But at present we have our culture from Europe and Europeans. Let us be content and thankful for these good gifts for a while yet. The collections of art, at Dresden, Paris, Rome, and the British Museum and libraries offer their splendid hospitalities to the American. And beyond this, amid the dense16 population of that continent, lifts itself ever and anon some eminent17 head, a prophet to his own people, and their interpreter to the people of other countries. The attraction of these individuals is not to be resisted by theoretic statements. It is true there is always something deceptive19, self-deceptive, in our travel. We go to France, to Germany, to see men, and find but what we carry. A man is a man, one as good as another, many doors to one open court, and that open court as entirely20 accessible from our private door, or through John or Peter, as through Humboldt or Laplace. But we cannot speak to ourselves. We brood on our riches but remain dumb; that makes us unhappy; and we take ship and go man-hunting in order to place ourselves en rapport21, according to laws of personal magnetism22, to acquire speech or expression. Seeing Herschel or Schelling, or Swede or Dane, satisfies the conditions, and we can express ourselves happily.
But Europe has lost weight lately. Our young men go thither23 in every ship, but not as in the golden days, when the same tour would show the traveler the noble heads of Scott, of Mackintosh, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Goethe, Cuvier, and Humboldt. We remember when arriving in Paris, we crossed the river on a brilliant morning, and at the bookshop of Papinot, in the Rue18 de Sorbonne, at the gates of the University, purchased for two sous a Programme, which announced that every Monday we might attend the lecture of Dumas on Chemistry at noon; at a half hour later either Villemain or Ampere24 on French literature; at other hours, Guizot on Modern History; Cousin on the Philosophy of Ancient History; Fauriel on Foreign Literature; Prevost on Geology; Lacroix on the Differential Calculus25: Jouffroy on the History of Modern Philosophy; Lacretelle on Ancient History; Desfontaines or Mirbel on Botany.
Hard by, at the Place du Pantheon, Degerando, Royer Collard, and their colleagues were giving courses on Law, on the law of nations, the Pandects and commercial equity26. For two magical sous more, we bought the Programme of the College Royal de France, on which we still read with admiring memory, that every Monday, Silvestre de Sacy lectures on the Persian language; at other hours, Lacroix on the Integral Mathematics; Jouffroy on Greek Philosophy; Biot on Physics; Lerminier on the History of Legislation; Elie de Beaumont on Natural History; Magendie on Medicine; Thenard on Chemistry; Binet on Astronomy; and so on, to the end of the week. On the same wonderful ticket, as if royal munificence27 had not yet sufficed, we learned that at the Museum of Natural History, at the Garden of Plants, three days in the week, Brongniart would teach Vegetable Physiology28, and Gay-Lussac Chemistry, and Flourent Anatomy29. With joy we read these splendid news in the Cafe Procope, and straightway joined the troop of students of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, whom this great institution drew together to listen to the first savans of the world without fee or reward. The professors are changed, but the liberal doors still stand open at this hour. This royal liberality, which seems to atone30 for so many possible abuses of power, could not exist without important consequences to the student on his return home.
The University of Gottingen has sunk from its high place by the loss of its brightest stars. The last was Heeren, whose learning was really useful, and who has made ingenious attempts at the solution of ancient historical problems. Ethiopia, Assyria, Carthage, and the Theban Desart are still revealing secrets, latent for three millenniums, under the powerful night glass of the Teutonic scholars, who make astronomy, geology, chemistry, trade, statistics, medals, tributary32 to their inquisitions. In the last year also died Sismondi, who by his History of the Italian Republics reminded mankind of the prodigious33 wealth of life and event, which Time, devouring34 his children as fast as they are born, is giving to oblivion in Italy, the piazza35 and forum36 of History, and for a time made Italian subjects of the middle age popular for poets, and romancers, and by his kindling37 chronicles of Milan and Lombardy perhaps awoke the great genius of Manzoni. That history is full of events, yet, as Ottilia writes in Goethe’s novel, that she never can bring away from history anything but a few anecdotes38, so the “Italian Republics” lies in the memory like a confused melee39, a confused noise of slaughter40, and rapine, and garments rolled in blood. The method, if method there be, is so slight and artificial, that it is quite overlaid and lost in the unvaried details of treachery and violence. Hallam’s sketches41 of the same history were greatly more luminous43 and memorable44, partly from the advantage of his design, which compelled him to draw outlines, and not bury the grand lines of destiny in municipal details. Italy furnished in that age no man of genius to its political arena45, though many of talent, and this want degrades the history. We still remember with great pleasure, Mr. Hallam’s fine sketch42 of the external history of the rise and establishment of the Papacy, which Mr. Ranke’s voluminous researches, though they have great value for their individual portraits, have not superseded46.
It was a brighter day than we have often known in our literary calendar, when within the twelvemonth a single London advertisement announced a new volume of poems by Wordsworth, poems by Tennyson, and a play by Henry Taylor. Wordsworth’s nature or character has had all the time it needed, in order to make its mark, and supply the want of talent. We have learned how to read him. We have ceased to expect that which he cannot give. He has the merit of just moral perception, but not that of deft47 poetic48 execution. How would Milton curl his lip at such slipshod newspaper style! Many of his poems, as, for example, the Rylstone Doe, might be all improvised49. Nothing of Milton, nothing of Marvell, of Herbert, of Dryden, could be. These are such verses as in a just state of culture should be vers de Societe, such as every gentleman could write, but none would think of printing or of claiming the poet’s laurel on their merit. The Pindar, the Shakspeare, the Dante, whilst they have the just and open soul, have also the eye to see the dimmest star that glimmers50 in the Milky51 Way, the serratures of every leaf, the test objects of the microscope, and then the tongue to utter the same things in words that engrave52 them on all the ears of mankind. The poet demands all gifts and not one or two only.
The poet, like the electric rod, must reach from a point nearer to the sky than all surrounding objects down to the earth, and down to the dark wet soil, or neither is of use. The poet must not only converse53 with pure thought, but he must demonstrate it almost to the senses. His words must be pictures, his verses must be spheres and cubes, to be seen, and smelled and handled. His fable54 must be a good story, and its meaning must hold as pure truth. In the debates on the Copyright Bill, in the English Parliament, Mr. Sergeant55 Wakley, the coroner, quoted Wordsworth’s poetry in derision, and asked the roaring House of Commons, what that meant, and whether a man should have a public reward for writing such stuff. Homer, Horace, Milton, and Chaucer would defy the coroner. Whilst they have wisdom to the wise, he would see, that to the external, they have external meaning. Coleridge excellently said of poetry, that poetry must first be good sense, as a palace might well be magnificent, but first it must be a house.
Wordsworth is open to ridicule56 of this kind. And yet Wordsworth, though satisfied if he can suggest to a sympathetic mind his own mood, and though setting a private and exaggerated value on his compositions, though confounding his accidental with the universal consciousness, and taking the public to task for not admiring his poetry, — is really a superior master of the English language, and his poems evince a power of diction that is no more rivalled by his contemporaries, than is his poetic insight. But the capital merit of Wordsworth is, that he has done more for the sanity57 of this generation than any other writer. Early in life, at a crisis, it is said, in his private affairs, he made his election between assuming and defending some legal rights with the chances of wealth and a position in the world — and the inward promptings of his heavenly genius; he took his part; he accepted the call to be a poet, and sat down, far from cities, with coarse clothing and plain fare to obey the heavenly vision. The choice he had made in his will, manifested itself in every line to be real. We have poets who write the poetry of society, of the patrician58 and conventional Europe, as Scott and Moore, and others who, like Byron or Bulwer, write the poetry of vice59 and disease. But Wordsworth threw himself into his place, made no reserves or stipulations; man and writer were not to be divided. He sat at the foot of Helvellyn and on the margin60 of Winandermere, and took their lustrous61 mornings and their sublime62 midnights for his theme, and not Marlow, nor Massinger, not Horace, nor Milton, nor Dante. He once for all forsook63 the styles, and standards, and modes of thinking of London and Paris, and the books read there, and the aims pursued, and wrote Helvellyn and Winandermere, and the dim spirits which these haunts harbored. There was not the least attempt to reconcile these with the spirit of fashion and selfishness, nor to show with great deference64 to the superior judgment65 of dukes and earls, that although London was the home for men of great parts, yet Westmoreland had these consolations66 for such as fate had condemned67 to the country life; but with a complete satisfaction, he pitied and rebuked68 their false lives, and celebrated69 his own with the religion of a true priest. Hence the antagonism70 which was immediately felt between his poetry and the spirit of the age, that here not only criticism but conscience and will were parties; the spirit of literature, and the modes of living, and the conventional theories of the conduct of life were called in question on wholly new grounds, not from Platonism, nor from Christianity, but from the lessons which the country muse15 taught a stout71 pedestrian climbing a mountain, and in following a river from its parent rill down to the sea. The Cannings and Jeffreys of the capital, the Court Journals and Literary Gazettes were not well pleased, and voted the poet a bore. But that which rose in him so high as to the lips, rose in many others as high as to the heart. What he said, they were prepared to hear and confirm. The influence was in the air, and was wafted72 up and down into lone73 and into populous74 places, resisting the popular taste, modifying opinions which it did not change, and soon came to be felt in poetry, in criticism, in plans of life, and at last in legislation. In this country, it very early found a strong hold, and its effect may be traced on all the poetry both of England and America.
But notwithstanding all Wordsworth’s grand merits, it was a great pleasure to know that Alfred Tennyson’s two volumes were coming out in the same ship; it was a great pleasure to receive them. The elegance75, the wit, and subtlety76 of this writer, his rich fancy, his power of language, his metrical skill, his independence on any living masters, his peculiar77 topics, his taste for the costly78 and gorgeous, discriminate79 the musky poet of gardens and conservatories80 of parks and palaces. Perhaps we felt the popular objection that he wants rude truth, he is too fine. In these boudoirs of damask and alabaster81, one is farther off from stern nature and human life than in Lallah Rookh and “the Loves of the Angels.” Amid swinging censers and perfumed lamps, amidst velvet82 and glory we long for rain and frost. Otto of roses is good, but wild air is better. A critical friend of ours affirms that the vice, which bereaved83 modern painters of their power, is the ambition to begin where their fathers ended; to equal the masters in their exquisite84 finish, instead of in their religious purpose. The painters are not willing to paint ill enough: they will not paint for their times, agitated85 by the spirit which agitates86 their country; so should their picture picture us and draw all men after them; but they copy the technics of their predecessors87, and paint for their predecessors’ public. It seems as if the same vice had worked in poetry. Tennyson’s compositions are not so much poems as studies in poetry, or sketches after the styles of sundry88 old masters. He is not the husband who builds the homestead after his own necessity, from foundation stone to chimney-top and turret89, but a tasteful bachelor who collects quaint90 stair cases and groined ceilings. We have no right to such superfineness. We must not make our bread of pure sugar. These delicacies91 and splendors92 are then legitimate93 when they are the excess of substantial and necessary expenditure94. The best songs in English poetry are by that heavy, hard, pedantic95 poet, Ben Jonson. Jonson is rude, and only on rare occasions gay. Tennyson is always fine; but Jonson’s beauty is more grateful than Tennyson’s. It is a natural manly96 grace of a robust97 workman. Ben’s flowers are not in pots, at a city florist’s ranged on a flower stand, but he is a countryman at a harvest-home, attending his ox-cart from the fields, loaded with potatoes and apples, with grapes and plums, with nuts and berries, and stuck with boughs98 of hemlock99 and sweet briar, with ferns and pond lilies which the children have gathered. But let us not quarrel with our benefactors100. Perhaps Tennyson is too quaint and elegant. What then? It is long since we have as good a lyrist; it will be long before we have his superior. “Godiva” is a noble poem that will tell the legend a thousand years. The poem of all the poetry of the present age, for which we predict the longest term, is “Abou ben Adhem” of Leigh Hunt. Fortune will still have her part in every victory, and it is strange that one of the best poems should be written by a man who has hardly written any other. And “Godiva” is a parable101 which belongs to the same gospel. “Locksley Hall” and “the Two Voices” are meditative102 poems, which were slowly written to be slowly read. “The Talking Oak,” though a little hurt by its wit and ingenuity103, is beautiful, and the most poetic of the volume. “Ulysses” belongs to a high class of poetry, destined104 to be the highest, and to be more cultivated in the next generation. “oEnone” was a sketch of the same kind. One of the best specimens105 we have of the class is Wordsworth’s “Laodamia,” of which no special merit it can possess equals the total merit of having selected such a subject in such a spirit.
Next to the poetry the novels, which come to us in every ship from England, have an importance increased by the immense extension of their circulation through the new cheap press, which sends them to so many willing thousands. So much novel reading ought not to leave the readers quite unaffected, and undoubtedly107 gives some tinge31 of romance to the daily life of young merchants and maidens108. We have heard it alleged109, with some evidence, that the prominence110 given to intellectual power in Bulwer’s romances had proved a main stimulus111 to mental culture in thousands of young men in England and America. The effect on manners cannot be less sensible, and we can easily believe that the behavior of the ball room, and of the hotel has not failed to draw some addition of dignity and grace from the fair ideals, with which the imagination of a novelist has filled the heads of the most imitative class.
We are not very well versed112 in these books, yet we have read Mr. Bulwer enough to see that the story is rapid and interesting; he has really seen London society, and does not draw ignorant caricatures. He is not a genius, but his novels are marked with great energy, and with a courage of experiment which in each instance had its degree of success. The story of Zanoni was one of those world-fables which is so agreeable to the human imagination, that it is found in some form in the language of every country, and is always reappearing in literature. Many of the details of this novel preserve a poetic truth. We read Zanoni with pleasure, because magic is natural. It is implied in all superior culture that a complete man would need no auxiliaries113 to his personal presence. The eye and the word are certainly subtler and stronger weapons than either money or knives. Whoever looked on the hero, would consent to his will, being certified114 that his aims were universal, not selfish; and he would be obeyed as naturally as the rain and the sunshine are. For this reason, children delight in fairy tales. Nature is described in them as the servant of man, which they feel ought to be true. But Zanoni pains us, and the author loses our respect, because he speedily betrays that he does not see the true limitations of the charm; because the power with which his hero is armed, is a toy, inasmuch as the power does not flow from its legitimate fountains in the mind; is a power for London; a divine power converted into a burglar’s false key or a highwayman’s pistol to rob and kill with.
But Mr. Bulwer’s recent stories have given us, who do not read novels, occasion to think of this department of literature, supposed to be the natural fruit and expression of the age. We conceive that the obvious division of modern romance is into two kinds; first, the novels of costume or of circumstance, which is the old style, and vastly the most numerous. In this class, the hero, without any particular character, is in a very particular circumstance; he is greatly in want of a fortune or of a wife, and usually of both, and the business of the piece is to provide him suitably. This is the problem to be solved in thousands of English romances, including the Porter novels and the more splendid examples of the Edgeworth and Scott romances.
It is curious how sleepy and foolish we are, that these tales will so take us. Again and again we have been caught in that old foolish trap; — then, as before, to feel indignant to have been duped and dragged after a foolish boy and girl, to see them at last married and portioned, and the reader instantly turned out of doors, like a beggar that has followed a gay procession into a castle. Had one noble thought opening the chambers115 of the intellect, one sentiment from the heart of God been spoken by them, the reader had been made a participator of their triumph; he too had been an invited and eternal guest; but this reward granted them is property, all-excluding property, a little cake baked for them to eat and for none other, nay116, a preference and cosseting117 which is rude and insulting to all but the minion118.
Excepting in the stories of Edgeworth and Scott, whose talent knew how to give to the book a thousand adventitious119 graces, the novels of costume are all one, and there is but one standard English novel, like the one orthodox sermon, which with slight variation is repeated every Sunday from so many pulpits.
But the other novel, of which Wilhelm Meister is the best specimen106, the novel of character, treats the reader with more respect; a castle and a wife are not the indispensable conclusion, but the development of character being the problem, the reader is made a partaker of the whole prosperity. Every thing good in such a story remains120 with the reader, when the book is closed.
A noble book was Wilhelm Meister. It gave the hint of a cultivated society which we found nowhere else. It was founded on power to do what was necessary, each person finding it an indispensable qualification of membership, that he could do something useful, as in mechanics or agriculture or other indispensable art; then a probity121, a justice, was to be its element, symbolized122 by the insisting that each property should be cleared of privilege, and should pay its full tax to the State. Then, a perception of beauty was the equally indispensable element of the association, by which each was so dignified123 and all were so dignified; then each was to obey his genius to the length of abandonment. They watched each candidate vigilantly124, without his knowing that he was observed, and when he had given proof that he was a faithful man, then all doors, all houses, all relations were open to him; high behavior fraternized with high behavior, without question of heraldry and the only power recognised is the force of character.
The novels of Fashion of D’Israeli, Mrs. Gore125, Mr. Ward10, belong to the class of novels of costume, because the aim is a purely126 external success.
Of the tales of fashionable life, by far the most agreeable and the most efficient, was Vivian Grey. Young men were and still are the readers and victims. Byron ruled for a time, but Vivian, with no tithe127 of Byron’s genius, rules longer. One can distinguish at sight the Vivians in all companies. They would quiz their father, and mother, and lover, and friend. They discuss sun and planets, liberty and fate, love and death, over the soup. They never sleep, go nowhere, stay nowhere, eat nothing, and know nobody, but are up to anything, though it were the Genesis of nature, or the last Cataclasm, — Festus-like, Faust-like, Jove-like; and could write an Iliad any rainy morning, if fame were not such a bore. Men, women, though the greatest and fairest, are stupid things; but a rifle, and a mild pleasant gunpowder128, a spaniel, and a cheroot, are themes for Olympus. I fear it was in part the influence of such pictures on living society, which made the style of manners, of which we have so many pictures, as for example, in the following account of the English fashionist. “His highest triumph is to appear with the most wooden manners, as little polished as will suffice to avoid castigation129, nay, to contrive130 even his civilities, so that they may appear as near as may be to affronts131; instead of a noble high-bred ease, to have the courage to offend against every restraint of decorum, to invert132 the relation in which our sex stand to women, so that they appear the attacking, and he the passive or defensive133 party.”
We must here check our gossip in mid14 volley, and adjourn134 the rest of our critical chapter to a more convenient season.
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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culminate
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| v.到绝顶，达于极点，达到高潮 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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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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ampere
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| n.(电)安培 | |
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calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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melee
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| n.混战；混战的人群 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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48
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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49
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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50
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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51
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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52
engrave
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| vt.（在...上）雕刻，使铭记，使牢记 | |
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53
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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54
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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55
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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56
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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57
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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58
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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59
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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60
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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61
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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62
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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63
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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64
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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65
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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66
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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67
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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70
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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72
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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74
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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75
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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76
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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77
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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78
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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79
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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80
conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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81
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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82
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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83
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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84
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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85
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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86
agitates
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| 搅动( agitate的第三人称单数 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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87
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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88
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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89
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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90
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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91
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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92
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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93
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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94
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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95
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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96
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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97
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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98
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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99
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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100
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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101
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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102
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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103
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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104
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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105
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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106
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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108
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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109
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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110
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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111
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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112
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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113
auxiliaries
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| n.助动词 ( auxiliary的名词复数 )；辅助工，辅助人员 | |
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114
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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115
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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116
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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117
cosseting
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| v.宠爱，娇养，纵容( cosset的现在分词 ) | |
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118
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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119
adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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120
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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121
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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122
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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124
vigilantly
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| adv.警觉地，警惕地 | |
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125
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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126
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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127
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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128
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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129
castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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130
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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131
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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132
invert
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| vt.使反转，使颠倒，使转化 | |
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133
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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134
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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