of this country will require at our hands ere long a distinct and faithful acknowledgment.
But of all men he, who has united in himself and that in the most extraordinary degree the tendencies of the era, is the German poet, naturalist218, and philosopher, Goethe. Whatever the age inherited or invented, he made his own. He has owed to Commerce and to the victories of the Understanding, all their spoils. Such was his capacity, that the magazines of the world’s ancient or modern wealth, which arts and intercourse219 and skepticism could command — he wanted them all. Had there been twice so much, he could have used it as well. Geologist220, mechanic, merchant, chemist, king, radical221, painter, composer, — all worked for him, and a thousand men seemed to look through his eyes. He learned as readily as other men breathe. Of all the men of this time, not one has seemed so much at home in it as he. He was not afraid to live. And in him this encyclopaedia of facts, which it has been the boast of the age to compile, wrought222 an equal effect. He was knowing; he was brave; he was clean from all narrowness; he has a perfect propriety and taste, — a quality by no means common to the German writers. Nay, since the earth, as we said, had become a reading-room, the new opportunities seem to have aided him to be that resolute223 realist he is, and seconded his sturdy determination to see things for what they are. To look at him, one would say, there was never an observer before. What sagacity, what industry of observation! to read his record is a frugality224 of time, for you shall find no word that does not stand for a thing, and he is of that comprehension, which can see the value of truth. His love of nature has seemed to give a new meaning to that word. There was never man more domesticated225 in this world than he. And he is an apology for the analytic226 spirit of the period, because, of his analysis, always wholes were the result. All conventions, all traditions he rejected. And yet he felt his entire right and duty to stand before and try and judge every fact in nature. He thought it necessary to dot round with his own pen the entire sphere of knowables; and for many of his stories, this seems the only reason: Here is a piece of humanity I had hitherto omitted to sketch227; — take this. He does not say so in syllables229, — yet a sort of conscientious230 feeling he had to be up to the universe, is the best account and apology for many of them. He shared also the subjectiveness of the age, and that too in both the senses I have discriminated231. With the sharpest eye for form, color, botany, engraving232, medals, persons, and manners, he never stopped at surface, but pierced the purpose of a thing, and studied to reconcile that purpose with his own being. What he could so reconcile was good; what he could not, was false. Hence a certain greatness encircles every fact he treats; for to him it has a soul, an eternal reason why it was so, and not otherwise. This is the secret of that deep realism, which went about among all objects he beheld233, to find the cause why they must be what they are. It was with him a favorite task to find a theory of every institution, custom, art, work of art, which he observes. Witness his explanation of the Italian mode of reckoning the hours of the day, as growing out of the Italian climate; of the obelisk234 of Egypt, as growing out of a common natural fracture in the granite235 parallelopiped in Upper Egypt; of the Doric architecture, and the Gothic; of the Venetian music of the gondolier originating in the habit of the fishers’ wives of the Lido singing to their husbands on the sea; of the Amphitheatre, which is the enclosure of the natural cup of heads that arranges itself round every spectacle in the street; of the coloring of Titian and Paul Veronese, which one may verify in the common daylight in Venice every afternoon; of the Carnival236 at Rome; of the domestic rural architecture in Italy; and many the like examples.
But also that other vicious subjectiveness, that vice237 of the time, infected him also. We are provoked with his Olympian self-complacency, the patronizing air with which he vouchsafes238 to tolerate the genius and performances of other mortals, “the good Hiller,” “our excellent Kant,” “the friendly Wieland,” &c. &c. There is a good letter from Wieland to Merck, in which Wieland relates that Goethe read to a select party his journal of a tour in Switzerland with the Grand Duke, and their passage through Valois and over the St. Gothard. “It was,” says Wieland, “as good as Xenophon’s Anabasis. The piece is one of his most masterly productions, and is thought and written with the greatness peculiar to him. The fair hearers were enthusiastic at the nature in this piece; I liked the sly art in the composition, whereof they saw nothing, still better. It is a true poem, so concealed239 is the art too. But what most remarkably240 in this as in all his other works distinguishes him from Homer and Shakspeare, is, that the Me, the Ille ego171, everywhere glimmers241 through, although without any boasting and with an infinite fineness.” This subtle element of egotism in Goethe certainly does not seem to deform242 his compositions, but to lower the moral influence of the man. He differs from all the great in the total want of frankness. Whoso saw Milton, whoso saw Shakspeare, saw them do their best, and utter their whole heart manlike among their brethren. No man was permitted to call Goethe brother. He hid himself, and worked always to astonish, which is an egotism, and therefore little.
If we try Goethe by the ordinary canons of criticism, we should say that his thinking is of great altitude, and all level; — not a succession of summits, but a high Asiatic table land. Dramatic power, the rarest talent in literature, he has very little. He has an eye constant to the fact of life, and that never pauses in its advance. But the great felicities, the miracles of poetry, he has never. It is all design with him, just thought and instructed expression, analogies, allusion243, illustration, which knowledge and correct thinking supply; but of Shakspeare and the transcendant muse, no syllable228. Yet in the court and law to which we ordinarily speak, and without adverting244 to absolute standards, we claim for him the praise of truth, of fidelity to his intellectual nature. He is the king of all scholars. In these days and in this country, where the scholars are few and idle, where men read easy books and sleep after dinner, it seems as if no book could so safely be put in the hands of young men as the letters of Goethe, which attest245 the incessant246 activity of this man to eighty years, in an endless variety of studies with uniform cheerfulness and greatness of mind. They cannot be read without shaming us into an emulating247 industry. Let him have the praise of the love of truth. We think, when we contemplate the stupendous glory of the world, that it were life enough for one man merely to lift his hands and cry with St. Augustine, “Wrangle who pleases, I will wonder.” Well, this he did. Here was a man, who, in the feeling that the thing itself was so admirable as to leave all comment behind, went up and down from object to object, lifting the veil from everyone, and did no more. What he said of Lavater, may trulier be said of him, that “it was fearful to stand in the presence of one, before whom all the boundaries within which nature has circumscribed248 our being were laid flat.” His are the bright and terrible eyes, which meet the modern student in every sacred chapel249 of thought, in every public enclosure.
But now, that we may not seem to dodge250 the question which all men ask, nor pay a great man so ill a compliment as to praise him only in the conventional and comparative speech, let us honestly record our thought upon the total worth and influence of this genius. Does he represent not only the achievement of that age in which he lived, but that which it would be and is now becoming? And what shall we think of that absence of the moral sentiment, that singular equivalence to him of good and evil in action, which discredits251 his compositions to the pure? The spirit of his biography, of his poems, of his tales, is identical, and we may here set down by way of comment on his genius the impressions recently awakened in us by the story of Wilhelm Meister.
All great men have written proudly, nor cared to explain. They knew that the intelligent reader would come at last, and would thank them. So did Dante, so did Machiavel. Goethe has done this in Meister. We can fancy him saying to himself; — There are poets enough of the ideal; let me paint the Actual, as, after years of dreams, it will still appear and reappear to wise men. That all shall right itself in the long Morrow, I may well allow, and my novel may easily wait for the same regeneration. The age, that can damn it as false and falsifying, will see that it is deeply one with the genius and history of all the centuries. I have given my characters a bias252 to error. Men have the same. I have let mischances befall instead of good fortune. They do so daily. And out of many vices253 and misfortunes, I have let a great success grow, as I had known in my own and many other examples. Fierce churchmen and effeminate aspirants255 will chide256 and hate my name, but every keen beholder257 of life will justify258 my truth, and will acquit259 me of prejudging the cause of humanity by painting it with this morose260 fidelity. To a profound soul is not austere truth the sweetest flattery?
Yes, O Goethe! but the ideal is truer than the actual. That is ephemeral, but this changes not. Moreover, because nature is moral, that mind only can see, in which the same order entirely obtains. An interchangeable Truth, Beauty, and Goodness, each wholly interfused in the other, must make the humors of that eye, which would see causes reaching to their last effect and reproducing the world forever. The least inequality of mixture, the excess of one element over the other, in that degree diminishes the transparency of things, makes the world opaque261 to the observer, and destroys so far the value of his experience. No particular gifts can countervail this defect. In reading Meister, I am charmed with the insight; to use a phrase of Ben Jonson’s, “it is rammed262 with life.” I find there actual men and women even too faithfully painted. I am, moreover, instructed in the possibility of a highly accomplished263 society, and taught to look for great talent and culture under a grey coat. But this is all. The limits of artificial society are never quite out of sight. The vicious conventions, which hem53 us in like prison walls, and which the poet should explode at his touch, stand for all they are worth in the newspaper. I am never lifted above myself. I am not transported out of the dominion of the senses, or cheered with an infinite tenderness, or armed with a grand trust.
Goethe, then, must be set down as the poet of the Actual, not of the Ideal; the poet of limitation, not of possibility; of this world, and not of religion and hope; in short, if I may say so, the poet of prose, and not of poetry. He accepts the base doctrine264 of Fate, and gleans265 what straggling joys may yet remain out of its ban. He is like a banker or a weaver266 with a passion for the country, he steals out of the hot streets before sunrise, or after sunset, or on a rare holiday, to get a draught267 of sweet air, and a gaze at the magnificence of summer, but dares not break from his slavery and lead a man’s life in a man’s relation to nature. In that which should be his own place, he feels like a truant268, and is scourged269 back presently to his task and his cell. Poetry is with Goethe thus external, the gilding270 of the chain, the mitigation of his fate; but the muse never essays those thunder-tones, which cause to vibrate the sun and the moon, which dissipate by dreadful melody all this iron network of circumstance, and abolish the old heavens and the old earth before the free-will or Godhead of man. That Goethe had not a moral perception proportionate to his other powers, is not then merely a circumstance, as we might relate of a man that he had or had not the sense of tune21 or an eye for colors; but it is the cardinal271 fact of health or disease; since, lacking this, he failed in the high sense to be a creator, and with divine endowments drops by irreversible decree into the common history of genius. He was content to fall into the track of vulgar poets, and spend on common aims his splendid endowments, and has declined the office proffered272 to now and then a man in many centuries in the power of his genius — of a Redeemer of the human mind. He has written better than other poets, only as his talent was subtler, but the ambition of creation he refused. Life for him is prettier, easier, wiser, decenter, has a gem274 or two more on its robe, but its old eternal burden is not relieved; no drop of healthier blood flows yet in its veins275. Let him pass. Humanity must wait for its physician still at the side of the road, and confess as this man goes out that they have served it better, who assured it out of the innocent hope in their hearts that a Physician will come, than this majestic44 Artist, with all the treasuries276 of wit, of science, and of power at his command.
The criticism, which is not so much spoken as felt in reference to Goethe, instructs us directly in the hope of literature. We feel that a man gifted like him should not leave the world as he found it. It is true, though somewhat sad, that every fine genius teaches us how to blame himself. Being so much, we cannot forgive him for not being more. When one of these grand monads is incarnated277, whom nature seems to design for eternal men and draw to her bosom278, we think that the old wearinesses of Europe and Asia, the trivial forms of daily life will now end, and a new morning break on us all. What is Austria? What is England? What is our graduated and petrified279 social scale of ranks and employments? Shall not a poet redeem273 us from these idolatries, and pale their legendary280 lustre281 before the fires of the Divine Wisdom which burn in his heart? All that in our sovereign moments each of us has divined of the powers of thought, all the hints of omnipresence and energy which we have caught, this man should unfold and constitute facts.
And this is the insatiable craving282 which alternately saddens and gladdens men at this day. The Doctrine of the Life of Man established after the truth through all his faculties; — this is the thought which the literature of this hour meditates283 and labors to say. This is that which tunes254 the tongue and fires the eye and sits in the silence of the youth. Verily it will not long want articulate and melodious284 expression. There is nothing in the heart but comes presently to the lips. The very depth of the sentiment, which is the author of all the cutaneous life we see, is guarantee for the riches of science and of song in the age to come. He, who doubts whether this age or this country can yield any contribution to the literature of the world, only betrays his own blindness to the necessities of the human soul. Has the power of poetry ceased, or the need? Have the eyes ceased to see that which they would have, and which they have not? Have they ceased to see other eyes? Are there no lonely, anxious, wondering children, who must tell their tale? Are we not evermore whipped by thoughts;
“In sorrow steeped and steeped in love
Of thoughts not yet incarnated?”
The heart beats in this age as of old, and the passions are busy as ever. Nature has not lost one ringlet of her beauty, one impulse of resistance and valor285. From the necessity of loving none are exempt286, and he that loves must utter his desires. A charm as radiant as beauty ever beamed, a love that fainteth at the sight of its object, is new to-day.
“The world does not run smoother than of old,
There are sad haps187 that must be told.”
Man is not so far lost but that he suffers ever the great Discontent, which is the elegy287 of his loss and the prediction of his recovery. In the gay saloon he laments288 that these figures are not what Raphael and Guercino painted. Withered289 though he stand and trifler though he be, the august spirit of the world looks out from his eyes. In his heart he knows the ache of spiritual pain, and his thought can animate290 the sea and land. What then shall hinder the Genius of the time from speaking its thought? It cannot be silent, if it would. It will write in a higher spirit, and a wider knowledge, and with a grander practical aim, than ever yet guided the pen of poet. It will write the annals of a changed world, and record the descent of principles into practice, of love into Government, of love into Trade. It will describe the new heroic life of man, the now unbelieved possibility of simple living and of clean and noble relations with men. Religion will bind291 again these that were sometime frivolous, customary, enemies, skeptics, self-seekers, into a joyful292 reverence for the circumambient Whole, and that which was ecstasy293 shall become daily bread.
New Poetry
The tendencies of the times are so democratical, that we shall soon have not so much as a pulpit or raised platform in any church or townhouse, but each person, who is moved to address any public assembly, will speak from the floor. The like revolution in literature is now giving importance to the portfolio294 over the book. Only one man in the thousand may print a book, but one in ten or one in five may inscribe295 his thoughts, or at least with short commentary his favorite readings in a private journal. The philosophy of the day has long since broached296 a more liberal doctrine of the poetic faculty297 than our fathers held, and reckons poetry the right and power of every man to whose culture justice is done. We own that, though we were trained in a stricter school of literary faith, and were in all our youth inclined to the enforcement of the straitest restrictions298 on the admission of candidates to the Parnassian fraternity, and denied the name of poetry to every composition in which the workmanship and the material were not equally excellent, in our middle age we have grown lax, and have learned to find pleasure in verses of a ruder strain, — to enjoy verses of society, or those effusions which in persons of a happy nature are the easy and unpremeditated translation of their thoughts and feelings into rhyme. This new taste for a certain private and household poetry, for somewhat less pretending than the festal and solemn verses which are written for the nations, really indicates, we suppose, that a new style of poetry exists. The number of writers has increased. Every child has been taught the tongues. The universal communication of the arts of reading and writing has brought the works of the great poets into every house, and made all ears familiar with the poetic forms. The progress of popular institutions has favored self-respect, and broken down that terror of the great, which once imposed awe and hesitation299 on the talent of the masses of society. A wider epistolary intercourse ministers to the ends of sentiment and reflection than ever existed before; the practice of writing diaries is becoming almost general; and every day witnesses new attempts to throw into verse the experiences of private life.
What better omen80 of true progress can we ask than an increasing intellectual and moral interest of men in each other? What can be better for the republic than that the Capitol, the White House, and the Court House are becoming of less importance than the farm-house and the book-closet? If we are losing our interest in public men, and finding that their spell lay in number and size only, and acquiring instead a taste for the depths of thought and emotion as they may be sounded in the soul of the citizen or the countryman, does it not replace man for the state, and character for official power? Men should be treated with solemnity; and when they come to chant their private griefs and doubts and joys, they have a new scale by which to compute300 magnitude and relation. Art is the noblest consolation301 of calamity302. The poet is compensated303 for his defects in the street and in society, if in his chamber304 he has turned his mischance into noble numbers.
Is there not room then for a new department in poetry, namely, Verses of the Portfolio? We have fancied that we drew greater pleasure from some manuscript verses than from printed ones of equal talent. For there was herein the charm of character; they were confessions305; and the faults, the imperfect parts, the fragmentary verses, the halting rhymes, had a worth beyond that of a high finish; for they testified that the writer was more man than artist, more earnest than vain; that the thought was too sweet and sacred to him, than that he should suffer his ears to hear or his eyes to see a superficial defect in the expression.
The characteristic of such verses is, that being not written for publication, they lack that finish which the conventions of literature require of authors. But if poetry of this kind has merit, we conceive that the prescription306 which demands a rhythmical307 polish may be easily set aside; and when a writer has outgrown308 the state of thought which produced the poem, the interest of letters is served by publishing it imperfect, as we preserve studies, torsos, and blocked statues of the great masters. For though we should be loath309 to see the wholesome310 conventions, to which we have alluded311, broken down by a general incontinence of publication, and every man’s and woman’s diary flying into the bookstores, yet it is to be considered, on the other hand, that men of genius are often more incapable312 than others of that elaborate execution which criticism exacts. Men of genius in general are, more than others, incapable of any perfect exhibition, because however agreeable it may be to them to act on the public, it is always a secondary aim. They are humble, self-accusing, moody men, whose worship is toward the Ideal Beauty, which chooses to be courted not so often in perfect hymns313, as in wild ear-piercing ejaculations, or in silent musings. Their face is forward, and their heart is in this heaven. By so much are they disqualified for a perfect success in any particular performance to which they can give only a divided affection. But the man of talents has every advantage in the competition. He can give that cool and commanding attention to the thing to be done, that shall secure its just performance. Yet are the failures of genius better than the victories of talent; and we are sure that some crude manuscript poems have yielded us a more sustaining and a more stimulating314 diet, than many elaborated and classic productions.
We have been led to these thoughts by reading some verses, which were lately put into our hands by a friend with the remark, that they were the production of a youth, who had long passed out of the mood in which he wrote them, so that they had become quite dead to him. Our first feeling on reading them was a lively joy. So then the Muse is neither dead nor dumb, but has found a voice in these cold Cisatlantic States. Here is poetry which asks no aid of magnitude or number, of blood or crime, but finds theatre enough in the first field or brookside, breadth and depth enough in the flow of its own thought. Here is self-repose315, which to our mind is stabler than the Pyramids; here is self-respect which leads a man to date from his heart more proudly than from Rome. Here is love which sees through surface, and adores the gentle nature and not the costume. Here is religion, which is not of the Church of England, nor of the Church of Boston. Here is the good wise heart, which sees that the end of culture is strength and cheerfulness. In an age too which tends with so strong an inclination316 to the philosophical muse, here is poetry more purely317 intellectual than any American verses we have yet seen, distinguished from all competition by two merits; the fineness of perception; and the poet’s trust in his own genius to that degree, that there is an absence of all conventional imagery, and a bold use of that which the moment’s mood had made sacred to him, quite careless that it might be sacred to no other, and might even be slightly ludicrous to the first reader.
We proceed to give our readers some selections, taken without much order from this rich pile of manuscript. We first find the poet in his boat.
Boat Song
THE RIVER calmly flows,
Through shining banks, through lonely glen,
Where the owl34 shrieks318, though ne’er the cheer of men
Has stirred its mute repose,
Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.
The stream is well alive;
Another passive world you see,
Where downward grows the form of every tree;
Like soft light clouds they thrive:
Like them let us in our pure loves reflected be.
A yellow gleam is thrown
Into the secrets of that maze319
Of tangled320 trees, which late shut out our gaze,
Refusing to be known;
It must its privacy unclose, — its glories blaze.
Sweet falls the summer air
Over her frame who sails with me:
Her way like that is beautifully free,
Her nature far more rare,
And is her constant heart of virgin321 purity.
A quivering star is seen
Keeping his watch above the hill,
Though from the sun’s retreat small light is still
Poured on earth’s saddening mien:—
We all are tranquilly322 obeying Evening’s will.
Thus ever love the POWER;
To simplest thoughts dispose the mind;
In each obscure event a worship find
Like that of this dim hour, —
In lights, and airs, and trees, and in all human kind.
We smoothly323 glide324 below
The faintly glimmering325 worlds of light:
Day has a charm, and this deceptive326 night
Brings a mysterious show; —
He shadows our dear earth, — but his cool stars are white.
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1
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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advert
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| vi.注意，留意，言及；n.广告 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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36
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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37
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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38
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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39
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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40
degradations
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| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
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41
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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42
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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43
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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44
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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45
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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46
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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49
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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50
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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51
oversee
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| vt.监督，管理 | |
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52
disparages
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| v.轻视( disparage的第三人称单数 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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53
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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54
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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55
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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56
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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57
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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58
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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59
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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60
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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61
flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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62
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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63
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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64
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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65
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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66
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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67
musing
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|
| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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68
vault
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|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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69
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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70
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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71
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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72
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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73
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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74
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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75
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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76
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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77
eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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78
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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79
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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80
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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81
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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82
dubiously
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|
| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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83
inoculate
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|
| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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84
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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85
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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86
enumerate
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|
| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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87
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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88
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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89
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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90
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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91
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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92
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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93
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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94
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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95
domains
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|
| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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96
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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97
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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98
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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99
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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100
secondly
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|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
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101
scrap
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|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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102
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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103
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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104
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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105
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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106
whitewashing
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的现在分词 )； 喷浆 | |
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107
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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108
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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109
nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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110
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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111
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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112
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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113
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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114
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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115
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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117
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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118
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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119
astringents
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| n.收敛剂，止血药( astringent的名词复数 ) | |
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120
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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121
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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122
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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123
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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124
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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125
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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126
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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127
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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128
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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129
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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130
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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131
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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132
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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133
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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134
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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135
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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136
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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137
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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138
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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139
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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140
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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141
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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142
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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143
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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144
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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145
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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146
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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147
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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148
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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149
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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150
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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151
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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152
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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153
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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154
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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155
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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156
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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157
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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158
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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159
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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160
discriminates
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的第三人称单数 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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161
revolves
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的第三人称单数 )；细想 | |
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162
subjectiveness
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| 主观（性） | |
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163
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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164
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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165
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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166
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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167
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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168
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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169
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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170
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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171
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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172
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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173
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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174
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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175
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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176
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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177
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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178
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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179
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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180
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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181
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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182
eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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183
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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184
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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185
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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186
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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187
haps
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| n.粗厚毛披巾；偶然，机会，运气( hap的名词复数 ) | |
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188
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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189
aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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190
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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191
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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192
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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193
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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194
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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195
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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196
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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197
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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198
prattles
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的第三人称单数 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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199
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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200
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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201
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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202
certifies
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| （尤指书面）证明( certify的第三人称单数 )； 发证书给…； 证明（某人）患有精神病； 颁发（或授予）专业合格证书 | |
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203
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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204
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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205
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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206
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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207
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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208
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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209
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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210
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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211
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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212
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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213
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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214
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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215
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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217
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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218
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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219
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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220
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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221
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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222
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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223
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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224
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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225
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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227
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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228
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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229
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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230
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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231
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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232
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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233
beheld
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|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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234
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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235
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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236
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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237
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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238
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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239
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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240
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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241
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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242
deform
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| vt.损坏…的形状；使变形，使变丑；vi.变形 | |
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243
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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244
adverting
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| 引起注意（advert的现在分词形式） | |
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245
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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246
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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247
emulating
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的现在分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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248
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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249
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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250
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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251
discredits
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| 使不相信( discredit的第三人称单数 )； 使怀疑； 败坏…的名声； 拒绝相信 | |
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252
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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253
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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254
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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255
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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256
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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257
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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258
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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259
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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260
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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261
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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262
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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263
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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264
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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265
gleans
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的第三人称单数 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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266
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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267
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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268
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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269
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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270
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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271
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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272
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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274
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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275
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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276
treasuries
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| n.（政府的）财政部( treasury的名词复数 )；国库，金库 | |
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277
incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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278
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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279
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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280
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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281
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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282
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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283
meditates
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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284
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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285
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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286
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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287
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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288
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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289
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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290
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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291
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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292
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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293
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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294
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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295
inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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296
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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297
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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298
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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299
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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300
compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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301
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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302
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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303
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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304
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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305
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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306
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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307
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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308
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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309
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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310
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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311
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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312
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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313
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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314
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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315
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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316
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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317
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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318
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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319
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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320
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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321
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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322
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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323
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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324
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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325
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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326
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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